by Rosie Clarke
Her heart remained in Paris. She felt angry and hurt that she’d been forced to leave, but everyone had told her to go.
‘You’re British. They will arrest you.’
‘It would be foolish to stay.’
‘You should have gone long ago.’
How true that was, Hetty thought ruefully. It had taken ages to come fifty miles. The roads leading away from Paris were so congested that she was often obliged to let the car engine idle or stop altogether to save petrol. There was no guarantee she would be able to fill up the tank when she needed to and she couldn’t afford to waste it. Her radiator was playing up and she’d had to fill it with water after it had got too hot. If she’d left a few days earlier it would have made all the difference. What disturbed Hetty more was the plight of some of the other people fleeing from the city.
There were so many on foot, on bicycles, pushing handcarts, driving a horse and cart or even a donkey. She had particularly noticed one old man struggling with a heavy handcart, his wife limping painfully beside him. She could see that they were of Jewish origin and understood their panic after the reports of atrocities against Jews elsewhere. Her heart wrenched with pity for the old couple; they were too old to be forced onto the road like this, but there were many others in the same case. Madame Arnoud had warned her against picking up strangers.
‘Think of yourself for once, Hetty. I know you have a kind heart, ma chérie, but if you try to help one they will all try to get into the car. They will demand food and money, some may be desperate enough to rob you. Stay inside the car and keep your door locked; it isn’t safe for a young woman alone in these times.’
It was good advice, but Hetty felt guilty as she passed women carrying children. Her back seat was piled with things she’d wanted to keep, but the front passenger seat was empty. She could take a woman and perhaps a small child. Her conscience pressed more as the day wore on, and then she saw her. A woman of perhaps thirty something with a small girl. She was sitting by the side of the road, her feet bare, obviously bloody and painful, and the child was crying and pulling at her skirt. The woman looked so despairing that Hetty stopped the car and called out to her.
‘How far are you going? Can I give you a lift?’
For a moment the woman stared at her dully. Hetty had spoken in French and yet she seemed not to understand. Perhaps she was just too weary and dispirited to listen.
Hetty tried again, ‘Do your feet hurt? I have water. You can bathe them when we stop later.’
At the mention of water, the woman’s head came up. She got to her feet and limped towards the car, her feet obviously causing her terrible pain.
‘Forgive me. I did not hear you at first. We have been two days on the road. I have no food or water for the child.’
‘Get in,’ Hetty said and leaned over to open the door. ‘She can sit on your lap. ‘We’ll get a bit further while we can and then stop for a meal. In the meantime, have this…’ She handed the woman a bag of pastries and a half-empty bottle of water.
‘But this is your food… you will need it yourself.’
‘I have enough to share,’ Hetty said and felt awful as she saw the woman’s eyes fill with tears. God, this bloody war! It made her want to hit somebody, but there was nobody around who deserved it. ‘It isn’t possible to help everyone, but you looked as if you needed it more than most.’
‘Thank you, Madame,’ the woman said gratefully. ‘My name is Marie Rybach. I am French, but my husband is part Jew. He went to fight for the French, but there has been no word in months. I am trying to take Kristina to my family in Rouen.’
‘That is a long way to walk, Marie,’ Hetty said. ‘My name is Hetty and I am English. I am trying to get to Le Havre. I don’t know how far this old car will take us, but you are welcome to ride with me for as long as we keep going.’
‘God bless you, Hetty. I have a little money. I will gladly pay.’
‘Keep it for food until you get home. The food I have will last for a couple of days, but after that we shall need to buy more, that’s if we can find someone to sell to us.’
‘I tried to buy from a farm back on the road, but he threatened us with a shotgun. Even for money he would not give me so much as a cup of milk for the child.’
‘I have no milk,’ Hetty said regretfully. ‘There is some condensed milk in the boot. She can have that mixed with a little water – or do as I do and eat it with a spoon. I’ve always liked it, though most people say it is too sweet.’
‘Kristina likes it too,’ Marie said and kissed the top of the child’s head. Kristina was eating one of the pastries with every sign of enjoyment. ‘Say thank you to Hetty for your pastries, darling.’
‘Thank you, mademoiselle. I was very hungry.’
‘You are welcome,’ Hetty said, her eyes moist. For the past few kilometres she’d been travelling at a reasonable speed, but ahead of her she could see that the traffic had come to a standstill again. A lorry had shed its load, blocking the narrow road. There was noise and confusion, horns blowing as frustration boiled over in the heat of the afternoon sun.
‘Well, we’re obviously not going anywhere for the moment,’ Hetty said and stopped the engine. ‘We might as well have something more filling to eat than cakes. I could do with a cup of coffee. I’ve got a little picnic stove in…’ Hetty’s nape prickled as she heard the noise of a low-flying plane overhead, but she tried to ignore it. It surely couldn’t be a German plane! ‘You could bathe your feet, Marie. I’ve got some soft muslin…’
The rest of Hetty’s words were lost as they suddenly heard the roar of the guns firing at the parked vehicles. They saw the plane swoop low over the road and then there was another burst of fire from yet another direction. Kristina screamed and pulled at her mother in terror.
‘We should get out of the car,’ Hetty urged, thinking of the extra cans of petrol she was carrying in the boot. The first plane had turned, ready for another low swoop over the people, who were panicking, running for their lives. Hetty could hear screaming and witnessed the confusion as bullets caught out those who stood dithering uncertain of which way to go. Some had run for the fields on either side of the road, looking for protection from the deadly onslaught. There was more screaming, even more terrible as the bullets ripped into soft flesh. ‘Come on, Marie. Give me Kristina. I can run faster than you.’
‘Yes, take her into the ditch,’ Marie said. ‘I’ll follow.’
Kristina was screaming and crying as Hetty snatched her up and sprinted for the ditch. The German plane was shooting at people as they ran, almost as if playing some malicious game, deliberately going for the most vulnerable it seemed. Hetty saw old men, women and children fall in front of her and felt the whistle of bullets so close that she didn’t know how they had missed her. The gorge rose in her throat, but she kept running instinctively, throwing Kristina into the ditch and covering her with her own body for the next several minutes.
For a while it was like a vivid nightmare with the screams of the wounded and dying all around them, and the noise of the planes, and then, all of a sudden, the roar of engines faded and the bullets stopped; the planes had gone. It seemed strangely silent for a few minutes, and then Hetty became aware of the child whimpering and asking for her mother.
‘Yes, darling, we’ll find her,’ Hetty said and climbed out of the ditch, taking Kristina into her arms and holding her tightly. ‘It’s all over now. We’re safe.’ She looked around her as those that had survived started to come out of the ditches and take stock of what had happened. There were bodies lying on the ground, some of them twitching, some moaning, but most just still, their clothes and bodies ripped apart by the deadly hail of bullets. ‘Let’s look for Mummy. Marie… Marie, where are you?’
Kristina was sobbing, clearly distraught. Hetty kept her face pressed against her, protecting her from the worst of the horror as she made her way back towards where she’d left the car. Thankfully it was still there. She thought it might have go
ne up in flames, because she’d heard an explosion, but the car burning was some distance behind her in the queue.
The German pilots had certainly chosen their moment well, Hetty thought bitterly, when the traffic was trapped with no way to go.
‘Marie…’ She turned her head to the right and saw the body lying there face down. Marie hadn’t even had time to get away from the car. With her feet cut to ribbons, she hadn’t stood much chance. A sob caught in Hetty’s throat. ‘Oh, Marie…’
What did she do now? She couldn’t bury Marie herself; she didn’t have the tools and she didn’t imagine she had the strength either. Yet she felt awful about just leaving the poor woman lying there.
She ought to make sure she was dead. But what about Kristina? How was she going to protect her from seeing her mother’s body, riddled with so many bullets that there wasn’t much chance she was alive? She decided to put Kristina in the car and then investigate when she saw the man open the back door of her car and begin to pull things from the back seat.
‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ she demanded as she put Kristina down and went to try and protect her property. ‘Those things belong to me. Keep your filthy thieving fingers off them!’
‘There’s nothing of any value here,’ the man said as he turned to her. She saw that he had blood smeared over his face and hands. ‘My friend has been injured. If I don’t get him to a doctor he’ll die – what are a few amateur paintings compared to that?’ He stared at her from angry blue eyes, his mouth set in a thin line of disgust, which made Hetty lose her temper further.
‘They happen to represent years of my life,’ she told him, piqued that he’d described her work as amateur. ‘That’s some of my best work.’
‘Well, if you painted them you can do it again,’ he said and ran impatient fingers through dark blond hair. ‘For God’s sake, woman! Jean is going to die if we don’t help him. And you should attend to your child if you don’t want her to look at dead people.’
‘Oh my God!’ Hetty cried, whirling round to see Kristina bending over Marie’s body. ‘She isn’t my child and that is her mother. I think she’s dead, but I’m not sure.’
‘Take it from me she is,’ he grunted. ‘Grab the girl before she gets too near… Too late.’ Kristina had started to scream and wail. Glaring at Hetty as if it was her fault, he went over to the child and snatched her up. Coming back, he thrust her into Hetty’s arms. ‘Get in the passenger seat with her. I’ll put Jean in the back and I’ll drive.’
‘This happens to be my car. I’ll drive.’
‘Across there?’ He nodded towards the fields. ‘Or are you going to wait in line for the road to clear – let the German bastards come back and finish off what they started, why don’t you?’
‘Oh damn you!’ Hetty said and got into the car. She was furious with him for taking over her car and discarding her possessions, but the pictures were less important than a man’s life and she couldn’t deny that. Besides, Kristina was sobbing wildly and calling for her mother, and it was all she could do to hold her as she struggled to get back to her maman.
‘It’s all right,’ Hetty crooned as she held the girl to her, feeling the deep sobs as they shook the child’s body. ‘It’s all right, Kristina, Hetty will look after you now.’
‘Maman… maman…’ the child wailed. ‘Want my maman…’
‘Yes, I know,’ Hetty murmured and stroked her hair, kissing the top of her head as she buried into her breast. Kristina’s tears were soaking through the thin material. ‘Maman will be looked after by the nice people who will come soon.’ She prayed that she was right. Surely when it was safe someone would come to bury the dead? ‘Try to sleep now, dear… shush…’
The child felt thin and vulnerable as she held her and Hetty’s heart was wracked with pity. It was useless trying to soothe her. Her tears had soaked into Hetty’s silk blouse, her nose running, face sticky with spittle as she wept and screamed in her despair.
‘Hurry up,’ Hetty said to the blue-eyed man as he returned to the car carrying his friend, who was bleeding badly and moaning but clearly still alive. ‘I want to get away from here.’
‘That’s more like it,’ he said as he settled his friend on the back seat. ‘Hold on, Jean. I’ll have you safe soon. Don’t give up, my friend. It’s going to be all right.’ He glanced at Hetty briefly before starting the car. ‘I am Pierre de Faubourg, and my friend is Jean Renoir – no relation to the artist. My apologies if I was harsh just now, but I wasn’t even sure the owner of the car had survived.’
‘So that gave you the right to commandeer it I suppose?’ Hetty glared at him. Why did men always imagine they had the right to whatever they wanted? ‘Supposing I’d wanted the space for a wounded friend?’
‘Then we should have had to get them both in somehow. I am sorry about your friend…’ He nodded at the child. ‘How old is she?’
‘I have no idea. I picked her and Marie up a few kilometres back on the road. I’d never seen them before.’
‘And now it looks as if you’re stuck with the child, at least for the moment. You’ve no idea where the father is, I imagine?’
‘He went to fight some months ago. Marie said she had family in Rouen. I could try to find out something perhaps.’
‘Do you know her second name?’
‘Rybach, I believe.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Pierre nodded his understanding. ‘Those dark eyes and that curly hair are a give-away. No wonder they were desperate to leave Paris.’
‘Yes, Marie mentioned it. She was French, but her husband is half Jewish.’
‘Or was,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t think Marie’s family will be too anxious to claim the child for the moment. You’d better give her to the nuns.’
‘That’s hardly appropriate, is it?’ Hetty gave him a scornful look. ‘I’ll take her to England with me. I can find a place for her in my home and after the war I’ll see if I can trace her people.’
Kristina was still sobbing but much more quietly now. Hetty continued to stroke her hair and felt that she might sleep in a while; her excess of grief had exhausted her, combined with the fear and horror she had witnessed on the road.
Hetty hadn’t taken much notice where they were going at first. Now she saw that the car had traversed the larger part of the open fields and was headed towards a wood.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked alarmed. ‘You can’t get through there. It’s impossible.’
He shot her a challenging look. ‘You think not, mademoiselle?’
‘You will get stuck in the wood if you’re not careful and then we shan’t get anywhere.’
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘You didn’t give me your name, mademoiselle?’
Hetty was tempted to reply rudely but decided against it. Like all men, this one had taken without asking, but in the circumstances, she couldn’t really blame him. Besides, she could hear gunfire back on the road and realised that it made sense to take cover in the trees, if only for a while.
‘It’s Hetty Tarleton,’ she said, feeling sick at the thought of what might have happened if she hadn’t let him take over. The Germans were going back to finish what they’d started. ‘I didn’t believe they would go back for more. Haven’t they done enough harm for one day? We’re not soldiers. What good has it done them to kill ordinary men and women?’
‘It’s sport to some of them,’ Pierre said grimly. ‘They probably invited some of their friends to join the party.’
‘God, I hate them! Until now I didn’t feel much about the war one way or another. Some of the younger people I knew in Paris thought we ought to let them in from the start; they saw no reason for France to fight against their close neighbours. They thought we had much in common with them.’
‘Communists,’ Pierre said and his mouth hardened. ‘There isn’t much to choose between them if you ask me.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Hetty objected and glared at him. ‘My friends wouldn’t fire on innocent men,
women and children.’
‘Maybe not, but wait until you see what crawls out of the woodwork once the Germans are in power. There will be plenty to agree with them and suck up to them then, do their dirty work.’
‘Not after word gets out of what they’re doing.’ Hetty glared at him angrily. ‘Most of us will fight if we get the chance.’
‘But you’re not French. You’re leaving for England – and that’s the best place for you. The Germans will shoot you as a spy if they catch you.’
‘You are as bad as my friend Madame Arnoud,’ Hetty said, her eyes flashing blue-green fire. ‘I’ve lived in France for ten years now – why shouldn’t I want to fight for it?’
‘Because it is not your country. You should go home, Miss Tarleton. It’s where you belong.’
‘Go to hell!’ Hetty muttered. She glanced down at the child as she caught the sound of regular breathing. ‘I think she is asleep. She was worn out with all the walking and now she is exhausted.’
‘Perhaps it is just as well,’ he said. ‘The worst time will be when she wakes up and realises her mother isn’t coming back.’
‘Poor little thing,’ Hetty said and blinked as she felt the sting of tears. They had entered the wood, which wasn’t as thick as she’d imagined from a distance. She realised that it was possible to drive through the trees, though it involved some sharp twists and turns, which drew a few cries of pain from the man lying on the back seat. Hetty turned to look at him. In her concern for Kristina she hadn’t thought about him much. ‘He’s holding on – but I think he is in a lot of pain.’
‘Of course he’s in pain! God damn it! He has three bullets in him, woman! You would be in pain if you were in the same case.’
‘There’s no need to bite my head off,’ Hetty said. ‘You took over my car but you could at least be polite.’
‘Forgive me, I don’t suffer fools lightly.’
‘I’m not a fool – just concerned about someone in pain.’
‘There’s nothing either of us can do about it until I get him home. He’s just going to have to bear it.’