by Bali Rai
‘What about Vincent?’ Mo asked, making clear that Maman had been honest with him.
Maman sighed.
‘Vincent is not our concern,’ she told him. ‘You cannot allow yourself to be used by such men. We will find another way to get you back to England.’
‘There is no other way,’ Mo told her.
‘Beatrice will help,’ she said. ‘After she has…’
I thought of Claude and his bent nose. His smelly clothes and gruff but warm laughter. Lying in a ditch somewhere, with a callous Nazi standing over him. How would Beatrice cope with losing her brother, I wondered. They were the last of their family, with no children, nor spouses. Now Beatrice was left all alone, and my heart ached for her. I had known them my entire life. Had stayed with them before the Germans came, played games with them, eaten with them. First Grace, now Claude. My heart was broken all over again.
I left Maman and Mo to talk and went to wash and get dressed. I needed fresh air. I needed my no-longer-so-secret place. Only, I did not get the chance. Beatrice arrived in a dreadful state, worn out from a night of tears and despair. When Maman let her in, she collapsed and sobbed, holding on to Maman’s olive skirts.
‘CLAUDE!’ she groaned. ‘MY BROTHER!’
Maman helped her to her feet, ordered me to fetch the brandy, and sat her down beside Mo. The alcohol was hidden in a barrel, and I found a new bottle. It was dusty and cobwebbed, but the liquid inside would calm Beatrice. Act as an anaesthetic even, to help her forget for just a while.
‘Why?’ Beatrice repeated over and over again. ‘Why did they shoot him? Where is the justice, Nora? Where is the humanity?’
Her dark hair was a mess and her face patchy with a rash. I tapped Mo on the shoulder and nodded towards the kitchen door. He seemed anxious and guilt-ridden.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Maman will deal with this.’
Outside, behind the garden walls, Mo seemed to relax. He sat on a wooden bench that Papa had made.
‘I need a cigarette,’ he said.
‘I do not smoke,’ I told him. ‘It is a filthy habit!’
‘Me neither,’ he admitted. ‘But isn’t that what you do – smoke and drink in times of stress?’
I shook my head.
‘The brandy will soothe her nerves,’ I told him. ‘In small measures, it is even medicine, perhaps. But how will stinking of an ashtray make you feel less stressed?’
Mo smiled. Actually, it was not quite a smile. It was the beginning of one, that suddenly disappeared when he remembered the situation.
‘Are you feeling sad?’ he asked.
I nodded. I had spent the night thinking first of Claude, and then Grace too. I’d also imagined losing my parents to such evil, and it had punctured a hole in my heart more agonising than any bullet might.
‘I don’t want my parents to die,’ I admitted. ‘The pain would be unbearable. I cannot explain how much I love them.’
‘Then do not try to explain,’ Mo told me. ‘The inexplicability of your love is what makes it so true. It isn’t something to be measured, Joelle. It is too instinctive to measure.’
I considered his words and found myself agreeing with him.
‘You are very wise,’ I told him. ‘For someone so young…’
‘I am twenty-six years of age,’ he revealed. ‘Old enough.’
‘Is this how love is described in your faith?’ I added. ‘Is this what Sikhs are taught?’
Mo grinned.
‘No,’ he said. ‘This is what all fortunate humans learn. Where they live, to whom they pray – none of that matters.’
‘My parents are the kindest, finest and most decent human beings,’ I said. ‘I am fortunate to have them.’
‘That is why you must let me leave,’ he replied. ‘You can see out the war here. Remain hopeful of a better future. If you resist, you put yourselves at risk.’
‘And if we do not resist?’ I asked. ‘What then is the point of us? To live like sheep to be branded? To cower before bullies? Never!’
I hadn’t realised the strength of my emotions, nor the volume at which I expressed them. Mo seemed taken aback, and I apologised at one, placing my pale hand upon his dark one.
‘You are also one of the best humans I have met,’ I told him.
‘But I have only been here for a week,’ he pointed out.
‘A week, a day?’ I said. ‘Who cares, when it is so obvious?’
‘Tell your parents you love them,’ he advised. ‘Trust me, they will never tire of hearing it.’
Maman came out, to ask after the raised voices.
‘Nothing, Maman,’ I replied. ‘I was merely being passionate about my feelings.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
I smiled at Mo, and then at her.
‘I love you, Maman!’ I said, and at once her face lit up. ‘I love you as I love the sunshine and the snow, and Mrs Moreau’s books and rabbit stew. And more, Maman – much more!’
I hugged her close and took in her scent and felt instantly better.
‘I love you too,’ she told me.
That evening, after darkness had fallen and we’d eaten our supper, Maman allowed Mo and me to take a walk.
‘It’s dark, Maman,’ I said. ‘We’ll be perfectly safe.’
‘Just be careful,’ she told us. ‘You hide at the first sign of trouble, understand?’
Mo swore that he would protect me.
‘You have my oath,’ he told Maman. ‘I will not let Joelle come to any harm.’
Maman smiled and gave me a little hug. If only I had known. If only, somehow, I had seen my future. If only I had stayed at home…
We were walking back from the woods, lighting the way with a rusty oil lamp. The air was cold and crisp, and my nose ran. It felt like a perfect winter’s night, and Mo was busy telling me about his childhood, and his younger siblings. He had retied his turban and looked like a prince in the lamp’s golden glow. His dark eyes shone.
We approached the garden from the fields, my house in front of us.
‘Wait!’ Mo suddenly growled, pulling me down so that we were hidden by the wall.
‘What is it?’
‘Something is wrong,’ he whispered.
My stomach somersaulted with fear.
‘Why do you say that?’
His expression was serious, his brow furrowed.
‘The door has been kicked in,’ he revealed.
‘What?’ I exclaimed as I shot up.
‘Joelle, no!’ he insisted, pulling me down again. ‘Wait!’
‘But what about Maman and Papa?’ I begged. ‘We must check on them!’
Mo nodded but did not move for a moment. It was the correct decision. Suddenly, we heard loud voices. Maman and Papa, and then some Germans. They seemed to be arguing and then Maman screamed. I held in my own cry, fearful of being discovered. Doing what my parents had always taught me.
Run, hide, but whatever you do, don’t get caught.
‘Liars!’ I heard a German soldier shout. ‘We know who you are!’
I heard Papa protesting innocence and then a thud as Maman screamed again. More shouting followed, and Mo began to pull me away.
‘Run!’ he whispered. ‘Back to the trees, Joelle. Run and hide, and I will try to save them…’
Never mind think, I could barely breathe. My chest grew tight and my legs felt hollow and full of nothing but air. I stumbled to my feet and did as Mo said. And as I ran, I sobbed and sobbed, so great was my terror. Not my parents, I begged. Not my parents…
And then the shooting began…
NINE
I stopped running and turned, and the air around me seemed to buzz and grow heavy on my shoulders. My heart beat so fast, I thought it might explode. I remember screaming, but there was no sound. Like some dumb animal, I stood and wailed, and could not move. Mo appeared before me. He scooped me into his arms and carried me back towards the trees. Once past the treeline, he kept on going, bullying his way thro
ugh thick undergrowth as though it were nothing. I did not stop screaming until we reached my clearing, and there I grew limp and the light in my eyes began to fade.
I know that I passed out. I know because Mo shook me to my senses and covered my mouth with his hands.
‘Dogs!’ he said, pulling me further into the woods. Further away from my parents.
As I heard the animals bark, we followed the stream.
‘We must try and throw them off our scent,’ he told me. ‘Maybe if we run in the water?’
He took my hand again, and we jumped into the icy stream. The freezing water came as a jolt, and I was instantly fully conscious and aware.
‘Keep running!’ Mo told me.
We splashed on until the stream widened before climbing the opposite bank. Behind us, the dogs drew nearer, and I heard more German soldiers.
‘There!’ said Mo.
He pointed at a huge oak tree, and behind it, a narrow path probably used by hunters.
‘Where does that lead?’ he asked.
Only I had never ventured so deeply into the woods.
‘I have no idea,’ I told him.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he replied. ‘We have no choice.’
Some fifty yards down the path grew wider. We ran into a small lane, lined by tall hedgerows on either side. Further along there was a house sitting in darkness.
‘Come on!’ said Mo.
‘I know that house. It is deserted!’ I told him. ‘I didn’t realise it could be reached through the woods.’
We sprinted down the lane, though the overgrown front garden, and past a rotten wooden door, Inside, the house had been left to ruin, and I heard rodents scurry away. A small parlour led into a larger kitchen area, and at the rear were stone stairs, similar to my own house. But the upper storey had collapsed, and the stairwell was impassable.
‘Where now?’ I asked.
Mo was sweating profusely, his turban darker where it sat on his forehead.
‘Maybe there is an outbuilding?’ he wondered aloud.
We raced into the yard, and in the distance, I heard the dogs barking once more. The Germans had found the lane, and soon they would find us. We were running out of time.
Mo had stopped by an old well. He was examining a rope, which had once held a pail. Suddenly, he pulled the rope free and drew it up. It was very long, probably twenty feet in total, and he began to tie thick knots along its length.
‘Is there any more rope anywhere?’ he asked.
My eyes had grown used to the dark by now, and I managed to search the area around us. I found a rusting shovel, a pitchfork, and some wooden crates, but nothing else.
‘No rope!’ I said, as the dogs closed in.
Mo picked up a rock and dropped it down the well, counting until he heard a splash.
‘Ten,’ he said. ‘That is a long way down!’
He reconnected the rope, via a pulley wheel and made sure it was tight.
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘And do exactly as I say.’
Before I could react, he took hold of the rope, clambered over the side of the well and began to descend using the knots as footholds. The rope swung precariously and creaked under his weight but held fast. He held out his right hand.
‘Come on!’ he whispered. ‘Climb over and hold on to me.’
‘But what if we fall?’ I said, hesitating.
‘Joelle!’ he urged. ‘The Germans will be here any second. I promise you won’t fall.’
He did not convince me. The barking of German shepherd attack dogs did. I leaped over to him but was too hasty. The rope swung and groaned, and I thought it would snap. Mo did not wait. As the dogs entered the yard, he began to climb down the knots. I clung on to him for dear life, his beard tickling my face.
‘Do not make a single sound,’ he whispered, once we’d come to a stop.
Above us, the dogs growled and snarled, but their masters paid them no heed. I heard the soldiers curse and swear, but they did not look down the well. We hung there for a long time, as they searched every inch of the abandoned farmhouse. My feet were resting on Mo’s, my arms around his shoulders. I worried that Mo’s grip might loosen. But he held fast and did not show an ounce of fatigue. However, my arms began to tire, and quickly.
‘I cannot hold on much longer,’ I whispered.
‘You must!’ he replied. ‘We cannot die here, Joelle. Not now!’
I took a deep breath and willed myself greater strength. It was painful and scary, and I knew that I might let go at any second.
‘They’re leaving,’ Mo whispered eventually.
Sure enough, the sound of barking dogs and cursing Germans receded. Only when he was absolutely certain, did Mo begin to ascend. He carried both of us with ease, and soon I was climbing out of the well.
‘My parents!’ I said.
Mo nodded, then lowered his head.
We found cover in the farmhouse’s barn and sheltered there until dawn. Mo told me to rest, but I could not. Neither could he.
‘I want to go to my parents,’ I said, over and over again.
Only, deep inside, I knew that it was too dangerous. We needed to wait until there was no more threat. However, we had no idea what awaited us at my house. How would we know that danger had passed?
‘Just try to rest,’ Mo told me, as I held his hand and hoped for the best. Trouble was, hope was hard to find in those circumstances.
When, finally, we emerged, our trek back was slow and cautious. The closer we got to my house, the more my dread increased. The veins in my neck pulsed with tension and my legs wobbled. As we drew near, Mo told me to wait.
‘We need to be sure,’ he told me. ‘And then I will go first.’
‘No!’ I insisted. ‘They are my parents. I will go…’
‘I cannot allow that,’ Mo told me. ‘I cannot let you face danger before me. That is not possible, Joelle.’
I knew that he was protecting me. I knew that he did not want me to discover some grisly scene. But truth be told, I already knew what we might find. And even though I told myself that I could handle it, I was not ready…
TEN
Maman was slumped across the kitchen table. She seemed to be asleep. Papa was splayed across the stone floor. I will not describe much more, because it feels wrong somehow. It feels mechanical and inhuman, precisely the opposite of what my parents actually were. In the long time since their murders, I have tried to forget the scene in the farmhouse that morning. Instead, I remember their warmth and their smiles, and the unconditional love they had for me.
I did not scream when I saw them. I did not moan or cry or fall about in grief. Perhaps Mo’s presence helped me, I cannot be sure. But I was very glad to have his support.
‘Come away, Joelle,’ he whispered. ‘There is nothing to be done.’
I ignored him a moment, taking in the scene and wiping away a few tears. Then I turned, and we walked back into the garden. The lane was quiet now, and no one approached from town. I saw no German soldiers and heard no attack dogs. The morning on which everything changed, and my old existence ended, seemed just a normal winter’s morning.
‘We must bury them,’ I said to Mo. ‘They cannot stay there. Not like that.’
‘If we bury them,’ Mo replied, ‘the Germans will know we’ve been back. It might endanger us further.’
‘What danger is left to us?’ I asked him. ‘Death? I no longer care about that. My parents are gone, and I am all alone.’
Mo shook his head.
‘Not alone,’ he told me. ‘I swore that I would protect you, Joelle. Now that oath is stained in blood, and I will never forget it. Your parents saved me. In return, they lost their lives. Now you are my responsibility. If you are willing, I will take care of you.’
I nodded, wiping away more tears. Mo put his arms around me and pulled me closer.
‘Cry, Joelle,’ he told me. ‘Do not hold these feelings inside. You must let your emotions breathe.’
On
ly then did I sob, and as Mo embraced me, I heard a bicycle approaching. I gave a start and looked up, but Mo told me not to panic.
‘It is Beatrice,’ he said.
She dismounted by the garden wall and walked through the gates. Her face fell when she saw us. She wore black garments, in mourning for her brother. They were very apt.
‘Please, no!’ she said in French.
‘Maman and Papa are dead,’ I told her, my tone blank and almost emotion-free. ‘The Germans knew about them. They knew about Mo.’
‘But this is impossible!’ Beatrice insisted.
‘And yet they found out,’ I said. ‘How could they have known, Beatrice?’
She thought a moment, before replying.
‘The only living people who knew,’ she told me, ‘are standing in this garden. Other than Vincent.’
‘Vincent?’
Beatrice nodded.
‘So, first the Germans found out about Claude, and then my parents?’ I said.
‘Yes, but…’
The horror of it dawned on Beatrice’s face.
‘It cannot be,’ she said, as I explained our conversation to Mo. The pilot nodded.
‘I understand,’ he said.
I turned back to Beatrice.
‘It was either you or Vincent,’ I said. ‘And I know you did not betray us, Beatrice.’
‘Dear God!’ said Beatrice. ‘But I arranged for him to meet some of more of our people this evening. He said he was from the south, from Maquis command. He knew about me and Claude, and everything we’d done.’
Mo seemed to understand.
‘Vincent is your traitor, then?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘There is no one else it could be.’
Suddenly, Beatrice let out a cry.
‘We must warn the others!’ she told us.
‘First, we bury my parents,’ I said, feeling a surge of determined rage. I wondered how many other children my age had felt the same way. How many more had become older than their years.
‘But we have no time,’ said Beatrice.
Mo looked to me and I explained what she’d said.
‘But I won’t leave them like this,’ I told him. ‘I would rather die too.’
Mo did not reply. Instead, he went to fetch a spade.