by Bali Rai
‘Look at you,’ I said. ‘Your cheeks are sunken and your eyes red. You need to get some air. Besides, I have a secret place to show you.’
‘Your clearing?’
I nodded. I had forgotten that I’d found Mo there.
‘Not so secret, of course, but still…’
Mo shrugged.
‘How far is the crash site?’ he asked.
‘Nearby,’ I told him. ‘Why?’
‘I want to see if my things are still there,’ he told me. ‘If we could do that, then I’m happy to venture out.’
‘What things do you mean?’
‘A memento from my mother,’ he told me. ‘In my kit bag.’
‘That will be more dangerous than going into the woods,’ I pointed out.
‘That is my wish,’ he replied.
I nodded.
‘We must be quick, though,’ I told him. ‘Maman will be cross if she returns to find us gone.’
‘Not Papa?’
I grinned.
‘Papa is soft,’ I replied. ‘It’s Maman’s temper you have to watch!’
I checked the lane again, just to be sure, and then we left via the garden and cut across a fallow and muddy field behind it. At the stream, we crossed a rickety footbridge, and then turned right, away from the woods. The crash site lay beyond the next field, through a thicket of oaks and maples. It did not take us long to reach it, and luckily, we found no Germans guarding the plane.
‘Be quick!’ I told Mo.
The plane was broken in half, and the engine had exploded. The ground around the wreckage was charred and debris lay all around us – bits of wing and fuselage and the propeller too. A section of the wing lay upside down, so that the red, white and blue RAF roundel was visible. Mo rummaged around the remains of the cockpit, until he found a grey canvas bag.
‘It’s here!’ he exclaimed with a huge smile.
He opened it, discarding everything until he found a length of royal-blue cloth.
‘What is that?’ I asked.
‘Another pagri,’ he explained. ‘My mother sent me away with it.’
He unravelled the cloth to find a wooden-beaded bracelet.
‘This is a prayer string,’ he said. ‘You move the beads as you recite the words.’
I nodded.
‘We call them rosaries,’ I told him. ‘Maman has many. This is all you came for?’
He nodded.
‘The radio is destroyed, and there is nothing else of value, save some tools,’ he explained.
He salvaged what he could, placing everything in his bag. When he was done, we turned back, and he thanked me for bringing him to the plane.
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ I told him. ‘We have not made it home.’
Back at the stream, I led the way towards my clearing. On arrival, we sat on the steep bank and Mo took out his rosary once more. The ground was damp but not too uncomfortable, and across the stream, a rabbit foraged amongst some bushes. I wondered if the fox was close by, watching and waiting.
‘My mother is a devout Sikh,’ Mo told me. ‘I am not so religious, but this rosary carries her blessing. It is my only reminder of her. It is precious.’
I asked how the rosary was used, and he began to recite a prayer in his Punjabi language. I did not understand a word, and was about to ask, when I heard their voices.
‘SHHHH!!!!’ I whispered in alarm. ‘GERMANS!’
SIX
We hurried into the bushes, close to where Mo had hidden after his crash. The plants were dense here, and we managed to find cover just before the German soldiers appeared. They trampled across the clearing in their dirty, heavy boots, guns at the ready and conversing in their own language. There were three in total, and they seemed to be exchanging jokes. Every so often, they would burst into laughter, and I grew angry at their arrogance. Here they were, occupying a foreign country with violence, and yet they seemed unconcerned. Happy, even.
‘Do not move a muscle,’ Mo whispered, as they closed in.
I got a sudden urge to pee, and squirmed. Mo sensed my discomfort, placing his hand on mine.
‘Take courage,’ he whispered.
They gave the bushes a cursory search but seemed uninterested in going any further. Thankfully, we had hidden deep enough not to be discovered. One of the Germans said something that made the others giggle like children.
‘Dogs!’ I whispered.
Something else caught their attention, a rustling from the far bank. The fox dashed from cover, a rabbit between its jaws. The soldiers were startled and one of them opened fire with a machine gun. The fox howled, and I covered my mouth, so they would not hear me cry out.
‘SHH!’ Mo warned, as the nearest soldier turned back towards us.
‘Who is there?” he said in faltering French. ‘Come out!’
My insides churned with fear. How could I have been so stupid? Now they would find us for sure.
The soldier began to hack at the foliage again, and we were seconds from being discovered. Mo edged further into the bushes, pulling me with him. However, our actions were pointless. Under my breath, I told my parents that I was sorry and that I loved them. Then I closed my eyes, awaiting our doom.
‘Hans!’ I heard another soldier shout.
They conversed in German before leaving in haste. I don’t know what happened that day, but I am grateful. Had the soldier searched a moment longer, I would not have lived to tell this tale.
Later, after remaining hidden for some time, we emerged from the bushes and made our way back. We were extra cautious this time, wary of meeting any more Germans, but made it home without incident. Maman was waiting by the door and scolded me in French.
‘Please,’ Mo insisted. ‘This was as much my fault. Blame me.’
‘No,’ said Maman. ‘You do not know the area, nor the dangers we face each day. Joelle does and should know better.’
‘But she is only a child,’ said Mo.
‘It matters little,’ Maman told him. ‘These are no ordinary times. There is no room for childishness, nor mistakes. Not when our very lives are at risk.’
I searched Mo’s face with my eyes, hoping that he wouldn’t mention our close call with the Nazis. Mo seemed to understand and gave a slight nod.
‘Well, I am sorry anyway,’ he told Maman. ‘I put your child’s life in danger and I must accept my responsibility. It will not happen again.’
Maman seemed taken by his manner and his words, and her features softened.
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘No harm done.’
I sighed in relief as she led us indoors.
That evening, Beatrice returned with a stranger in tow. The man seemed stern and unhappy and spoke in a gruff manner. Something about him caused me to be wary. His name was Vincent.
‘The British pilot is ours,’ he told Beatrice and Maman.
‘Ours?’ asked Maman.
‘Yes,’ Vincent insisted. ‘We are the leaders of the Resistance here. We must decide what becomes of him.’
‘But we can hide him quite easily,’ Maman replied. ‘He is not the first to see our cellar. He will not be the last.’
Mo wasn’t with us. He was taking a bath, and I was glad that he could not hear. I wondered what he might make of being referred to as a possession.
‘The British left us to rot,’ Vincent told us. ‘After their shameful retreat at Dunkirk, we paid the price. Now, in exchange for their pilot, they must pay too.’
‘Are you insane?’ snapped Maman. ‘No one is using Mo as a bargaining chip!’
‘Nora, please!’ said Beatrice. ‘This is for the good of France.’
‘I am not insane,’ Vincent growled. ‘In return for their Indian, we will demand aid and weapons, and anything else we desire. The British claim to be our allies, but look how we suffer…’
I hated Vincent immediately. Some say that hate is too strong an emotion, but I don’t care. I know what I felt, and even though I was a child, I understood clearly the de
pth of my feelings.
‘We will take him in two days’ time,’ Vincent declared.
‘Where will he go?’ asked Maman.
‘That is none of your concern,’ he replied. ‘We all have our roles to play. Yours is to help us and keep your nose from everything else. We know that you smuggle food and other goods. We allow that to happen. Be thankful and do not concern yourself with things that you can’t understand.’
‘So, what are we?’ asked Maman, growing angry. ‘Your servants?’
‘No, but I am a leader,’ Vincent told her. ‘You have your duty. I have mine. They are not the same thing, however.’
‘And if we refuse?’ she added.
‘Then you will be known as collaborators,’ Vincent replied. ‘The lowest of all.’
Maman turned to Beatrice.
‘Get this man out of my house immediately,’ she snapped. ‘And do not ever bring him here again.’
She was livid, her face coloured, her eyes blazing.
‘You come to my house and speak to me this way?’ she asked him. ‘Get out! And be thankful my husband is not here.’
Vincent shrugged and left, leaving Beatrice to apologise to Maman.
‘He is a good man,’ said Beatrice. ‘Just a little blunt with his words. We must obey him.’
‘He is a donkey’s backside!’ said Maman. ‘And I obey no man with such arrogance.’
‘You must agree,’ said Beatrice. ‘We have to get Mo away from here!’
‘To be used as a bargaining chip by that man?’ asked Maman. ‘Never!’
Beatrice promised to return the following evening, then rushed out after Vincent. Maman slammed the door behind them, just as Mo appeared, his long hair hanging loose.
‘What did I miss?’ he asked.
Maman shook her head.
‘I’ll explain later,’ she replied.
SEVEN
The following morning, I was given a supply run, and happily accepted it as always. This involved taking my bicycle and riding out into the countryside to meet a local farmer, Monsieur Garand. The farmer was another ally, and gave us eggs and milk, and sometimes meat too. Such things were classed as black market, available only by ration, but that did not stop us. The dangers were obvious, but I had never been searched. My age meant that the German patrols left me alone. Mostly they would smile and usher me on my way. I would be polite in return while cursing them under my breath. It was like a game, only with deadly consequences for losing.
‘Joelle!’ Monsieur Garand bellowed when he saw me. ‘Oh my – what a pretty smile!’
‘Bonjour!’ I said, pulling up beside his cart.
We were three miles out of town, at the edge of some woodland, on a dirt track that only locals knew of. Monsieur Garand gestured at his cart.
‘I have eggs,’ he told me. ‘And a surprise for you and your parents.’
‘A surprise?’
Monsieur Garand winked and produced two skinned and gutted rabbits from his huge overcoat.
‘I caught several yesterday,’ he told me. ‘They’re still lovely and fresh!’
‘Oh, I cannot accept them,’ I began to say.
‘Nonsense!’ he replied. ‘I insist that you do. When was the last time you tasted rabbit?’
I shrugged.
‘Before the Germans,’ I told him.
He spat in disgust.
‘May God curse these insufferable devils!’ he said.
He wiped a tear from his eyes, his hands thick with grime.
‘Poor Henri Deschamps,’ he added, speaking of my former neighbour. ‘He was my friend. I cannot abide what they did to him and his beautiful family.’
I nodded and placed my hand on his forearm.
‘One day we will be victorious,’ I said.
‘Yes, yes!’ he replied. ‘Vive la France!’
Monsieur Garand had fought in the Great War, and he saluted. As always, I returned his salute, and that cheered him up.
‘Ah, my little soldier!’ he said with a grin. ‘Now, for the rabbits, I have some onions and some carrots, and a little garlic also.’
He handed me the animals and produced another little package. I placed everything in the basket of my bicycle, underneath some books and a roll of hessian.
‘And the eggs,’ he said.
On the rear of my bicycle were two boxes or panniers, one each side of the wheel. We placed the eggs at the bottom, covering them with straw and some rotten onions that Monsieur Garand had kept especially. If I got stopped, the soldiers would see the blackened and weeping onions and not look any further. At least, that was our hope.
‘Is your family well?’ I asked.
‘So, so,’ he replied. ‘And yours?’
‘The same,’ I told him. ‘I’d better get going.’
‘Come back soon,’ said Monsieur Garand, ‘and tell your papa that I have some brandy waiting for him!’
‘I will,’ I replied, setting off for home.
I did not get far before I spotted the Germans. They had blocked the road into town and were stopping everyone that passed. My heart thumped louder in my chest. My forehead began to sweat.
‘No!’ I whispered to myself.
There was another route, through the fields and around the checkpoint, but the ground was rutted and uneven, and my bicycle would not make it. I also had the option to ditch my contraband, but that wouldn’t be ideal either. I stopped, dismounted, and pretended to check my bicycle’s chain. All the while, I was watching the checkpoint, to see what they were searching for. One or two Germans searched people’s bags and belongings, but most were simply asking them questions. I guessed that they were still hunting for Mo, and with my courage replenished, I set off again.
‘You’re just a schoolgirl, trying to get home,’ I told myself, over and over again. ‘They will not stop a little girl.’
As I drew towards the checkpoint, a young, dark-haired solider held up his hand. He spoke in broken and poor French.
‘Please stop,’ he told me. ‘Where are you going?’
I pointed into town.
‘My house,’ I replied. ‘I live on the far side, sir.’
The German soldier nodded.
‘And what do you carry?’
I shook my head, trying to avoid his gaze and thinking furiously about what I would say next. I could not let him find my smuggled goods.
‘Well?’ he asked, as an idea took shape in my head. I would call his bluff and see if he wanted to touch some rotten vegetables.
‘Just some books and some old onions,’ I told him, hoping that my plan would work.
‘Onions?’
I nodded.
‘I found them by the roadside,’ I lied. ‘Please, sir, Maman can make soup with them.’
‘Show me,’ he said.
I got off and opened both panniers, and the stench rose from them immediately. The German swore in his own language.
‘Enough!’ he said in French. ‘That’s disgusting!’
I shrugged.
‘We might be able to rescue one or two,’ I said. ‘Enough to eat, perhaps…’
He waved me away, shaking his head, and called me a pitiful creature. I waited until I was clear before grinning, satisfied and proud that I had fooled him.
Maman was delighted with the rabbits. As Mo and I watched on, she cut them up, and then set about making a stew. I thought of the fox in the clearing, wondered whether it had survived being shot. We were far more fortunate, I thought. Poor Monsieur Renard.
‘I have never eaten rabbit,’ Mo told us. ‘Is this normal here in France?’
I grinned.
‘It used to be,’ I told him. ‘Now, we have to beg, borrow or steal any meat.’
‘Perhaps I could eat just the vegetables?’ he said.
‘You could,’ I told him. ‘But you’ll miss out on the best bit. Rabbit is delicious.’
Maman cooked the onions in butter and a little flour, before adding carrots and some wine that was l
ying around.
‘You should use better wine for such magnificent creatures,’ she said. ‘But we don’t have any.’
Mo looked fascinated.
‘This is how my mother makes chicken,’ he told us. ‘But we use ginger and spices too. And we don’t add any wine.’
‘Perhaps we might visit your country one day?’ I said. ‘I would like that very much.’
Mo nodded, and for a moment he was lost in thought.
‘My region is very fertile,’ he told me. ‘The food is delicious, and the people are warm. You would be very welcome.’
As we waited for the stew to cook, we exchanged stories and Mo told us some more about the Punjab. He spoke of missing his mother’s cooking and the games he loved to play as a child, and of his village and the people he knew.
The stew took two hours, and just as it was ready, Papa returned. I knew immediately that something was wrong.
‘Papa?’ I asked. ‘What is it?’
He shook his head.
‘It’s Claude and the two men we hid,’ he told us sorrowfully. ‘They were captured.’
‘Oh no!’ said Maman. ‘Do we know where they were taken?’
Papa shook his head once more.
‘They were not taken anywhere, my love,’ he explained. ‘The Germans murdered them…’
EIGHT
I awoke deflated and depressed the following morning. The world felt colder, harsher, and less hopeful than ever before. As always, Papa had gone to the bakery before starting his errands. Maman was drinking coffee, having just let Mo out of the cellar. Our house guest seemed as dejected as I was. He sat next to Maman, his pagri removed, his beard overgrown, and his eyes sore.
‘Joelle,’ said Maman. ‘Would you like breakfast?’
I shook my head and sat beside Mo.
‘I don’t feel very hungry this morning,’ I told her. ‘I don’t feel much of anything.’
‘The murders?’ said Maman.
‘Yes.’
Mo shifted in his seat, before sipping his coffee. He had eaten bread and butter, and a few slivers of cheese.
‘I will leave,’ he told us. ‘I cannot thank you enough for protecting me, but I must go. Your lives are at risk while I stay.’
‘No,’ said Maman. ‘You don’t have to leave.’