by Valpy, Fiona
Claire had to wait ages for a connecting train. The Métro only ran sporadically these days and there were frequent cancellations and station closures. But, in the end, one rattled into the station and she boarded it, praying that the Billancourt stop would be operational this evening. Otherwise she’d have to walk back from the last station on the line at the Pont de Sèvres and that would make her even more late for her rendezvous with Christiane. The train jolted and swayed and the dim carriage lights flickered repeatedly. At least she felt safe underground, even if it was a false sense of security. Everyone knew the Paris Métro tunnels weren’t deep enough to offer protection if there were a bombing raid. She glanced at her watch and sighed. It was taking longer than she’d hoped. She’d have a long walk back to Saint-Germain if she missed the last homeward-bound train, and would run the risk of being caught out after the curfew.
Frustrated by delays along the line, it was already late as Claire climbed the steps out of the Métro station at Billancourt. An official began to lock the gates behind her.
‘Was that the last train tonight?’ she called to him.
‘Yes, miss.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And you’d better be getting home now – it’ll be the curfew in ten minutes.’
Now that she’d come this far, Claire knew she had no choice but to go on. It wasn’t far to the rendezvous point. She should have been there an hour ago, so perhaps Christiane would have given up and left, but she had to try at least. There was nothing to lose, in any case – she was already in trouble for being out late if she was stopped by the police or a road block.
The café on the corner, opposite the new apartment blocks that had been built to house the local factory workers, was closing when she reached it. There was no sign of Christiane, only a couple of waiters wiping down tables and stacking chairs. She stood outside, uncertain what to do next. Should she risk waiting in case Christiane came back, or should she cut her losses and start to make the long journey back to Saint-Germain? It was miles, and she’d need to navigate her way through back streets to try to avoid being caught.
As she hesitated, the lights were switched off in the café and the street was plunged into total darkness. The windows of the surrounding homes and businesses were blacked out and many had tightly closed shutters to seal their inhabitants inside – and shut her out.
Nothing moved on the suburban street. There were no passing cars and no latecomers hurrying home. She was too late.
Just as she turned to go, a tiny movement in one of the windows of the apartment block opposite caught her eye. It was almost nothing. Perhaps she’d imagined the glint of light, as if a corner of the blackout had been lifted and then hastily dropped again. She felt uneasy at the thought that someone might have seen her, but decided to wait another minute to see if anyone came.
In the shadows on the silent street, there was an almost imperceptibly soft click as a door was opened. Then a young woman, who fitted the description of Christiane that Claire had been given, slipped silently across the road. Claire removed her hat and her pale hair made her appear other-worldly in the darkness.
Christiane whispered the code word and Claire gave her reply.
‘It’s so late,’ Christiane said in a low voice, her eyes dark pools in a white face. ‘Come, we’ll be safer in the doorway, in case anyone’s watching.’
They moved to stand inside the door of the building opposite and Claire quickly slipped the tightly folded map from beneath her collar, passing it over without a word.
Christiane glanced at the piece of paper and then pushed it into her pocket. ‘You should come in and stay the night with me here,’ she said.
Claire shook her head. ‘No. We mustn’t risk being caught together. Your neighbours might have seen me. I’ll make my way home. Don’t worry, I’ll stay away from the main roads. If anyone stops me, I’ll explain that the trains had already stopped running by the time my music lesson finished.’ She raised the battered attaché case.
Christiane nodded. ‘Very well. Go, quickly now. Stay safe. And thank you for this.’ She patted the pocket of her cardigan, where the paper rustled faintly.
Claire slipped back out into the street and heard the door shut softly behind her as she walked away, trying to make her footsteps as quiet as possible on the hard pavement. The darkness seemed to press in on her more closely as she slipped down a narrow side street. By this circuitous route, it was going to take even longer for her to navigate her way back to Saint-Germain, but it would be safer.
And then she felt the strangest sensation. It was as if the darkness had begun to vibrate around her. She pressed a hand to her ear to try to clear the feeling from her head. But then the vibration grew, transforming itself into the low, droning hum of an aeroplane. She glanced up nervously, but the darkness revealed nothing. She began to walk faster and then broke into a run as the noise was amplified, filling her head with its dull roar.
All of a sudden, as though all the street lights had been switched back on at once, there was a bright light overhead and she glanced skywards again to see the blazing white streak of a flare falling languidly towards the roofs ahead of her.
As if in a dream, the last thing she thought she saw was the outline of her friend Mireille, silhouetted in the sudden blinding flash that followed, before the roaring darkness engulfed her.
As Mireille had hurried down the winding staircase from the apartment and out into the Rue Cardinale, she’d almost collided with a man she vaguely recognised as a neighbour, who was wheeling his bicycle and whistling softly to himself as he headed home for the night. The yellow star pinned to his overcoat shone like a small sun in the light that spilled from the open doorway.
‘Woah! What’s the hurry, mademoiselle?’ he laughed and reached out a steadying hand as she swerved, nearly falling as she tried to avoid him.
‘Please, monsieur, can I borrow your bike? It’s a grave emergency. I’ll bring it back safely, I promise. You can collect it here, from Delavigne Couture, tomorrow.’ She crossed her fingers and sent up a prayer that this last part was true. But if the bike didn’t make it back then she probably wouldn’t either, so she wouldn’t have to face the consequences, she reasoned.
Reluctantly, the man agreed to let her borrow it because he recognised her – she was one of the three girls who had stopped him on the street corner and asked him to take their photograph. And he could see from the terrible look on her face that it really must be important. ‘But take good care of it, I beg you, mademoiselle. I’ll need it to get to work in the morning.’
She called her thanks over her shoulder as she pushed down hard on the pedal and swung herself on to the saddle, already heading for the bridge.
As she went, pedalling furiously to try to reach Claire in time, swerving past pedestrians and around other cyclists, she thought hard. If Claire had managed to make it there and back without any delays, she would have been able to catch the last Métro home. But if that had been the case she should have been back by now. The stations Mireille passed were all being locked for the night. Her lungs were burning as she raced for miles along the boulevards. She prayed that the truckloads of soldiers returning to their barracks would leave her be. Hopefully they’d just think that she was in a tearing hurry to get home before the curfew began. Her dark curls flew as she cycled along the quayside, following the curve of the Seine as the river swept southwards to create the deep bend in which the suburb of Billancourt nestled.
She knew where Claire was supposed to be meeting Christiane – it was a spot that she’d used as a rendezvous point a few times herself. She turned into the road where the café sat on the corner but it was deserted. Even through the pounding of the blood in her ears and the noise of the wind rushing past her face, she could hear the roar of the planes as they approached, preparing to unleash the biggest allied air bombardment of the war so far on the factory that was used to produce so many trucks for Hitler’s army.
Suddenly the sky lit up with falling
flares, illuminating a slight figure in the side street she was passing. She leapt from the bike and called to Claire, running towards her. And then the first plane dropped its bombs on Billancourt and the streets exploded.
The rush of wind and debris engulfed the spot where Claire had been. It hit Mireille a split second later, but it was enough time for her to spin round and tumble into the recess of an adjacent doorway, shielding herself from the worst of the blast and from the shockwaves from the next explosions that sucked the air from her lungs. She picked herself up, ignoring her bleeding hands and knees, and ran into the cloud of thick dust that choked the narrow street. Another flare lit the scene, allowing Mireille to make out the huddled bundle on the pavement just in front of her. She grabbed Claire beneath her arms and dragged her inert body back into the doorway, shielding her with her own body as another blast rocked the earth beneath them.
The white light of the flares became tinged with a warmer orange glow as the factory buildings erupted in flames and the next explosion ripped through the air. She could hear the planes’ engines screaming as they sped up and banked away from their target having dropped their payloads.
Her eardrums rang with the force of the blasts after the first wave of planes left. The fires that raged through the nearby buildings added their crackling roar to the din. She carefully assessed Claire’s injuries by the light of the flames. She had suffered a blow to the back of her head and her hair was drenched with dark blood. But otherwise her body seemed to be intact. To Mireille’s relief, Claire’s eyes fluttered open then, her dilated pupils dark as deep black pools. Her gaze was glazed, but with a struggle she seemed to focus on Mireille’s face. After a few moments, while Mireille tried to blot the blood from her wound with her scarf, all the while speaking reassuring words, Claire tried to sit up. Her body swayed and then she leant forward and vomited trying, not entirely successfully, to avoid her coat.
‘Does anything else hurt?’ Mireille asked her.
Dizzily Claire shook her head and then winced, putting a hand up to her hair and looking in numb disbelief at the dark stickiness that stained her fingers.
‘You’re concussed,’ Mireille said. ‘And in shock too. But Claire, we need to move you. There may be more planes coming and we need to get out of here. Do you think you can try to stand, if I help you?’
Claire didn’t speak, but she reached out a hand and Mireille heaved her on to her feet. Claire retched again, acrid bile spilling from her mouth on to the front of her coat.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
Mireille slung Claire’s arm around her shoulders and wrapped her own arm around Claire’s back, taking a few tentative steps out from the doorway into the street. Everything was covered in a thick layer of grey dust, as if it had snowed, and they managed to totter along a little way. With a flood of relief, Mireille made out the shape of the discarded bicycle beneath the shroud of dust and debris. She propped Claire against the side of a shop and bent to retrieve it.
And then she felt the air begin to resonate once again as the next wave of bombers approached. ‘Quick,’ she said, her voice pitched high with alarm as she grabbed Claire again. ‘Can we get you on to the saddle? You can keep an arm around my shoulders and I’ll wheel the bike along – we’ll be able to move faster that way.’
Somewhat precariously, she managed to manoeuvre both Claire and the bicycle into the main road. The wheels crunched over a scattering of broken glass where the café windows had been blown out by the shock wave. She prayed that there were no very sharp shards which would puncture the tyres. Hurrying as fast as she could along the deserted road, Mireille heard the roar of the aeroplane engines as they came in low, and the next flares illuminated the night. Keeping her head down, she gasped for breath and the sinews of her back burned with the effort of pushing the bicycle, weaving round chunks of shattered concrete and splintered shards of wood. The motion made the bike wobble dangerously as dizziness made Claire’s body sway, threatening to unbalance them both.
She turned a corner, just as the next wave of bombs began to drop. Thankfully, the buildings here sheltered the girls from the shock of the explosions that rocked the ground beneath Mireille’s feet. At the end of the street, she risked a backwards glance and saw that the apartment blocks that had been built for the factory workers had disappeared in an inferno of flame and smoke.
Claire muttered something, and Mireille had to lean close to her to make out what she said.
‘Christiane . . . We need to go back for Christiane.’
Swallowing the surge of nausea that rose up, burning her throat, Mireille pushed onwards.
Claire tapped her on the shoulder, stronger and more insistent this time. ‘Turn back, Mireille . . . Get Christiane!’ she croaked.
‘No!’ Mireille screamed, her voice a shriek above the storm of noise. ‘It’s too late for Christiane, Claire.’ And hot tears mingled with the dust that coated her face as she trudged onwards, away from the burning buildings that had nestled within the loop of the River Seine.
Waves of nausea made Claire dream she was out on the sea in her father’s fishing boat as she drifted in and out of consciousness while the two girls made the long trek back to Saint-Germain. The wail of sirens racing past jerked her back to an awareness of her surroundings. Her head throbbed and the occasional jolting of the bike against a kerbstone made a stabbing pain pierce the backs of her eyes as she leant heavily on Mireille. Her friend was tiring, she realised, and she struggled to balance herself to try to lessen the strain as Mireille trudged doggedly onwards.
Nobody stopped them. When the drone of the bombers’ engines and the accompanying distant thuds of bombs finding their targets again and again finally faded away, the trucks that screeched past them were far too intent on getting to the scene of the devastation to bother with the two tattered, ghostly figures that limped by in the opposite direction with a battered-looking bicycle.
In the early hours of the morning, they reached the Rue Cardinale and Claire leant wearily against the wall while Mireille fumbled in her pocket for her key. She watched as Mireille dusted off the bicycle as best she could – it was definitely sporting a few new battle scars after its eventful outing, but at least it was still intact – and left it propped in the stairwell. Then, with Mireille’s help, Claire climbed the stairs to the top floor.
At the sound of the apartment door opening, Vivi came running to help them. ‘Oh, thank God!’ she cried. ‘You’re safe. I thought you’d both been lost . . .’ She hurried to fetch a bowl of warm water and a towel so that she could tend to the wound on the back of Claire’s head. The blood had dried, encrusting her hair, and Vivienne very gently began swabbing it away, turning the water in the bowl as dark as wine as she repeatedly wrung out the cloth.
Her gentleness and kindness made Claire weep, as her senses – which had been frozen with shock – began to thaw.
‘Let’s get you out of this coat,’ Vivi murmured, removing the vomit-drenched garment which was beyond saving. She bundled it away, into a corner. Then she turned to Mireille. ‘You too, Mireille. Go and get yourself cleaned up. Don’t worry, I’ll look after Claire.’
An hour later, Claire was tucked up in her bed, wearing a fresh nightgown and a clean dressing around her head. Mireille and Vivi came to sit beside her.
Claire reached out a hand and Mireille held it tight. ‘I can’t believe you risked your life to save mine, Mireille. I will never forget what you did tonight,’ she whispered. And then she began to sob as she thought of Christiane, and of the other civilian lives lost in the bombing raid.
‘Ssshhh,’ Mireille hushed her, stroking her fine hair, restored to its white-gold sheen, away from her face. ‘Try to sleep now, Claire. Tomorrow we will continue our work. For Christiane. And for all the others who are suffering. We will continue our fight.’
As Claire’s eyelids grew heavy, safe now, and lulled by the soothing presence of her two friends, a thought occurred to her. ‘But Mireille . . .
how did you know? That the bombers were coming?’
Mireille glanced across at Vivi and smiled. ‘Let’s just say we are lucky to have friends in high places.’
And then Claire smiled too as she watched them creep out of her room, ducking beneath the sloping eaves of the roof and leaving her to sleep.
Mademoiselle Vannier gave a frown of disapproval the next morning when Mireille reported that Claire had had an accident and would need a few days off work to recover. When Mireille took her up to see Claire in the apartment, the supervisor tutted, saying, ‘What were you doing, you foolish girl? Out cavorting and merry-making with some young man or other, I suppose. Don’t you know how dangerous it is these days? Apparently there was terrible bombing over in the west of the city last night. You might have been killed if one of those bombs had gone astray.’ But she also took in the pallor of Claire’s face, which was almost as white as the bandages around her head, and she gave her a kindly pat on the hand, saying, ‘Stay where you are. Vivienne can finish off the beading on that evening gown for you. I’ll have some broth sent up. Have a good rest and we’ll soon have you back on your feet.’
That evening, having checked that Claire was sleeping peacefully, Mireille slipped back downstairs to the atelier where, as usual, Vivi had stayed behind. She watched for a second from the doorway. In the empty, darkened room, Vivi bent low over something she was working on, her russet braid glowing in the pool of light from the single angled lamp on the table beside her.
Suddenly realising that she wasn’t alone, Vivi jumped and quickly pulled over the froth of a bright pink chiffon skirt that she was supposed to be hemming, to cover what looked like a square of plain white silk. Mireille pretended she hadn’t noticed, letting Vivi preserve the illusion that she simply continued to work on the unfinished garment from earlier.