Her thoughts exhausting, the scene before her too surreal, Yvette closed her eyes, unwilling to look at one more haunting, desperate face, unwilling to believe what her eyes beheld.
The tremor of rapid-firing guns, from over the ridge, made her heart leap. She gripped the side of the wagon tighter. Splintered wood bit her palm. Every rock they rolled over or bomb crater they avoided pitched the truck back and forth, turned a startled head and jerked a tight shoulder. A low rumbling, heard in the distance, caught everyone’s attention. Gazes rolled upward. Fear and apprehension etched faces, as they searched the sky for aircraft.
Within seconds, chaos broke out as people tried to exit the truck. One of her high-heeled shoes was knocked off and flew over the side of the vehicle. Someone elbowed her in the ribs, and the child, who never stopped screaming, caught a fist full of Yvette’s hair and proceeded to pull out what seemed like, a handful. The street parted like the biblical Red Sea. People pushed and shoved their way into the bushes trying to hide from the advancing low flying aircraft. Authoritative shouts and the barrage of crying women rose above the now droning planes thundering above.
Yvette ran toward the woods with the mass. Crouched beside a tree, she covered her ears with her hands to muffle the deafening sound of low flying planes.
Soldiers crouched on both sides of the street, their guns aimed upward.
The first burst of bullets swept the road, shooting dirt and debris into the air. The hissing of shells and banging of gunfire came from all directions.
Yvette clung to the back of the store clerk, trying to shield herself, her close presence oddly comforting. The woman turned around with a vague smile, and the fear she saw on the woman’s face, she felt reflected on her own.
CHAPTER TWO
DAWN BROKE with a hailstorm of bullets and shrapnel raining on the freighters and British navy vessels gridlocked in Dunkerque Harbor.
Colonel André Rinaldo darted for cover among bales of blankets stacked along the jetty. Around him, men scrambled on the decks trying desperately to haul frantic soldiers to safety. Hundreds of men thrashed about in the water trying to catch a ride, while dive-bombers knocked out ships.
Land and sea vibrated.
André watched, sickened, as men, wounded or merely too weak to sustain their weight, clung to rope ladders. Some men fell back into the sea and drowned.
A German fighter plane, looking for its next victims, drew white circles in the sky then dove. Whistling bombs dropped overhead. Engines screamed across the sky.
André buried deeper into the blood and sweat-stained blankets trying in vain to cover himself completely only to have a leg or arm in plain view. He listened intently as the planes flattened out, zeroing in on their next target. He held his breath as anti-aircraft blasted their guns. To his left a blazing storage house collapsed, adding flames and smoke to the already huge, dense clouds hanging low over the harbor.
The deafening air raid at a reprieve, André calculated he had about eight minutes before another squadron crossed over.
Though his men had stood fast in the face of danger, it became clear to him, they didn’t have a chance against the German aircraft, so he gave the order that every man save himself. He’d helped several get onto ships crossing the channel to England. Others were laid up in makeshift hospitals where ambulances waited to take them to safety. Others hid. Those were the ones he had his sights on.
For one solid week, with no time to clean his blood soaked leather jacket, his feet swollen in his muddy boots, he secured his men's locations. He promised not to leave any man behind and he planned on keeping his word. One man remained, hidden under a burnt-out jeep.
With a quick glance to the sky André ran. He slid beside his comrade to the pelting of bullets at his heels.
Marc Porteret, a young man of about sixteen, had joined the war thinking, like many Frenchmen, they would win over Hitler because they were stronger. They’d had a rude awakening.
“Colonel Rin, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” The desperation on his soot-freckled face gave way to hope.
André glanced at the mangled leg. “Think you can put any weight on that?”
“Don’t know, Sir, but I’ll give it a try.”
André nodded and eyed the torn-up dock where shards of wood lay scattered. “Keep your head down,” he ordered, then dashed toward the water.
A German Messerschmitt flew overhead gunning the dock. Men stampeded across planks, jumped into the nearest vessel and over the side of the pier. André dove into a small Dutch fishing boat and landed on rags and nets stinking of fish.
When the raid ended and the docks crowded, André stepped from the boat. Back at Marc’s side, he rigged together a splint from the wood he collected.
“I'm not going to England, Sir. France is my home. No, sir. I’d rather die on French soil.”
André felt the same way. This was his home. He’d be deserting his country, his countrymen. “We’ve got about five miles, maybe more. Think you can make it?”
Marc’s response was a slight nod and grimace from obvious pain.
“We’ll head to those dunes. With any luck, we’ll take cover in the woods. There’s a village not too far. We’ll hole up there till I can get a better look at your leg.” Odds were against them making it off the beach.
After the rain of fire, when the deafening roar of planes diminished, André hoisted Marc to his feet. “Let’s go.” He slipped his arm around Marc’s waist and they ran. They maneuvered among hoards of men, jeeps and ambulances.
Fortunately, the bombs did nothing more than blow up loads of sand, which made it difficult to see, but it gave them some cover. What he feared was the machine guns blasting the top of the dunes where men huddled together.
Marc’s leg lagged behind, slowing them down and he wasn’t sure if the lad would make it much farther. He tightened his hold on Marc and picked up his pace.
More fragments of debris and bits of shells rained from the thunderous sky. André threw Marc into a bomb crater and landed on top of him, shielding him from the streaming bullets that by some lucky miracle missed them.
Hours later, as they dodged bullets from German snipers, they spied a house up ahead. André paused at the edge of the woods. The silence didn’t feel right. Stepping out into the open didn’t feel right. His gaze darted toward the house, then back at Marc. His wound bled profusely, it was only a matter of time and he’d bleed out; they had to get shelter. With Marc at his side, they moved forward.
Sunlight glinted off metal, catching André’s attention. He swung Marc over his shoulder and ran, zigzagging through the sudden gunfire. They collapsed in a dugout trench alongside the dead body of a British soldier.
When the firing subsided, the front door of the house opened and an old woman stepped out. In her hand, she carried a pitcher and glass. She had to be crazy André thought as he watched her walk straight toward them, her bright white apron flapping like a flag of truce against her black dress. With a toothless smile, she handed them water and headed back to the house. She stopped, spat and shook her fist. “Nazi bâtard” she screamed, then slammed the door.
Bastards. He couldn’t have said it better.
Thankful for her braveness, he brought the water to Marc’s lips.
A fast approaching bomb whistled. André never saw the plane coming. The earth seemed to leap skyward. Debris tore into his right hip and his world went black.
CHAPTER THREE
TWO DAYS LATER, having abandoned the truck when it ran out of petrol, exhausted from walking, famished from lack of food, Yvette stood at the train depot. Multitudes of people lined the platform, all trying to hop a train out of the village. Black locomotives bellowed smoke and bewildered faces peered through dirty windows. Bottlenecked trains waited for a free track.
Yvette clutched her suitcases that held her favorite artist paints and brushes, guarding them against thieves looking to pluck a quick stash in the bedlam.
She learned Ly
on-bound trains leaving Marseilles were being derailed by resistance groups and she prayed they wouldn’t sabotage any other lines before she made it home to Luceney.
Her mind reeling, thankful to put the terrible ordeal of the past few days behind her and anxious to get on board, she made her way toward the rails.
A heated argument, between a man in military wear and a railway authority, caught her attention. She squeezed her way past the two men as they argued about whether or not to move a train containing a deadly cargo of high explosives. She favored on the side of the railway official. The further away the better.
“Est-ce le train pour Luceney?” she asked a woman with a child in her arm.
“Oui.”
Tears of relief sprang to Yvette’s eyes. Thank God, she was finally going home. She thanked the woman and hurried up to the train.
Squeezed against one another, people rammed and nudged their way along the ledge. Several times, she felt a hand or elbow cut into her back or sides.
Disheartened when she couldn’t find an inch of space on board, she made her way from one window to another, stretching on tip toes, lugging her suitcases, determined not to lose her possessions, determined to get home. Gaunt faces, some grateful, some horrified, peered back at her. The corridors were packed, making it impossible to see into the compartments for available seating.
Someone in their frantic rush knocked off her hat and Yvette bent to grab it.
“The Germans!” a deep male voice screamed.
Everyone looked to the skies.
Warplanes with the German cross were flying at a low altitude in the distance.
“They’re going to bomb the tracks!”
“Get out of the train,” the conductor yelled.
Yvette grabbed her hat and stood frozen.
People on the platform panicked and a stampede for cover erupted. Like water released from a dam, the train emptied as frightened passengers, once again, pushed and shoved through the solid wedge of people crammed in the exit. Some tumbled down the stairs and landed face first on the ground, only to feel heels jammed into their backs as others walked on top of them with little regard.
Engines roared like approaching thunder over the cries of the terrorized crowd.
A little boy, separated from his family, stood crying.
“Move.”
The command and the shove to her back, knocked away her stupor. Yvette dropped her bags and grabbed the hand of the lost child. Practically carried by the crowd toward a nearby house, she glanced over her shoulder, realizing she had left her bags behind.
In a stupor, she stumbled down the four-rung ladder of a shelter built partially into a nearby hill. Shoved into the already crowded space, she clung to the child in her arms and stared at what she prayed would be their safe haven. She watched condensation run down the rusty sides. The door slammed shut, leaving them in darkness and her heart pounded.
Overhead, the hiss and whine of shells grew closer. A hush settled over the crowd as everyone held their breaths and waited for what could be their demise. A very pregnant young woman wept beside her. Yvette placed her arm over her shoulder in an effort to comfort her.
The door above opened and more peopled pushed their way in, forcing everyone to huddle together in the middle of the six-foot by maybe eight-foot shack. Yvette willed away the claustrophobia tightening her chest and smiled at the little boy whose arms encircled her in a vise grip.
An enormous explosion shook the town. The shelter quaked. Someone gasped, others cried or prayed and even in the dark, she knew people stared wide-eyed at nothing, their faces as solemn and drawn as hers. Glass shattered. Clay tiles, tumbled down rooftops, then crashed to the ground.
The heat oppressive, the stench of body odor overwhelming, Yvette squeezed her eyes shut, willing the noise to stop, praying the bombs would somehow miss this tinny death trap. She focused on thoughts of her sister riding her bicycle and the big smile of pleasure on her face. She drew strength from the thought of her new baby brother, who she couldn’t wait to get home to and to her grandpère who could turn worries into a day of possibilities.
After what seemed like an eternity, the noise subsided and an unsettling silence blanketed the shelter. On rusty hinges, the door creaked open, blinding them with sunlight. Startled, Yvette’s shoulders jerked. Hesitant to leave, afraid the Germans hovered over the skies waiting for them, afraid to witness the horror she knew awaited her, she followed everyone outside.
Attacked by thick black fumes hanging over them like a death veil, she coughed. An enormous crater, some twenty meters in diameter spouted flames. Like angry serpents, smoke and fire attacked the sky. Fire engines, their bells screaming, raced down the street toward the spot where the munitions train once stood.
Yvette’s eyes stung from fumes as she stepped over shattered window glass and charred debris. The station house lay in shambles. Slate from its roof lay in heaps where moments ago, she had stood. Bodies, like the red and orange roof tiles, littered the street. She stifled a gag. Panic fisted her chest. She wrapped her arms tighter around the small child whose heart beat wildly against hers.
She tried not to think about those unfortunate people who lost their lives. She tried not to breathe the stench she knew was charred death and tried not to stare at children, torn limbs, and bleeding bodies, for if she did she wouldn’t be able to move.
Her eyes lifted to a part of the track still in tact. With any luck, a train could make it out. She forced her trembling legs toward the station amidst a hoard of others who had come to the same conclusion.
Firemen and rail workers helped injured men, women, and children, while those who could, helped move bodies, branches and metal off what was left of the tracks.
A woman, with outstretched arms and covered in black ash, rushed up to her. “My baby my baby. Merci. Thank you.” Tears streamed down her soot covered face and Yvette realized she must have been searching the tumbled burnt heaps of debris for her child. She handed the boy over and with a numb nod, watched them disappear into the crowd.
Eyeing a vacant train step to her far right, she rushed over. Simultaneously, she stepped up with a man who shoved her and she lost her footing. Someone from above grabbed her hand and helped her on board and when she looked back, the rude man stood on the platform shaking his head. To her relief, she found a seat in a crowded compartment. A gentleman acknowledged her with a tip of his hat and she returned his smile. It seemed common courtesy hadn’t been lost by everyone.
The locomotive started up with a jerk that rocked Yvette in her seat. She welcomed the clickity clank of the wheels, finding comfort in the thought that soon she would be with her family.
The compartment, combined with oppressive heat, perspiration, strong perfume and stale cigarettes felt overwhelming. Conversation was one of gratitude, fears and speculation. Beyond the closed doors of her booth, a heated argument broke out between two men.
"It is not our military's fault. Manpower shortages made mobilization sluggish."
"Mais non!" The other man disagreed. "It is our naive mindset. A few forts along the border should not make us feel secure."
"It would be a waste of military personnel, needed elsewhere, to guard our land. The Ardennes are impenetrable,” the other man argued, “the woods too thick for passage.”
“Well, my friend, no one told that to the Germans."
In her compartment, conversation centered on news that on June third, one day after her departure from Paris, the German Air Force bombed the French capital, killing civilians. She was thankful she’d made the decision to leave when she had.
Yvette rubbed the throbbing pulse in her temple, easing away a building headache.
She thought about René and wished desperately she was far away from all this turmoil and once again in his arms where she felt safe and protected.
Though her feet hurt, which was her fault she reasoned, having ignored the suggestion she lob off her high heels to prevent blisters, sh
e was grateful to be alive. She tried to ignore the feel of her toes pushing through a hole in her stockings. Despite her hat, her face felt weather-beaten.
She dragged her gaze to the window. Scenes of destruction passed by, one after the other, houses bombed and burning, cars lying upside down, their roofs crushed, their contents spewed on the ground. Lines of people walked dazed-like until they saw the train; then, they came to life, running, leaping, trying to latch on to the passing locomotive as though their lives depending on passage: it did.
Yvette’s stomach growled and her cheeks grew red with embarrassment. Any provisions, along with her art supplies, disappeared with her suitcases. Her lips quivering, she hugged her body.
A dark-haired gentleman, with a round face and kind brown eyes, sat opposite her. He rummaged around in his bag. He wore a navy blue wool beret rimmed with red. A white cotton line crossed the crown and a red pompon sat in the middle. She figured, noticing his soft middle-aged physique, he wasn’t in active duty, but wore the naval hat, in support for his fellow comrades.
He pulled out a white cloth and unwrapped a hunk of blue cheese. Leaning forward, he offered her a piece. She thought about her grandpère and a conversation they'd shared. She swore she’d rather starve than eat moldy cheese. He would just shake his head, take a big bite, swipe his mouth, smack his lips and grin.
That was Grandpère, no big lecture, just a way of making a point and making you second-guess your decision. The cheese felt warm in her hand, and as she brought it up to her lips, the smell was disgusting, like wet, stinky socks. Though her stomach revolted, she ate, thankful, humbled by a stranger's hospitality.
***
Hours later, the welcomed sight of her home put a sprint to Yvette’s labored steps and tears of joy to her eyes.
Behind The Mask Page 2