by David Gilman
‘Lucien. Why aren’t you cleaning out your grandfather’s pigs?’
‘You think that’s all I do?’
‘It smells like it.’
‘I haven’t been near the pigs today.’
‘You could have fooled me.’
A brief shadow of hurt crossed the boy’s face and she immediately regretted taunting him.
But then Lucien smiled. ‘That’s OK, Simone. I don’t mind. You’re stuck in school all day and I get to roam free like a fox. I know what I’d rather be doing. Will you read to me again?
‘If you came to class you could read yourself,’ she said, not unkindly.
‘But then I wouldn’t be able to spend time with you. And you tell really good stories. I have my own, you know.’
‘Own what?’
‘Stories. You don’t know about the crashed plane, do you?’
‘What plane?’
He swung his leg over the bike’s crossbar. ‘It’s a secret. I can’t tell you.’ He laughed and pedalled away, hard.
‘Lucien!’ she called but he was already halfway down the street.
*
Dr Jean Bernard stood at his kitchen sink as Lucien crammed the last piece of bread and cheese into his mouth. He chewed quickly, eager to drink the cup of hot chocolate, a rare treat reserved by Dr Bernard only for a sickly child in need of comfort. Or for a boy who kept his eyes and ears open and reported to the doctor anything out of the ordinary.
‘All right, Lucien, well done. You must swear not to tell anyone else. You swear?’
Mouth full, the boy nodded, but with his eyes averted.
‘Lucien. Who have you told?’
The lad swallowed. ‘Simone Bonnier. But I didn’t tell her where the plane was.’
‘No one else?’
‘No, honest.’
‘All right, wait here. There’s more hot chocolate on the stove. I’ll send for you when I need you. And remember, keep quiet about this. I’m relying on you.’
*
Simone ran home and dashed into the house. The kitchen was empty. She spun around and ran for the stairs. ‘Mama! There’s a plane that’s crashed. Did you know?’
She came to an abrupt halt as she saw Mitchell on the landing above her. The stranger in her home was just like any common working man. A crewneck jersey and an old black woollen three-quarter jacket over rough trousers and boots.
The girl cried out and nearly stumbled back down the half-flight of stairs. Her mother appeared, wiping her hands on her pinafore, shouldering past Mitchell.
‘Simone! It’s all right. He’s a friend. He needs our help. Don’t be frightened.’ Her mother quickly put an arm around her shoulders and guided her down the stairs towards the kitchen.
‘Is he from the plane?’
As they reached the front hall Jean Bernard stepped through the front door. He could see at once that the situation was becoming complicated.
Juliet turned her daughter into the kitchen as Bernard glanced upwards to Mitchell who stood at the head of the stairs.
‘You’d better come down,’ said the doctor.
Moments later Mitchell joined Jean Bernard at the kitchen window. Further down the street, Lucien waited outside the doctor’s house.
Mitchell stepped back. Juliet sat next to Simone, her hands covering her daughter’s in reassurance. The girl seemed calmer. Perhaps, Mitchell thought, she was used to seeing local Resistance men come and go.
‘Who’s the boy?’
‘Lucien Tissard. He’s a good lad; fetches and carries for everyone. The Germans have a few troops at the crash site, which is several miles west of here. They might not even come this way.’
‘You can’t take the risk that the Germans won’t nose around. I’m putting you all in danger. I need to get out of here.’ He turned and looked at Simone. ‘I’m sorry if I scared you.’
‘That’s all right. I wasn’t really scared.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
Juliet squeezed her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Go upstairs and find a case for our guest so he can take some food with him.’
‘I have my old school satchel.’
‘That’s fine.’
Juliet waited until she heard her daughter’s footfalls on the stairs. She stood and pushed the chair back under the kitchen table. ‘I don’t want her listening. We’re frightened for our children, not for ourselves.’
‘We’ll hide you outside the village for a few days,’ said Jean Bernard.
‘I have to get into Paris as soon as I can. It’s imperative. There’s someone I have to find,’ Mitchell told them.
‘Pascal, we’re four hundred kilometres from Paris. You won’t be getting there in a hurry. We’ll do our best for you. As soon as things calm down we’ll get you north.’
*
Lucien idly kicked a stone while he waited for Dr Bernard’s return. He knew he had promised to wait but what harm could there be in going a few doors down to Gustave’s bar?
He pressed his face against the glass-panelled door. Cupping his eyes he peered into the darkened interior where two old men sat in the corner playing a slow hand of cards. That was good. It was only Didier and Edgard and they were there every day except Sunday. More importantly, there was no sign of Gendarme Marin. With a final glance over his shoulder to see whether Dr Bernard was returning home, Lucien stepped inside. The old men barely glanced his way. The boy leant his forearms on the scrubbed wooden counter and grinned at the bar owner, who peered at him over the edge of his newspaper.
‘I bet that paper’s at least a month old, Gustave,’ said Lucien cheekily. ‘If you want to know what’s going on you’d better ask me.’
‘Clear off.’
‘Give us a lemonade, Gustave.’
‘What are you doing in the village? Chasing the Bonnier girl?’
‘No. Just running an errand for my grandfather.’
Mention of the boy’s grandfather suggested some kind of contraband might be traded. ‘What kind of errand?’
‘You give me a lemonade I’ll tell you.’
Despite the two old card players being deaf to anything less than the roof falling on their heads, Gustave cast a wary glance in their direction as he stood up from his stool and folded the out-of-date newspaper. You could never tell who heard what in a village.
Gustave poured cordial into a glass and topped it with water. He slid it across to the boy. ‘What errand?’ he asked quietly.
Lucien slurped. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and leant even closer, matching Gustave’s caution. ‘You got any cognac for my grandfather?’ he said.
‘Not today. My quota’s finished.’
‘You want another suckling pig? Like the one I got for you last month?’
Gustave wiped a glass that didn’t need cleaning as he half turned and glanced towards Edgard and Didier. The black market was a dangerous business even though everyone was prepared to buy and sell on it.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
Gustave frowned, apparently uncertain. Then he relented and nodded Lucien towards the end of the counter. He bent and brought up a hip-flask-sized bottle from under the counter. He slipped it to the boy, who shoved it inside his jacket.
‘Don’t let anyone see that or we’re both in serious trouble. You bring the pig; you kill it out the back. I damned near cut my hand off doing it last time.’
Lucien smiled and nodded and went back out into the street. Gustave nervously looked over his shoulder. Fear conjured up ghosts that saw and heard everything.
12
Juliet Bonnier prepared and wrapped food in brown greaseproof paper as Jean Bernard kept a watchful eye out of the window. He saw Lucien push his bicycle back from Gustave’s café. No doubt the boy was trading. But now the lad stayed where he had been told to wait.
The doctor turned to Mitchell. ‘I’ll get your message up to Norvé; Lucien will take you to Chaval’s place in the forest for the night. Are you strong enough
to ride a bicycle?’
Mitchell nodded. ‘Can we trust Chaval?’
‘Chaval hates the French collaborators more than anyone,’ said Bernard.
‘He was in one of their detention camps,’ Juliet added. ‘They treated him badly.’
‘All right. I’ll do as you say.’
Jean Bernard shook his hand and looked to Juliet. ‘Half an hour. That will give me time to warn Chaval.’
*
Lucien stood with his bike next to Bernard’s car; excitement gripped him after he heard what was asked of him.
‘Can I rely on you, Lucien?’
‘Oh yeah, honest you can.’
‘You make sure you’re back long before curfew.’
‘Yes, doctor.’
Jean Bernard placed a fatherly hand on the boy’s shoulder. The threadbare coat offered barely sufficient warmth for a cool summer’s day, let alone a winter or a chilled spring day like today. The lad was as hardy as a feral cat and his survival instincts were as finely tuned. ‘This is a man’s work, Lucien. We keep this to ourselves.’
The boy’s face beamed with pride when the doctor shook his hand. It was all very grown up.
‘Wait till Madame Bonnier calls you.’
‘Can I wait by her back door?’
‘No, you’ll be wanting to impress Simone. Remember what I said. Men don’t gossip. You stay here. Turn your bike over as if you’re checking the chain.’ Jean Bernard glanced past the boy to where Juliet looked out of her window. He nodded to her and then climbed into his car and drove away.
*
Juliet turned back from the window. The twist of fear in her stomach brought a hollow feeling should anything go wrong. The soothing notes of a Chopin étude flooded the house from the entrance hallway where the old family upright was kept.
She stood for a moment in the kitchen doorway and watched the Englishman who had come so far to try and save others. Pascal was sitting next to Simone giving her a piano lesson. She prayed that his presence would not jeopardize their lives. She had done much for the local Resistance, but that did not lessen the anxiety of capture.
‘The left hand plays its own tune, and then the right hand can do anything it likes.’ Mitchell showed the girl. He played a few more bars. Juliet turned from the doorway. She heard Mitchell finish with a makeshift flourish that was more vaudeville than Chopin and then encourage Simone to carry on practising. He stepped into the kitchen as she was tying the straps on the old satchel.
‘I’ve put another jersey in; it can get cold in the hills at night. There’s not much food, but it’ll keep you going until Chaval kills for the pot.’ She offered him the satchel.
‘You shouldn’t give me anything. I know there’s rationing.’
‘I get extra for Simone. It’s all right.’
He stepped forward and took it from her; their hands touched. For a moment neither withdrew and a brief uncertainty struck him. Those final desperate hours in Paris years before had been so hurried and fear-fuelled that he had barely had time to embrace his wife before they were separated. And since then? A barren wilderness bereft of comfort or touch from a woman. She gazed a moment at his jacket, then brushed a hand across it as a wife would fuss at her husband.
‘It’s strange seeing his clothes again.’
Her discomfort embarrassed him. ‘I’m sorry if it upsets you.’
‘No...’ She faltered for a moment, touched his lapel, then brought her hand to her face. ‘I can still smell his tobacco.’ Her eyes moistened and the brief smile she gave Mitchell held him in what felt like a moment of intimacy. Confused emotions pricked at them both. She touched his chest again. ‘Good luck.’
*
Few hours of daylight remained and at first Mitchell struggled to keep up with Lucien’s speed. It was clear to Mitchell that the boy was showing off but he managed to keep pace thanks to the years of cycling to Bletchley Park. A few miles from the village Lucien slowed without Mitchell asking.
‘It’s better we don’t go so quickly now,’ said Lucien by way of excusing the older man’s slowness, a gesture not lost on Mitchell. ‘Can’t tell where Milice or German patrols might be in the woods. No one cycles fast unless they are in trouble.’
‘Or trying to beat the curfew,’ said Mitchell.
‘Yes, that’s a good reason.’
‘But you’re right, Lucien, slower is better,’ Mitchell added quickly, just in case the boy wanted to speed up again.
Mitchell was pleased the satchel on his back held little more than food and clothing; his undershirt was already sticking to his back. He comforted himself with the thought that travelling this way allowed him time to build up his strength.
‘Dr Bernard said you were Madame Bonnier’s cousin.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I do things all the time for Dr Bernard... he trusts me. I was the one who told him about the plane.’
‘What plane is that?’ said Mitchell, feigning ignorance.
‘Oh... nothing... I saw a plane go over... that’s all.’ He fell silent and then, unable to resist trying to impress the stranger: ‘There are men in the hills, you know.’
Mitchell concentrated on the road ahead, hoping his silence would draw more from the boy.
‘Resistance,’ Lucien said. He glanced at the stocky man who rode at his side and added cautiously, ‘Are you Vichy?’
‘No. No, I’m not Vichy,’ Mitchell reassured him. ‘I’m against all enemies of France.’
The boy grinned. ‘Me too.’
Within an hour they were skirting the low, forested hills and the road had become twistier, the blind bends ahead meaning that Mitchell could not anticipate danger. His fears were soon realized as they rounded a corner and saw soldiers ahead – perhaps the same men who had been examining the downed aircraft site and whose search for survivors had widened. The men were relaxed and spread out along the roadside. They smoked, their helmets off; some ate while others brewed their ersatz coffee. A couple were relieving themselves in the nearby bushes.
Lucien jammed his heel into the ground. Mitchell had glided on a few feet ahead before stopping. He assessed the danger. There was no reason to assume these soldiers would do anything more than check their identity cards.
One of the soldiers nearest their end of the road was cutting a piece of dark bread and as he put it in his mouth his gaze rested on the stationary cyclists a hundred metres away. Still chewing the hard bread he stood, picked up his rifle and beckoned them forward.
Mitchell’s hand went to the .45 butt in his waistband. He half turned as if talking to the boy and, hoping his body shielded his actions, tossed the weapon on to the roadside.
‘Don’t move, Lucien,’ he said gently, attempting to assure the stricken-looking boy.
Lucien licked his lips, eyes darting around him. He touched the breast pocket where he had put the illegal bottle of cognac.
Mitchell knew instinctively the boy was going to panic. ‘Lucien!’ he hissed.
But the boy was deaf to his appeal. He turned the bike around.
‘No, Lucien! Stand still!’ Mitchell’s stomach knotted.
‘Halten Sie!’ the soldier called.
Soldiers were arming themselves and one already had his weapon at his shoulder in the aim position. The scene blurred into static tableaux: some soldiers not yet on their feet, others tugging on their helmets, some striding towards the cyclists. A blue-uniformed figure scurried forward from the rear of the soldiers’ ranks.
‘Don’t shoot him!’ the gendarme, Marin, shouted. ‘Hold your fire!’
Mitchell looked from the soldiers to the escaping boy. He shifted the bicycle in the hope of blocking the soldier’s aim. He raised his arms in surrender. ‘Nicht schiessen! Nicht schiessen!’ he bellowed.
Lucien covered less than four metres before the frightening crash of the shot rang out. The bullet entered his back beneath his shoulder blade and tore upwards and out, ripping through his heart. The impact smashed him t
o the ground. He crumpled, as if he didn’t have a bone in his body and landed with one leg half bent beneath him, dirt in his tousled hair. His eyes were open.
Mitchell threw aside his bicycle, arms still in the air, running to the fallen boy. He knelt, cradling Lucien, whose blood seeped into the dirt track along with the cognac from the shattered bottle, the scuff of the soldiers’ studded boots approaching quickly behind him. He raised his eyes at the rifles pointing at him. Shock had weakened him, his body trembled and he made no attempt to resist the hands that roughly hauled him away from the dead boy.
13
Saint-Audière was a bigger town than Saint-Just and when the soldiers dragged Mitchell from their truck in the main square he saw a group of about twenty or more younger Wehrmacht soldiers. Their ill-fitting uniforms marked them as new conscripts, most likely reinforcements for those scouring the area. One of them was sharing guard duty with a local gendarme, standing beneath a swastika flag and a French tricolour that hung side by side. Across the square, a knot of men wearing blue uniform jackets and trousers, brown shirts and wide blue berets turned and watched as Lucien’s body was dragged from the rear of the lorry in a groundsheet. A short man made some quip and the others laughed, one flicking a cigarette stub contemptuously at the boy’s body. A soldier from the search party on the road remonstrated with him. The blue-uniformed men fell silent and turned their backs. Clearly, Mitchell thought, the German soldiers detested the Milice for the collaborators they were as much as their fellow countrymen did. The soldiers escorting Mitchell shoved him through the door of the Préfecture de Police.