The Escape

  ‘Oh, aren’t you a darling?’ the old lady said, with her ripe Italian accent. ‘I’ve made a fresh batch of meatballs and spaghetti. Would you like to try?’

  ‘It’s not even eleven,’ the owner noted, but Marc didn’t mind at all. At first he’d been wary of anything beyond the basic soups and stews he’d lived on all his life at the orphanage, but all the food he’d been served in the Café Roma was good, and longstanding connections with local markets and wholesalers meant that the café remained well stocked despite the food shortages.

  ‘So what’s going on over the hill?’ Marc asked, pointing at the flames.

  ‘The surrender,’ the café owner explained. ‘Didn’t you know? The Germans will enter the city at noon.’

  Marc nodded. ‘I heard that on on the radio last night. So why are the Germans still bombing?’

  ‘That’s you French, not the Germans,’ the old lady explained. ‘They’re letting the Boche have Paris, complete with all the bridges across the Seine, but even the French Command isn’t dopy enough to hand the Germans their ammunition factories.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ Marc said, as realisation dawned. ‘I was sleep—erm … I had my uncle in the bath, so I’ve not heard any news this morning. What else are they saying?’

  ‘Not much,’ the owner said. The sky was still darkened with smoke but the fireball from the massive explosion was burning itself out. The old lady took up the answer to Marc’s question as Livia’s dad followed the first of his customers back inside the cramped café.

  ‘The army has closed all roads out of Paris to civilians so they can get their equipment out, and the Germans have promised to enter the city in a dignified manner and harm nobody,’ the old lady said. Then her lips thinned and she tossed curls of grey hair off her face. ‘I guess we’ll know in an hour.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tours was on the main route between Paris and the south. A few well-placed bombs here could disrupt road and rail traffic through central France and force military supplies and troops to divert hundreds of kilometres through the countryside, causing delay and wasting increasingly scarce fuel supplies.

  Ten days of intense bombing had turned the heart of the town into hell, destroying more than a third of the buildings, taking out all of the major bridges and cutting off supplies of gas, water and electricity. There wasn’t an unbroken window within two kilometres of the town centre.

  But you didn’t have to venture far into the surrounding countryside for all signs of war to vanish. Rosie and Paul had found refuge in a small farmhouse belonging to a retired priest and his spinster sister. At this moment, Rosie was running at full pelt across a meadow, gaining ground on Hugo, who wore a headdress made from a piece of knotted rag and chicken feathers.

  ‘Can’t get me!’ Hugo shouted. But he shrieked as he looked behind and saw that Rosie was almost within touching distance.

  ‘Gotcha, monster,’ Rosie growled, as she grabbed the small boy around the waist and hoisted him high into the air with his legs kicking frantically.

  Hugo was grinning and breathless as she put him down. ‘Again?’ he asked.

  Rosie liked playing with Hugo because it gave her a chance to act stupid and forget about all the bad stuff. The trouble was, he never wanted to stop.

  ‘OK,’ Rosie said, putting her hands over her eyes. ‘One last time.’

  ‘Three more times,’ Hugo demanded.

  ‘Once more, or not at all. I’ve played with you for nearly an hour.’

  ‘OK …’ the boy huffed, before spinning around and darting off into the long grass.

  ‘One, two, three …’ Rosie counted, but gave up the pretence once Hugo was out of earshot. It was too hot for all this running around and she was getting a stitch down her side.

  She looked across the meadow and immediately noticed Hugo’s head peeking over the top of the ditch. But she knew if she found Hugo too quickly he’d insist on playing again, so she looked mystified for a few moments before starting to stroll towards the ditch.

  Hugo sprang up and protested when Rosie got close. ‘You peeked!’

  ‘So what?’ Rosie teased. ‘What are you gonna do about it, titch?’

  ‘You’re ugly!’ Hugo shouted, before scrambling up the side of the ditch. ‘And you smell like horse bum.’

  Rosie growled dramatically. ‘Oh, you’re gonna get it now.’

  Hugo shrieked with delight as he pushed through a hedge and began running up a dirt track. When Rosie got through the hedge – a task far more difficult for a burly thirteen year old than for a boy of six – she was alarmed to see Hugo’s little legs running at full pelt up a steep path covered with rocks.

  ‘You be careful,’ Rosie said. ‘Come back and play on the grass.’

  ‘Can’t get me,’ was Hugo’s response.

  Rosie didn’t fancy bashing her knee on a rock, so she kept her pace down to a brisk walk. Hugo stopped running and looked back with his hands on his hips.

  ‘Come on, Rosie, you’re not playing properly.’

  Hugo cut off the path and dived behind a clump of bushes. A second later he screamed out, ‘OWWWWW!’

  Rosie envisaged grazed skin and streaks of blood and ran desperately towards Hugo. But by the time she’d made ten metres she heard Hugo say, ‘What are you hiding up here for?’ in a voice that showed no sign of distress.

  Rosie rounded the bushes and saw that Hugo had turned the corner and tripped over her brother’s outstretched legs. Paul was sitting against the trunk of a small tree, with his sketchbook and the wooden case containing his drawing pens and inks on the grass at his side.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Rosie asked brightly, when she saw her brother. ‘What are you doing?’

  Paul wiggled his sketchpad. ‘Flower arranging,’ he tutted.

  Rosie wouldn’t usually have stood any lip from her brother, but he’d taken their father’s death hard and had been even quieter than usual in the week since.

  ‘What are you drawing?’ Hugo asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Paul said.

  Hugo stepped closer to Paul. ‘Please show me,’ he begged.

  Paul clutched the pad close to his chest, but Hugo made a grab and Paul shoved him away angrily. ‘It’s private.’

  Hugo tumbled back three steps before falling hard on his bum.

  ‘Careful, moron,’ Rosie yelled. ‘He’s only six.’

  Hugo stood up with his bottom lip rolled out like he was going to cry.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to come barging over here,’ Paul said indignantly. ‘I just want to be on my own.’

  ‘I just asked to see your picture,’ Hugo said.

  Paul grabbed a corner of his pad with his inky fingers and flung it into the dirt. Hugo stared at it, unable to grasp what it was, but Rosie instantly recognised her father’s face. One side was an almost perfect drawing, but the other appeared twisted, with the eyeball sunk into the skull and a gaping wound filled with maggots in his cheek.

  ‘You little sicko,’ Rosie shouted. ‘Why have you got to draw him like that? Why can’t you do a nice picture?’

  Paul scowled at his sister. ‘Because I don’t feel like making a nice picture, fatso.’

  Rosie wasn’t fat, but she was sensitive about her stocky build and calling her fat was the easiest way to make her mad.

  ‘I can’t look at that,’ Rosie shouted, picking the pad off the floor, tearing off the page and ripping the drawing to shreds. She’d expected Paul to fight her, but he didn’t move.

  ‘Can you go now you’re done interfering?’ Paul said calmly.

  If Paul had put up a fight Rosie would have felt OK about ripping up the drawing, but the way he sat there, staring pathetically, made her feel terrible. The drawing must have taken hours.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rosie said sheepishly, as the wind picked up squares of torn paper.

  ‘If you say so,’ Paul said.

  Rosie felt like her brother was dead inside. She wanted to grab him and thump him until he came back to l
ife.

  ‘Can’t you at least talk to me?’ Rosie begged. ‘I’m hurting too, you know. What is it you want?’

  ‘We should have gone south, like we agreed in the first place,’ Paul said. ‘Not stayed here with Father Doran and his sister.’

  ‘It’s safe here,’ Rosie groaned. ‘People were dying on the roads, Paul. Probably still are. Here we’ve got good food, clean water, somewhere decent to sleep …’

  Paul shook his head. ‘Dad’s last words were Find Henderson, give him the papers. And what are we doing? Sitting on our arses, drawing pictures and playing with six year olds.’

  ‘Dad would have wanted us to be safe more than anything else,’ Rosie said. ‘We’ve been through his pocket book. We’ve been through every one of the documents in the briefcase, looking for a reference to Henderson, and there’s nothing. No phone number, no address, no details of who he works for.’

  ‘But people in England would know, Rosie. If we went south and got a boat to England we could contact someone and find Henderson’s assistant: Miss McAfferty.’

  ‘Probably,’ Rosie said. ‘But even if we make it to Bordeaux – two hundred kilometres on foot, and in this heat – how can we be sure that there’s a boat leaving for England? If there is a boat, you can bet your life that there are going to be thousands of refugees trying to get on board.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘I didn’t say it would be easy, but I know Dad would have wanted us to try.’

  ‘No,’ Rosie said, shaking her head. ‘Dad was off his head when he said that. He was bleeding to death. And besides, what about Mum? I know for a fact that she would have wanted us to stay here, where it’s safe.’

  Paul’s silence was as close as he’d get to admitting that Rosie was probably right.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Hugo said, grabbing Rosie’s wrist and giving it a tug.

  ‘I’m going back to the cottage,’ Rosie said, as she looked down at Hugo. ‘Yvette should have lunch ready soon. Are you coming with us?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Paul said reluctantly, snapping the wooden box of ink and drawing pens shut and clambering out of the grass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Marc had got used to the sight of French troops. Unshaven, underfed and frequently drunk; their uniforms didn’t fit and their horse-drawn artillery seemed like a relic from a different age. Germany was only a few hundred kilometres away, but their army seemed to come from another world.

  The first columns entering Paris were led by motorcycles and sidecars, followed by senior staff sitting in open-topped Kübelwagens4 with swastika flags draped across the bonnet. A soothing French voice came out of a megaphone, urging citizens of Paris to stay calm and stand clear of the troops.

  Then came infantry. Marching in step, immaculately dressed – from green helmets down to polished boots. Marc stood close enough to the kerb to get a whiff of the superbly groomed horses. Tank tracks left their mark in sunbaked tarmac and polluted the air with a haze of diesel fumes.

  The German forces seemed to sweat raw power. It was the most impressive thing Marc had ever seen and he was completely awed. He’d often dreamed of running away to fight for France, but now France was on its knees, and he wanted to swap sides.

  Marc could imagine himself in the smart Nazi uniform, commanding his own tank as it smashed buildings and slaughtered anyone stupid enough to defy him. He’d been on the losing end his whole life and this brazen display of strength intoxicated him.

  He turned to face the café owner, but instead found himself staring at his daughter Livia.

  ‘Some of them are so good looking,’ Livia said enthusiastically. ‘That uniform … oooh là-là!’

  It was the first time Livia had ever shown Marc anything other than a sneer, and her attraction to German soldiers made him even keener to join up.

  ‘Do you think they’ll let French boys join?’ he asked. ‘When I’m older, obviously.’

  A wiry man who often sat in the Café Roma smoking a cigar and drinking Espresso shocked Marc by cracking him around the back of the head.

  ‘Think of France,’ he said bitterly. ‘These are your enemies. These are the ones who drop bombs on us. In Poland they rape the women and treat the people like cattle. Our time will come.’

  Marc was affronted at being hit by a man who’d never even spoken to him, but he remembered the sad look that crossed Jae Morel’s face whenever her two missing brothers were mentioned. On the other hand, Marc didn’t feel very patriotic. What had France ever done for him?

  ‘Blond hair and blue eyes,’ Livia said, as she looked at Marc. ‘You’d make a good little Aryan soldier.’

  Marc wasn’t sure what Aryan meant, but he was excited by the sudden communication with Livia.

  ‘I expect they’ll take all the French boys they can get when they want to fight the British Empire,’ the wiry man said. ‘The Führer’s not fussy about whose blood he spills.’

  Another huge column of troops had rounded the corner and Marc was annoyed that the wiry man was killing the mood. Livia seemed almost to read Marc’s mind.

  ‘Buzz off, you old misery,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s interested in what you’ve got to say. Would you rather they came through like this – or blowing up Paris, one street at a time?’

  Affronted, the man turned to walk away, but before he did he scowled at Livia. ‘I fought in the last war,’ he spat. ‘Italian fascists! I suppose you’ve been on their side all along.’

  Marc and Livia exchanged a look, as if to say What’s his problem?

  *

  An hour later, Marc was back in the house. He’d stood Henderson’s glass-fronted cabinet back up, but the collection of vases was smashed to pieces. He switched the radio on and listened to the BBC French service reporting on the orderly occupation of Paris and rumours that the French Government had begun negotiating surrender for the rest of France.

  In contrast, Radio France continued to portray the surrender of Paris as a tactical withdrawal and boldly predicted a counterstrike that would sweep the Germans from French soil. Marc was twelve years old and he’d led a sheltered life, but even he could tell it was propaganda of the feeblest sort.

  It was a warm day and Marc sat in an armchair with his shirt thrown on the floor beside him. When the news turned to music he closed his eyes and became engrossed in his tank commander fantasy: conquering countries in his smart German uniform by day and conquering pretty girls like Livia by night. Hitler would award him medals for bravery. He’d have a pretty wife in the country and a mistress or two in the city. One day he’d return to Beauvais in his officer’s uniform with a massive horse whip. He’d haul Director Tomas into the village centre and thrash him until he passed out. Then he’d run over the old fool’s legs in his tank.

  The thought of Director Tomas with squashed legs made Marc laugh aloud. But his mirth was curtailed by a thunderous knock on the front door. He dived out of the armchair and crawled up to the bay window, where three men stood on the doorstep. One wore a pale suit, the other two wore the black uniform of the Gestapo – Hitler’s feared secret police.

  When they didn’t get a response, the younger Gestapo officer ripped a pistol out of his holster and shot the lock off the front door. Marc jumped with fright, then switched off the radio and ran into the hallway as one of the Germans barged the front door open with his shoulder. This forced him to double back and squeeze into a gap between the wall and an armchair.

  ‘Henderson has left for the south,’ the man in plain clothes said irritably to one Gestapo officer, as another ran to search upstairs. ‘He knows we compromised all the leave-behinds in France. He’s got no reason to remain in Paris.’

  ‘No,’ the Gestapo officer said firmly. ‘Henderson will remain and try to set up a new spy network. I’ve questioned the British suspects myself and they all say that he’s most determined.’

  ‘Questioned – or tortured?’ the plain clothes man snorted. ‘People just say what you want to hear if you push them like that.’


  ‘I know my job, Herr Potente,’ the Gestapo officer snapped. ‘This is no longer your command. I have orders to run counter-intelligence operations in occupied Paris, and Henderson is our top priority.’

  A second crash came at the rear of the house, as a Gestapo officer who’d been sent around the back kicked in a door and entered the kitchen.

  ‘Herr Oberst5,’ the black-uniformed man said, clicking his heels obediently and giving a Nazi salute. ‘Nobody tried escaping out the back. The houses on either side appear to be unoccupied.’

  ‘There’s nobody upstairs either,’ the other officer added, as he ran back down the stairs. ‘But the bed is ruffled, as if it was slept in recently, and there are damp clothes hanging over the bath – either a boy or a very small man. I’d say they were washed out late last night or early this morning.’

  Marc’s heart thumped as the four men stood in the doorway less than five metres away.

  ‘A boy,’ the Oberst said, stroking his chin curiously. ‘Find the boy, and whatever neighbours you can. Interrogate them. Use force if necessary, but our orders are to behave as gentlemen until the occupation of Paris is complete. So if you have to make a mess, make sure you clean it up.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ the officer said, before heading out of the front door and calling to a couple of regular soldiers who now stood by the front gate.

  ‘We must search carefully,’ Herr Potente said, warning the two officers. ‘When we captured the British spies we found several booby traps. One of my men lost three fingers when a filing cabinet blew up on him.’

  The Oberst nodded. ‘Then be careful everyone, but don’t waste time. Obergruppenführer Heydrich is taking a personal interest in the Mannstein affair. He’s extremely unhappy that Digby Clarke made it out of Paris.’

  ‘I spoke with Mannstein at the hotel late last night,’ Potente said. ‘He’s disappointed that his drawings were stolen by Clarke, but he says he’ll be able to recreate them within weeks.’