Escape by Moonlight

by Mary Nichols

  ‘He won’t,’ she had said, crossing her fingers behind her back.

  She was just settling down to have supper with her grandparents two evenings later, when the dog started barking. Albert hastily switched off the wireless which was tuned to the BBC and they sat motionless, hearts beating erratically, waiting for a knock on the door. They heard a voice calling to the noisy dog and then silence, followed by a low voice singing in English. ‘Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run …’

  Elizabeth rushed to open the door and pulled Roger inside. ‘For God’s sake, man, you’ll have us all shot.’

  ‘That’s a fine greeting for a chap who’s braved hell and high water to get back to the woman of his dreams.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense. Come and sit down and tell us what’s been happening. Did you find Justine? Is she well?’

  ‘Justine is in perfect health. They seem to lead a charmed life.’

  ‘They? Who’s they?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I appear to have spoken out of turn. You don’t know?’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ she said. ‘But now you’ve started, you had better tell the rest.’

  ‘She’s living with a man called Antoine Descourt. He says he’s a paint and wallpaper salesman, but I think it’s more to do with the Resistance than anything, though he denies it, of course. Doesn’t trust me.’

  ‘Antoine!’ Elizabeth gasped. ‘Are you sure that’s his name?’

  ‘Yes, do you know him?’

  She stilled her fast-beating heart with an effort. ‘I thought I’d heard Justine mention someone of that name. What do you know about him?’

  Roger shrugged. ‘Not much. He’s a big man, good-looking too, speaks French with an accent which he says comes from being brought up in French Canada.’ He was speaking in English which frustrated Grandmère.

  ‘I wish you would speak French,’ she complained. ‘What’s he saying about Justine?’

  Elizabeth translated for her.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Grandmère said. ‘She would have told us.’

  ‘Maybe she will when she comes home next time,’ Elizabeth soothed her. ‘Do you think you can find Roger something to eat?’

  ‘Yes, and I suppose he’ll want a bed too.’

  Roger caught the gist of that and smiled disarmingly at the old lady. ‘If you can manage it, Madame Clavier, I would appreciate it.’

  The old lady set about preparing a meal while Elizabeth continued to question Roger. ‘Did you manage to contact London?’

  ‘Justine did or she knew someone who did, I didn’t question her too closely and she was certainly not disposed to tell me. They gave her a lot of damn fool questions for me to answer, but I suppose they had to be sure I was who I said I was. I seem to have satisfied them because I’ve been given the go-ahead to form a resistance group here in Haute Savoie. I need to see Henri and Philippe and Alphonse to make a start.’

  ‘Not in that uniform. Hans Shermann has been worrying himself sick about it. He’s on tenterhooks you’ll be arrested with it and his part will come to light, and it worries me too. You had better be a farm worker. Dutch perhaps, you’ll never pass for French. We’ll find some other clothes for you.’

  ‘That’s OK by me, but I’ll need different papers. Hans will get them for me.’

  ‘Roger, it’s unfair to involve him, he’s hardly more than a boy and he’s scared stiff. If he’s questioned—’

  ‘People have to grow up quickly in this war, Lisabette, and he knows what he’s risking and why. I’ve brought him some money, quite a lot in fact, that should stiffen his spine.’

  ‘You are heartless.’

  ‘No, my dear Lisabette, I am all heart and most of it is yours.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

  ‘Exactly what I say. At any other time, in different circumstances, I would be wining and dining you, buying you chocolates and flowers and going down on one knee to propose, with a diamond ring in my hand.’

  She laughed. ‘You do talk nonsense, Roger.’ She paused. ‘Hadn’t you better have a different name. Roger sounds awfully British.’

  ‘OK, you choose one.’

  ‘Dirk.’ It was the first name to come into her head. ‘Dirk Van something or other. Vanveldt, that will do.’

  ‘Right, from now on, I’m Dirk Vanveldt.’

  They sat down to leak and potato soup, but it was clear that, for all his bonhomie, Roger was dead tired and he excused himself as soon as the meal was finished and went to bed.

  ‘Antoine Descourt,’ Grandpère said slowly after he had gone. ‘Isn’t that the name Justine gave Max?’

  ‘Yes,’ Elizabeth agreed. ‘But it doesn’t mean it is Max. Justine may simply have used the name again for someone else. Why would Max come back after getting safely away?’

  ‘Why would Roger stay when he had a chance to escape?’ her grandmother countered. ‘The world’s gone mad.’

  ‘You are right there,’ Elizabeth said, laughing. ‘And if Max were in France, I’m sure he would have found some way of letting me know.’

  All the same she couldn’t help wondering. Was Antoine Descourt simply a name Justine plucked out of the air, or was he a real person whose identity she had conveniently borrowed for Max? Or was it really Max? Could it be? But if it were, why had he come back? Justine’s visits were few and far between, especially since using the crossing into Switzerland was inadvisable during the winter, which was why Roger had taken the last two men to Lyon to be passed on. Moving from the occupied to the unoccupied zone was becoming increasingly risky too; the trains were stopped for hours while everyone’s papers were scrutinised. The least thing out of order and the culprit was hauled off for questioning. She was unlikely to see Justine for some time. Nor dare she write; letters were censored. Not knowing was tying her up in knots, especially as Roger had hinted Justine and Antoine were living together. They wouldn’t do that, would they? No, she decided, Antoine Descourt couldn’t possibly be Max.

  The men and women, all wearing dark clothes, all armed, some carrying packs of explosives and detonators, made their way in ones and twos across the field to the railway line. They had chosen a spot where the line went through a wood, away from habitation. While the rest lay on the ground under cover of the trees, rifles at the ready, Max and Giles crept forward to lay the charges. Wanting to make sure they had the whole train and not just the engine, they put them at intervals along fifty yards of track. They had just set the last one, when they heard the sound of the train. ‘Good timing,’ Max said as they ran back to the shelter of the trees and flung themselves face down on the ground, covering their heads with their arms.

  The explosions, following one another at intervals, almost burst their eardrums so close were they and fragments of red-hot metal were flung high in the sky and rained down on them, catching light to the nearest trees. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Max said, scrambling to his feet and beckoning everyone away. They would learn the extent of the damage the following morning when, no doubt, the Vichy police and their German masters would initiate a full-scale search for the culprits. There would be reprisals, but no one wanted to think about that.

  Justine was waiting by the roadside with Giles’s van. ‘My, that was a mighty big bang,’ she said. ‘I should think it could be heard all the way to Paris.’

  ‘Get in,’ Giles said, as others of the party joined them. ‘The sooner we are out of here, the better.’

  They all crammed in the back, squeezed up against each other as the overloaded van stuttered its way back to Paris. Justine was in danger of having her head cracked against the sides every time they went round a bend and Max put his arm about her so that her head was protected by his chest. She could hear his heart beating hard and fast and knew he was not as cool as he appeared to be. She would have liked to think it was because of her nearness, but thought it was more likely to be reaction from a successful sabotage operation with all its attendant risks. And those were not over yet; they had t
o beat the roadblocks which would undoubtedly be set up in the wake of the explosion. She put her hand up to clasp his. He did not take it away.

  Giles stopped every now and then to let someone off, so that by the time they reached the outskirts of Paris, there was only Max and Justine left. They had not moved, but were still sitting on the floor of the van, leaning against the side, arms about each other.

  At the junction of rue de la Reine and avenue Versailles, Giles pulled up. It was just beginning to get light, but the curfew had not yet been lifted. ‘I should take a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne until there are more people on the streets,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I shan’t expect you in school until this afternoon, Justine.’ He paused. ‘The road is clear. Go now.’

  They tumbled out and ran, hand in hand, up the road to the park where they stopped and turned to each other, breathless and laughing. Suddenly their merriment ceased and they stood looking at each other. Without a word, Max held out his arms and she went into them. They stood for several moments, locked in an embrace that spoke volumes, though neither said a word. When she tipped her face up to his, he bent to kiss her. It was more than a gentle kiss of brotherly affection, much more; it was the kiss of a man in the throes of passion. She felt her insides flare up in response.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ he murmured when at last he raised his head. ‘I want to make love to you.’

  They turned and still with their arms about each other walked through the park to the Port Dauphine and out onto Avenue Foch. By this time the streets were becoming busy with people going to work, children going to school and shopkeepers opening their shutters, though there was little in their windows to sell. No one paid any attention to a lovesick couple who looked as though they had been out enjoying themselves all night and didn’t want it to end.

  Once safely in the apartment, he turned to her, took both her hands in his and held her from him. ‘Yes?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, then led the way to her bedroom.

  It was some time later before either spoke and then he said, ‘I suppose it had to happen.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No regrets?’

  ‘No. And you?’

  ‘None.’ He paused. ‘What are we going to tell Lizzie?’

  ‘Oh, God, I’d forgotten all about Lizzie,’ she said.

  ‘She’ll have to be told.’

  ‘Told what? That you so far forgot yourself as to make love to her aunt?’

  ‘Correction. Fall in love with her.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Have I what?’

  ‘Fallen in love with me? It’s not just some passing fancy?’

  ‘You should know me better than that.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘My love for you has been growing ever since you turned up on my doorstep nearly two years ago, filthy, unshaven and wounded.’

  He chuckled. ‘That was just pity.’

  ‘If it was, it changed when you came back into my life a second time. It was like being given another chance at happiness and I wanted to seize it while I could.’

  ‘So, is that what we tell Lizzie?’

  ‘We can’t tell her anything now. You’ve been expressly ordered not to contact her.’

  ‘I know. It will have to wait.’ He reached for her again.

  ‘No, Max, I have to get ready for school and don’t you have a rendezvous with Etienne?’

  He sighed dramatically. ‘Oh, well, back to the war.’

  They dressed, made some of the dreadful coffee which was all that was to be had these days, found a crust of bread and some jam her mother had given her the last time she was home, and after consuming it in silence, she kissed him and left the apartment, leaving him to follow a few minutes later.

  The streets of Paris were alive with armed troops, searching for the perpetrators of the latest outrage. Hundreds of tons of guns and ammunition, not to mention fifty German lives, all gone up in smoke, and not only that, the track was unusable and would have to be re-laid. Someone was harbouring the guilty ones and they would winkle them out if they had to arrest the whole population to do it. Justine was unsure how best to behave as she set off to walk to school: curious or indifferent, unconcerned or frightened? Many of the people being questioned were looking terrified, though she knew they were innocent. Others blustered and threatened to report their rough treatment to superiors, which only made the soldiers laugh.

  She would have liked to go back home and tell Max not to venture out, but she dare not draw attention to herself by turning back. She walked purposefully, but unhurriedly, along the street, though her instinct was to run for her life. She looked up as two men, one a German sergeant, the other a Vichy policeman, stood and blocked her path. ‘Papers,’ the policeman demanded, holding out his hand.

  She opened her handbag and handed them to him, forgetting about the pistol she had put in there the evening before. The soldier who, until then, had only been overseeing his colleague, grabbed her bag and turned the contents out on the pavement. ‘Ah, what have we here?’ he said, retrieving the pistol, her purse and her door keys from handkerchief, powder compact, lipstick and a couple of safety pins, which he kicked to one side. ‘I think, Ma’amselle, you had better come with us.’ He indicated a police van parked along the road.

  ‘What for? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘It is a crime for civilians to carry a gun.’

  ‘I’ve only got it to protect myself from terrorists. They are everywhere these days. Nowhere is safe.’

  It was true about the so-called terrorists, gun-happy patriots who took every opportunity to shoot senior members of the occupying forces or those they considered collaborators. Justine had no reason to fear them, but many Parisians did. They wanted only to be left in peace, and though not actively collaborating with the occupying forces, were certainly accommodating. Life was easier that way.

  ‘Nevertheless, you will come with us,’ the policeman said, pushing her towards the van where several other people were being hustled inside.

  They were taken to the headquarters of the Sûreté Nationale on the rue des Saussaies where they were herded inside. Here they were separated and Justine found herself in an office with a German major, who sat at a desk signing papers. The badge on his cap, lying on the desk, indicated he belonged to the Gestapo. She made herself stay calm, though her heart was beating like a piston engine. She stood in the middle of the room, flanked by her escorts who each held an arm as if they expected her to bolt. Where was there to bolt to? After several minutes in which she tried not to shift impatiently from foot to foot, he looked up and barked, ‘Name?’

  She felt like saying he knew her name since he had her identity documents, but decided not to antagonise him. ‘Justine Clavier.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘Address?’

  She told him because there was no point in lying about it; they would soon find out the truth. She hoped fervently if the police went there, Max had gone.

  ‘You know it is against the law for a French civilian to carry arms?’

  ‘No, is it?’ she queried innocently. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Ignorance is no excuse. Where did you get it?’

  That posed a problem. Max had given it to her; it was part of a drop from London, though it was of French manufacture. ‘I bought it in a junk shop.’

  ‘Which junk shop?’

  ‘I don’t know its name.’

  ‘Where is this junk shop?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It was ages ago.’

  ‘Did you also buy ammunition?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be much good without it, would it?’

  ‘How much have you got?’

  ‘Not much, a few bullets.’

  ‘And do you know how to use it?’

  ‘I was shown, but I’ve never tried. I don’t think I could.’

  ‘Paris is full o
f hotheads who claim never to have used a gun and wouldn’t know how to, but they somehow manage it when the opportunity arises.’

  ‘Opportunity?’ she queried, still acting the innocent. ‘You mean in self-defence?’

  ‘No, I mean to shoot German soldiers.’ He thumped his fist on the desk, making the papers on it jump and his hitherto mild interrogation changed up a gear. ‘This cannot and will not be allowed to go on,’ he shouted. ‘Anyone carrying a firearm, however innocent they claim to be, will be shot.’

  ‘Without a trial?’

  ‘You think you deserve a trial?’ He left his desk and began circling round her. ‘Do you know what I think? I think you belong to one of these crackpot organisations who think it is clever to resist the lawful government of the country and blow up railways. It is not clever, it is foolhardy and futile.’ He signalled to her escort. ‘Take her home.’ Her relief at this was soon squashed when he added. ‘Search the place, I want evidence and when you’ve got it, bring her back.’

  She was marched out of the building and pushed into the back of a car, an escort either side of her, which took her to the rue de la Pompe where it stopped outside her door. She prayed fervently that Max was not there and he had left nothing incriminating behind. But even if the apartment was empty, they would keep watch for anyone returning. Her heart was beating so loudly she felt sure her captors could hear it, as they hustled her up the stairs and unlocked the door with her key.

  She hadn’t had time to tidy the apartment before she left and she remembered there were used plates and coffee cups in the sink, evidence that more than one person had been in occupation the night before, and the bed had not been made. Now it was pristine. The bed was made, the cushions on the sofa plumped up, the fire cleaned out and ready to relight, and the washing-up was done. There was no evidence of Max’s occupation; everything belonging to him had gone. It left her feeling strangely at odds with herself. Had he already regretted the time they had spent in bed together and it was his way of ending an affair before it had really begun? No, she told herself; he was too honourable to leave like that. She preferred to think he knew she had been arrested and was, in his usual meticulous way, making everything right for her.