by Hilary Green
At length, after what felt like an hour, the engine restarted and he felt the barge moving forward and then coming to a standstill again. The sound of the water against the hull changed and he felt himself sinking. For a moment he panicked, then logic took over; the lock was emptying. They must be ready to leave.
At last he heard the engine start and felt that they were moving, but it still seemed a long time before he heard the carpet being rolled back and the hatch was raised. Bernard leaned in and held out a hand to pull him up and, as soon as he was on his feet, Christine threw her arms around him in an uncharacteristic display of emotion.
‘Thank God! You’re safe. I was terrified he was going to find you.’
He hugged her.
‘So was I! But you’re the one I should have been worried about. Did he ask any awkward questions?’
‘He wanted to know what I was doing on the boat, but Marie said I was her cousin’s daughter.’ She looked around. ‘She was wonderful. The German found your clothes and she pretended they belonged to her son. You should have been an actress, Marie!’
Marie shrugged dismissively.
‘Chance would have been a fine thing! Now, how about you taking the wheel while I get some food on the table?’
Towards evening next day, they rounded a bend and saw the rocky outcrop on which stood the town of Decize, the ruined walls of its castle golden in the setting sun. The Bourdon eased her way through the lock and into a large pool, where a few other boats were tied up.
‘Where is everybody?’ Marie said. ‘This place used to be crowded with barges.’
‘Sign of the times,’ Bernard said. ‘Trade has practically dried up. Right, you two,’ he added. ‘Better get back in the cabin until we’re tied up and I can be sure there are no Boche nosing around.’
There followed another tense wait, while they listened to the sounds of mooring and then a long pause. At last Bernard came in, accompanied by a tiny, middle-aged woman with very bright eyes.
‘This is Madame Delahaie,’ he said. ‘She is our contact in the réseau. I have explained to her where you are trying to go, and why you need our help. She is prepared to send you up the line. Eloise, this is Luke and his sister Christine.’
The little woman clicked her tongue. ‘But they are so young! It’s all wrong for them to have to hide like this.’
‘I’m old enough to fight,’ Luke said. ‘I want to get back to England so I can join up.’
She sighed. ‘It is right that you should, of course. We must all do what we can to free ourselves from these dirty Boche. But I hate to see more young lives consumed by this terrible war.’
‘But you will help us, Madame?’ he said eagerly.
‘It won’t be easy. Nothing much is going up and down the Nivernais these days. Most of the factories in Decize have closed down, or been bombed, so there’s no need for goods either coming in or going out. But if you can get to Blaye, by Lake Vaux, the lock-keeper there may be able to find someone who will take you down the flight of locks to Sardy-les-Epiry. His name is Pierre Simon. That is the last of the short locks. From there, there will be more traffic going up towards Auxerre. The lock-keeper at the bottom lock is the next link in the chain. He will introduce you to a batelier who belongs to the réseau. But you may have to wait some time, until a suitable barge comes along.’
‘How do we get to Blaye?’ Christine asked.
‘On bicycles. I take it you can both ride a bike?’
‘Yes, of course. But we don’t have bikes….’ Luke said doubtfully.
‘I shall lend you one each. That is not a problem.’
‘But, Madame,’ Christine said. ‘If we take your bikes and leave them at Blaye, how will you ever get them back?’
Eloise Delahaie smiled.
‘Don’t worry about that. They belong to the réseau. They are registered to a company in Auxerre which rents them out. The owner is sympathetic to our work. Sometimes, if there is no boat available, the men we are trying to help have to cycle from there. The owner’s daughter comes with them as a guide and to speak for them if they are challenged. The bicycles need to be returned, so you will be helping, but it is more risky than travelling by boat. If you find a boat to take you, go that way. You can put the bikes on board.’
‘How far is it to Blaye?’ Luke asked.
‘About fifty kilometres. You can do it in a day, easily.’
Bernard spread another map on the table.
‘Look, here. You can follow the towpath. It will be safer than the road and it has the advantage for cyclists that it is more or less level. Each lock will take you higher, but in between it’s flat.’
‘But you will have to avoid Châtillon-en-Bazois,’ Madame Delahaie put in quickly. ‘There is a German garrison there and they are controlling the main road from Nevers to Château-Chinon. The canal goes right through the middle of the town, which would be risky for you. I suggest you leave the canal at Biches and take the road to Alluy and then Bazolles. You can rejoin the canal there. But take care when you cross the main road.’
‘First they have to cross Decize to get to the Nivernais,’ Bernard said. ‘I thought we might take the Bourdon across to the quay below the old city.’
‘No chance of that,’ Mme Delahaie responded. ‘The Loire is in spate. You would never get a barge this size across without being swept downstream.’
‘What about the toueur?’ he said. ‘The whole idea of that is to help barges across the river.’
She shook her head. ‘The toueur is laid up for the duration. There isn’t enough demand for it as things stand.’
‘What is a toueur?’ Christine asked.
‘It’s a kind of electric tug. A chain has been laid across the bed of the river, which passes through the toueur from bow to stern. Inside, there is an electric motor which pulls the chain across a series of cogwheels, dragging the boat across the river.’
‘How fascinating! I wish I could see it working!’
‘I’m afraid you will have to come back after the war for that,’ Mme Delahaie said with a smile. ‘But for the present you will have to use the bridge.’
‘Is that safe?’ Marie asked.
‘Yes, the Boche don’t worry too much about people coming and going from one side to the other. There is usually a sentry on guard, but he very rarely asks to see papers.’
Christine looked at Bernard and Marie.
‘When do we leave?’
Marie understood her reluctance.
‘Tomorrow, I’m afraid, my dear. We have to be on our way, too. I’m sorry we can’t take you farther, but I’m sure we are leaving you in good hands.’
‘I know you are,’ Christine said hastily. ‘It’s just that we’ve enjoyed being with you so much. We’ll never forget your kindness.’
‘Yes, that goes for me, too,’ Luke added. ‘We shall be really sorry to say goodbye.’
Marie extended a hand to each of them.
‘And we shall be sorry, too. But we shall think of you, and pray that you will reach your destination safely. Maybe, when this wretched war is over, you will come and find us and you can cruise the canals with us as long as you please.’
‘Oh, I should love that!’ Christine said. ‘I shall pray for you, too, and that one day we shall all meet again.’
‘Amen!’ Bernard laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘But now, we must eat and then you need to get a good night’s sleep. You have a long ride tomorrow.’
Chapter 6
Isabelle Beecham was in the cellar at Caves des Volcans, but she was not testing the latest vintage. It was evening and all the workers had gone home. The cellar was lined with huge casks lying on their sides, each labelled with the year of that vintage. At the far end, was one that stood a little further from the wall than the others. Isabelle slipped behind it and tugged at the base, which came away to reveal a small compartment. The cask had been closed off further in, so that if anyone opened the spigot at the other end wine would still flow out, but
the space concealed a small radio set, tuned to the BBC.
She carried it up to the kitchen and set it on the table. Then, she poured herself a glass of wine and sat down to listen. Her father was in bed and there was no one else in the house, but she kept the volume so low that she had to lean close to hear the announcer’s voice. The news bulletin told of Allied advances in North Africa but she paid only scant attention. What she was waiting for were the messages personelles, which were broadcast every evening after the news.
It was almost a week since she had said goodbye to her two children and every day she had expected to hear from Marcel Dutoit that they had arrived safely. Yesterday, in desperation, she had risked using the public telephone to call Gaspard Duhamel, who assured her that he had delivered them both safely to the railway station in Clermont-Ferrand. She called Marcel’s number but there had been no reply. Perhaps, she told herself, he was away from home even now, conducting Luke and Christine across the border into Switzerland. That hope was immediately replaced by a terrible fear; maybe he had been arrested in the act and they were all in German custody? She calmed herself by clinging to another thought: it was possible that they had reached him within 24 hours of setting out, and been taken to safety immediately; so they could be back in England by now. That was why she was crouching over the radio, hoping to hear that ‘Michou’s pups’ were safe.
She was so intent on making out the indistinct words of the announcer over the crackle of static that she almost failed to hear the banging on the front door. When the sound penetrated her consciousness, she jumped up, her heart pounding. Neighbours rarely called at this time of night, except in an emergency. Had a German detector van picked up the fact that there was a radio receiving the English broadcast? Was that possible? Had someone betrayed her? She grabbed the set and shoved it into the oven in the old, black range; then, forcing herself to behave as naturally as possible, she went to open the door.
A German officer stood on the doorstep. Isabelle’s hand went to her throat. Either she was about to be arrested, or he had come to tell her that her children were in German hands.
‘Madame Beauchamp?’ he asked, using the French version of her surname.
‘Yes?’
He saluted and clicked his heels. ‘I am Oberleutnant Gruber. I am the billeting officer for this area. How many people live in this house?’
‘Just myself and my father.’ Isabelle’s breath was coming in short gasps and she fought to control it. ‘He is disabled and confined to a wheelchair.’
‘According to records held by your mayor, you have two children who are not living with you at present.’
‘Not just now, no. They have gone to visit their godfather. He’s been taken ill.’
‘Then you will have spare rooms. You are required to accommodate an officer and his batman. They will arrive tomorrow morning. Please make sure the rooms are ready for them. They will take all their meals in the mess, so you will not be required to feed them. That is all. Good evening.’
He saluted once more, turned on his heel and went back to his jeep. Isabelle closed the door and leaned against it. Her legs were trembling and for a moment she felt dizzy. Then her head cleared.
Neither she nor the children were in immediate danger. It would be inconvenient and distasteful to have Germans living in the house and it would make it hard to listen to the BBC broadcasts, but at least her immediate fears had not been realized. She straightened up and went back to the kitchen, but by the time she had extracted the radio from the oven, the messages personelles were finished and she could only hope that she had not missed the one she was so desperate to hear.
The two Germans arrived early the next day. Isabelle expected to hate them on sight but one look at the face of the young lieutenant who stood on her doorstep overlaid her hostility with a concern that was almost maternal. He looked hardly older than Luke, but whereas her son was well built, with broad shoulders and a healthy tan, this boy was thin and his face had a sickly yellow tint. His batman, who followed with his bags, was middle-aged, small, and wiry, with a face so lined and creased that it reminded her of a bulldog.
The officer saluted and introduced himself in surprisingly good French.
‘Leutnant Hoffmann, Madame. I hope we are not inconveniencing you.’
The words recalled Isabelle to the consciousness that these were the enemy, however unthreatening they appeared.
‘It is not as though I have any choice in the matter,’ she responded stiffly. ‘Come in, please. I’ll show you your rooms.’
She had put the lieutenant in Luke’s room. There was only one spare room in the house, a small, rather bare space, and she had allocated that to the batmen, rather than putting him in Christine’s, but that left nowhere else for the officer. Hoffmann looked around and turned to her with a smile that touched her heart.
‘This reminds me of my own room at home. Thank you, Madame.’
They dumped their belongings and left almost immediately, explaining that the lieutenant had to go on duty. By the time they returned, it was late and he went straight to his room. Soon afterwards, Isabelle heard him coughing; a harsh, racking cough that went on and on. She was about to go to his room to ask if he needed anything when the batman appeared in her kitchen.
‘Madame, would it be possible to make the lieutenant a warm drink? Sometimes it eases the cough.’
‘Of course,’ Isabelle responded immediately. ‘Would he like some warm milk?’
‘If you can spare it, Madame.’
While she was waiting for the milk to heat, Isabelle asked, ‘What is your name?’
‘Schulz, Madame. Fritz Schulz.’
‘You are worried about Leutnant Hoffmann.’
‘Yes, Madame. He is not strong. He has a weak chest. We were on the Russian front and he got very ill. That is why we were transferred here, so he could recuperate.’
She looked at him. His face was creased with genuine concern.
‘Have you been with him for long?’
‘Since the beginning.’
‘Really? He doesn’t look old enough.…’ She checked herself. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not my business.’
Schulz shook his head.
‘Please, it is kind of you to concern yourself. He is older than he looks, but he was always a sickly child.’
‘You knew him, before the war?’
‘I worked for the family. We joined up together.’
‘You both speak good French. How is that?’
‘The lieutenant’s mother is from Alsace, Madame. She always spoke French.’
‘From Alsace? So he is half French? That must make things very difficult.’
‘Yes.’ The little man sighed. ‘It is not a happy situation for any of us.’
The milk was hot. Isabelle poured it into a mug and reached for a bottle of brandy on the shelf above the range. ‘Perhaps a little of this will help him sleep?’
‘You are very kind, Madame.’
After Schulz had left, Isabelle wondered at herself. How could she behave like this to members of the enemy force that was occupying her country? She heard Hoffmann coughing again and sighed. Enemy or not, she had a sick boy under her roof. German he might be, but first and foremost he was a human being. That was something to hold on to.
Next morning, she came face to face with her unwanted guests in the hallway. Hoffmann clicked his heels and gave a little bow.
‘Good morning, Madame Beauchamps. I want to thank you for the hot drink. It was most helpful.’
Isabelle restrained an impulse to smile and replied coolly, ‘I’m glad to hear it. Did you sleep well?’
‘Excellently. It was the best night’s sleep I have had for a long time.’
To Isabelle’s relief the need for further conversation was dispelled by the sound of the postman’s van drawing up outside. She took the envelope he handed her and was unable to suppress a gasp of mingled shock and relief as she recognized the handwriting.
Hoffm
ann was watching her with a smile.
‘Good news, I hope, Madame?’
‘A letter from my son.’ She shrugged in what she hoped was a suitably casual manner. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from him so soon.’
‘Ah, we young men!’ he responded. ‘We are not good at writing letters. My own mother often rebukes me for being so lazy about it.’
‘Well, I expect you have other things on your mind,’ she said. ‘I’m sure your mother understands.’
He looked at his watch.
‘I must be on my way, or I shall be late for duty.’ He drew himself up, clicked his heels again and saluted. ‘Until this evening, Madame.’
‘Until then,’ she replied, and narrowly prevented herself from wishing him a pleasant day.
Hoffmann left, with Schulz following, and Isabelle slit open the envelope, her mind a whirl of anxious speculation. The postmark said ‘Digoin’. What on earth was Luke doing in Digoin? It was nowhere near the route he should have been taking. Dear God! Had he gone and joined the Maquis after all? She unfolded the letter and read:
Chére Maman,
I know you will be wondering why we have not been in touch before, but please don’t worry. We are both safe and well. It was not possible to reach our destination by the route we planned, because we were badly let down by the so-called friend who gave us a lift. But we have found another way to get there. It may take quite a lot longer than we expected, so don’t be alarmed if you don’t hear from us for a few days. I’ll write again as soon as I can.
With love from us both,
Luke.
She carried the letter into the kitchen and sat at the table. Her legs were shaking. The letter raised more questions than it answered. How had they been let down? The ‘so-called friend’ must be Duhamel, but he had assured her that he had delivered them safely to the station. She gritted her teeth. That little snake! He had lied to her.