by June Gadsby
‘I must … I must tell you … why …’
‘Why?’
‘Why I did it … betrayed so many people … my own country.’ She sucked air into lungs that were barely functioning, but she was determined to go on. ‘My husband is a German Jew … my Erich. They are holding him … and my son, Johann … in Le Vernet concentration camp….though I think they are both dead now. They promised to keep them alive as long as I passed vital information to them … the Nazis … the d-damned Nazis …’
‘Grace, I’m so sorry …’
Alex bent over her, the better to hear her words, but the rattle in the woman’s throat told them all that the end was near.
‘Forgive me … Alex …’
Alex straightened and stared down at the woman with whom he had spent a great deal of time since he arrived in France. She had pulled him from the sea, saved him from the enemy, and taken him to a safe place. And now, she had taken the bullet that was meant for Mary.
‘It’s over,’ he said, closing Grace’s eyes for the last time as the nurses around the bed wept.
‘And now we must do as she said, Alex,’ Gaston Frébus joined them and laid a hand gently on Alex’s arm. ‘There is no time to waste. The German she was with was a member of the Gestapo. We got him to talk. Our situation is already known. The Germans will be arriving very soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘Who knows? Two hours, two days? More than that he would not say. We must leave immediately.’
Alex shook his head. ‘We can’t all leave. There are still sick and injured patients here. They can’t travel.’
Gaston nodded gravely. ‘There are some caves near here. They are well hidden. I will take you there with your patients, but the others must then come with me over the passes to Spain.’
‘I’m not leaving,’ Mary said stubbornly. ‘Not as long as Alex is still here.’
Alex raised his eyebrows and gave her a stiff smile. ‘I’m sorry, Mary, but I must insist that you go with Gaston. I can function better if I don’t have you to worry about.’
‘But Alex—’
‘No, sweetheart. Apart, we stand a chance of surviving … at least, one of us will.’
‘Alex is right,’ Gaston said. ‘Come, Mary. There is no time to argue. Get dressed quickly. It is going to be very cold on the mountain passes.’
In the end, only six patients and a small handful of nurses formed Group A and undertook the long trek over the soaring massif of Mont Valier. There had been a heavy fall of snow overnight, rendering the journey difficult, so that only the very fittest were eligible to make the trip. There were the two Canadian airmen, and four British soldiers. Private Jenkins elected, selflessly, to stay behind to help Alex look after Group B until their time came to be rescued, though no one could say how or when that would be.
Mary’s heart was breaking at the thought of leaving Alex behind. They had only just found one another. Surely she could not lose him now? She tried to understand. There were men who needed him, lives he could save. But it was difficult to accept such a decision, even if she knew it to be the right one. She couldn’t question his bravery, but she was selfish enough to want him with her. She wanted to walk into safety with him, the two of them hand in hand, like lovers. But maybe it was not meant to be.
Alex kissed her all too briefly. She clung desperately to him, but there was no time to linger. Gaston was anxious to be off. He led the way, with the Canadians bringing up the rear, Mary roped safely between them. After the first few hundred yards, Mary heard a high-pitched yelp. She turned and saw Chiffon bounding towards them, bouncing like a rubber ball over the snow-covered ground, long fur flying. Half-way, the dog stopped, turned and gazed back to where Alex was still standing, one hand raised in a wave of goodbye.
At first, the dog clearly did not know where she wanted to be, but then they heard Alex’s shout, telling Chiffon to ‘va-t-en!’ She spun about, gave another yelp and raced on to where Mary was waiting. Mary dropped to one knee and caught the dog as she leapt into her arms, kissing her and cuddling her, laughing and crying at the same time. When she looked up again, Alex was gone.
‘Here, Mary,’ said Brad Shaw, the biggest of the two Canadians. ‘Give the little lady to me. I’ll tuck her inside my shirt. That snow up ahead looks deep enough to bury her.’
It certainly was difficult walking, even with the rackets Gaston had provided for them, together with warm mountain clothes and ski sticks. In parts, as the foothills gave way to the steeper climbs up into the passes, they often found that for every three steps they took forward, there was one back. The darkness made it doubly difficult; the wind buffeted them, burning their skin and making their eyes water. But behind every scarf-wrapped head there was a grim smile of determination.
The ascent up to the highest pass was a strenuous one, but once at the summit, the party of fugitives were relieved to find that there were no German guards at this point of the frontier between France and Spain.
‘This is the last free passage left,’ Gaston remarked as they all fell exhausted in the snow, not caring how cold it was and simply glad not to have to be climbing any more.
After the pass, it was downhill all the way. They continued to march through the night, marvelling at last at the spectacular sunrise that lit up the snowy peaks like pink-and-gold icing on a cake. They sheltered in a deserted village in the Spanish foothills in order to recuperate their strength. No one spoke. There was no need for words. The atmosphere seemed alive with emotion. Mary thought that she would be able to reach out and touch it like something good and solid.
‘I will leave you now,’ Gaston told them as they assembled to begin the next step of the march. ‘I must go back to the others. I have heard of a group of Resistance workers still active just back over the border. They will help me, I am sure.’
‘Gaston,’ Mary said, tucking her arm in the Frenchman’s and giving it a squeeze. ‘I’m so grateful to you for what you’ve done. Please be careful, but I’m going to ask you to get Alex out for me … and Anne Beasley. Too many good people have died for their country already. I don’t want that to happen to either of them.’
‘I’ll do my best, Mary, and …’ Gaston hesitated, his face creasing into a frown. ‘Please tell Iris when you see her that …’ He sucked in a deep breath. ‘Tell her … perhaps we will meet again … when the war is over.’
‘I’ll tell her, Gaston.’
She kissed his cheek, called to Chiffon, and started walking with the others in the direction he had instructed them to go.
It felt as though the journey would never end as they traversed miles and miles of rough tracks, the frozen land stretching out continuously before them. Some of the nurses complained that their feet were covered in blisters and bleeding from the chafing of the ill-fitting boots. Mary’s feet were no better, despite an extra pair of socks that Alex had insisted on her having. Even the men were beginning to be despondent, believing that they were heading in the wrong direction.
Then Mary, her sharp eyes scanning the misty horizon, gave out a cry and pointed to a high pinnacle of rock that rose vertically out of the ground like a finger pointing to heaven, just as Gaston had described it.
‘Brad! Where are your binoculars? Look over there.’
The big Canadian was at her side in an instance, the glasses up to his eyes, following the direction of her pointing finger.
‘Yeah! That looks like it, all right, Mary,’ he said with a wide grin, then turned to the others. ‘Right, you feeble bunch of ramblers. We’re on track, so pull up that last ounce of God-help-you and let’s get going.’
The thought that the end of their long journey was in sight set the adrenalin coursing through their veins. They were able to shrug off the exhaustion as morale lifted and they strode out purposefully towards their goal.
Within an hour, they had reached the cliff on which the village of Santa Engracia perched. It was not as vertical as it had at first appeared. There was a ro
ugh track winding round it, steep, and at times treacherous for feet that were unsure and numb with the cold and fatigue. Darkness was falling fast when they limped blindly into the silent village, 1,000 feet above the valley.
But it was not the village they were heading for. It was the ancient hotel, the Casa Guilla, towering from the highest point of the cliff, which was their final destination. The foundations of the casa had been there, so Gaston had told them, for ten centuries and, judging by what they could see of the place, it hadn’t changed much from the time of its construction.
‘Do you think there’s anybody here?’ Mary asked shakily, hanging on to the stone portal at the entrance and listening intently, but the place was as silent as the grave.
‘If there isn’t, lassie,’ said Jock McCulloch, ‘we’re in a good bit of trouble.’
‘Well, we’ll soon find out,’ Brad said, banging loudly on the door with his fist.
Silence. Brad knocked again, then suddenly an upper window was opened and a head appeared, speaking in voluble Spanish.
‘Anybody speak Spanish?’ Brad asked; nobody did.
‘Le Loup nous a envoyé!’ Mary cried out, guessing that people who lived so close to the French border must know a little of the language.
The window snapped shut, but two minutes later there was the scrape of shoes on stone and the huge, iron-studded door opened with a loud groan. A man appeared, a flickering candle in hand, and behind him a dark-haired woman. Both were smiling.
‘You are welcome,’ the man said in English and the woman nodded eagerly. ‘Come in.’
Once everyone was inside and the door shut and bolted behind them, more candles were lit and they found themselves in a long, low-ceilinged cave dwelling that was evidently used as a bar, for there were barrels and bottles lining the walls, a counter and a row of high stools. Old farm tools were displayed, rusty and decorated with cobwebs, in hewn out alcoves, and hanging from broad, rustic oak beams. Nothing had altered, it seemed, since the seventeenth century when marauding bandits had used it for storing their contraband.
‘Well, this is my kind of place,’ Brad declared, rubbing his hands at the sight of so much alcohol just waiting to be drunk.
‘Please, all of you … sit. My wife will prepare a meal, but in the meantime …’ The Spaniard placed a collection of glasses on the bar counter and started pouring from a dusty bottle.
When Mary tasted the contents of her glass she spluttered a little and the top of her head seemed to soar up to the low ceiling. But it was good and they all needed this medicinal dose of raw, Spanish brandy.
‘We are known to your people as the Eyrie,’ the Spaniard said, refilling the men’s glasses and encouraging the women to drink up, even if they didn’t like the taste. ‘You can call me Diego. Now, if you will excuse me, I will contact Flying Fox … they will come for you.’
None of them could remember what they ate that night, but they felt better for the food and drink, if a little intoxicated. After the meal, with everyone falling asleep at the long, communal table, their host took up position on a precarious balcony that hung out from the dining-hall over a deep gorge.
‘Come … look!’ He called out, but only Brad and Mary went to join him. ‘I want to show you my view. This is what our peaceful world looks like now. Perhaps it will not stay that way for long, but I look at it every day and every night and my heart breaks at the thought of having it taken from me.’
They looked out at a wide expanse of inky blackness, the stars twinkling above them, and below, clusters of lights joined like a pretty necklace, diamonds on a chain.
Mary felt the pain of nostalgia break loose inside her as she thought of how England had looked before the war and the blackout. And how, God willing, it would look again sometime soon.
They moved back into the warmth of the old building. Everyone was clustered around a crackling log-fire that was filling the air with the smell of burning pine. Their bodies sagged wearily into soft-cushioned chairs and sofas, heads dropped on to chests; eyes closing as they drifted off to sleep.
It was in the early hours of the morning, just before dawn, that the Spaniard awakened them.
‘We go now, please,’ Diego said and they hurriedly struggled into their outdoor clothes. ‘We will take the trucks to the coast, then you will board a boat for Gibraltar. After that, England is not far away.’
Mary carried Chiffon in a soft leather bag slung across her shoulder. Only the tip of the dog’s pointed nose showed, sniffing the air as they hurried after Diego. At the bottom of the steep slope, where the rock seemed to grow out of the plain, two ancient trucks, complete with Spanish drivers, awaited them.
‘Vaya usted con Dios – go with God, my friends,’ said the Spaniard, gripping their hands, each in turn.
As Mary climbed on board the second truck and it took off with a rattling jerk and a dry grating of gears she experienced a terrible sinking in her stomach. Taking the little dog out of the bag, she buried her face in the long, silky fur. Chiffon gave a whimper and nuzzled into her neck.
‘He’ll be all right, Chiffon,’ she whispered, dashing away two tears that had found their way on to her cheeks. ‘He’ll come back to us. He’s got to.’
She looked out at the scenery racing by and her heart cried out: ‘Live, Alex! Please live!’
Alex had not been able to watch Mary walking away from him for more than a minute. When she turned and waved, it was all he could do not to run after her. But his responsibility to his patients and the handful of helpers who had elected to stay behind was too great. Personal feelings had to be put aside. If he was going to survive the next few days he would need all his stamina and all his wits about him. He needed to put Mary out of his mind.
‘Captain Craig, sir,’ Private Jenkins was hurrying towards him, I can’t find that English woman … Miss Beasley. She’s gone.’
‘Gone? She can’t have, Jenkins. There isn’t anywhere to go, for goodness sake.’
‘Well, I’ve looked everywhere.’
‘The silly woman didn’t have the strength to walk out, surely!’ Alex looked around him, but the cave they were sheltering in was basic. There were no passages off or nooks or crannies where anyone could hide. ‘Leave it to me, Jenkins. She can’t have gone far.’
Alex stood at the entrance of the cave for a moment, then climbed up to a higher level and surveyed the land all round. At first there seemed to be nothing but boulders and scrub and patches of frozen snow. Then he saw it. The flash of white that wasn’t snow, and it was moving. Anne Beasley had been wearing a heavy white woollen jacket when Gaston had brought her in. It must be her, but what the hell was the woman playing at?
Grabbing the leather flying-jacket that Gaston had provided for him, Alex took off in the direction from where he had seen the movement. It didn’t take him long to reach her. Anne was crawling along on all fours, her battered face rigid with determination. She even tried to fight him off when he grabbed hold of her, but her strength was all spent.
‘Leave me alone,’ she cried in a voice too weak to contain any threat. ‘Let me go. I have to go … have to … to do something …’
‘What have you to do, Anne?’
‘Stop them,’ she said. ‘I have to stop them, tell them … not here … not this way …’
‘You’re talking gibberish, woman,’ Alex said, his patience thin with the urgency of the situation. ‘If you go this way you’ll only run into German lines.’
‘Yes … yes, I know.’
He pulled her to her feet, but she sank against him, then her legs gave way and she slid to the ground and sat there, looking dazed. The heavy sedation she had been under since her arrival at La Citadelle was still making itself felt. Why Grace had seen fit to give her such a hefty dose was beyond him, but as always, he had given the senior nurse the benefit of the doubt. She had worked too long under tremendous strain. Lots of women would have cracked, given the same situation.
‘Come on, let’s get y
ou back to the cave. We stand a chance there, but not out here in the open.’
‘But they’ll think I’m German,’ Anne persisted, her voice strident as she fought off his hands. ‘I can tell them … Oh, I don’t know, but I can give them false information … send them in another direction. You’ll be safe … you and the others. Mary … you’ll tell her … please tell her I’m sorry. I feel like such a traitor. She got into this mess because of me. She can’t die … I won’t let them get her…!’
As Alex hoisted her up into his arms, a droning, like an angry hornet, buzzed in his ears. He struggled on, with Anne’s limp body, slipping and stumbling on the stony ground. They were almost halfway back to the cave when he saw it. A German bomber. And it was heading his way.
‘Dear God!’ he shouted as he started to run drunkenly under the weight of his burden, heading for a rocky outcrop, which was the only place close enough to give them some cover.
The line of rocks seemed to get further and further away from him at every step as the Heinkel approached. His legs felt heavy and paralysed. As the bullets started strafing he fell on top of Anne, and they rolled together down into a narrow gully. He felt the bruising force of rocks and stones pummelling his body and hated to think what they were doing to the already fragile girl.
Wedged in the V of the shallow ravine, icy water running beneath him, penetrating his clothing, Alex opened his eyes and looked to where Anne was lying a few feet away. The force of their fall at the end had separated them. She made no sound and didn’t move. It wasn’t clear whether she was alive or dead, but Alex was powerless to do anything, one way or another. His left foot was firmly wedged between two boulders and from the feel of it, his ankle was broken.
Wincing with pain, he breathed out a curse. However, a broken ankle was the least of his worries. The lone Heinkel had been joined by others. Bombs were falling, shaking the ground like an earthquake. It went on for some minutes, then the noise subsided and there was an eerie silence, broken only by the echoing sound of trickling dust and shattered fragments of stone pouring down into the gully. He had no doubt what the target had been. The old monastery, and probably the cave too, had certainly been reduced to rubble, and the people inside buried in it, patients, nurses – and the courageous Private Jenkins.