In the bottom of her wardrobe Mariette had left a tin containing letters for her parents, Mog, her brothers, Edwin, Sybil and Ted, and Ian and Sandra, just in case she didn’t make it back. She had explained in the letters what she had been doing all these months, and said she hoped they would forgive her for choosing to do something so dangerous. She had written in one of them:
I felt glad that speaking fluent French and being able to handle a boat enabled me to help a few people. Mum and Papa always said I was defiant as a child, and I’ve been proud to defy the Germans by slinking in and out of France right under their noses.
Each one of the letters was tailored individually to tell her loved ones how much they meant to her and why. It struck her, as she put the letters into the tin, that they were all she had to leave anyone. Her clothes and other belongings would fit into a small suitcase. And if she did die in France, no one would even know where her body lay.
It was seven the following morning before the English boat met up with the French one for the handover. The sky was leaden and it felt as if more snow was due. Luc and Guy, the regular crew members, greeted her. Guy was his usual sombre self, only nodding to her, but Luc seemed preoccupied. They had become quite good friends over the past months but this time he barely greeted her.
Once she’d put on her waterproofs in the cabin, she went up to the wheelhouse with a cup of coffee for the men and some cheese and onion flan she’d brought from home.
‘You made this?’ Luc asked after he’d tasted it. ‘It’s very good.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now, tell me what’s wrong?’
He gave a deep sigh. ‘It’s children you’ll be bringing out tonight. Four Jewish children, and I believe it’s far too risky.’
Mariette understood his fears. Children could cry and give the game away, they couldn’t be left to use their own initiative if things went wrong, they couldn’t run as fast, or help to push a boat out. In every way they were a liability. But, to Mariette, children were the future, and they were innocents who deserved saving. She’d been told about the trainloads of Jews sent out of Paris, crammed into cattle trucks with very little air or even water. She couldn’t bear the thought of anyone being submitted to that, let alone children.
‘Poor little mites,’ she said, imagining how scared they must be and what their fate would be, if they were caught. ‘But I’m sure we can manage it.’
‘I never agreed to take children,’ Luc said stubbornly. ‘The risk is too great. I have children of my own to take care of; if I get caught, it will be the firing squad for me. And what will become of them?’
Mariette could understand his dilemma, but she knew the people who organized the escapes must have a very good reason for getting these four children out of the country. ‘Then we have to make sure we aren’t caught,’ she said, rather more firmly than she felt.
Mariette hadn’t been able to go to Celeste’s place for the last three missions because a niece turning up with such regularity, and only staying a few hours, would begin to look suspicious. But at least it meant she didn’t have to dress up for the part, and could stay in her warm clothes.
There was only a light sprinkling of snow on the harbour. She was whisked away from there, as usual, by Gilpin in his fish van, and dropped by a shed in a back alley where she had to hide until Celeste could come to her with further instructions. Gilpin seemed nervous too, and he hardly said a word.
Mariette waited three hours in the freezing shed before Celeste finally arrived, wrapped up in a man’s tweed overcoat, with a red woolly hat dusted with snow pulled right down over her ears.
‘I am so sorry,’ she said on finding Mariette shivering in a corner with a sack around her shoulders. ‘But it was impossible to get away earlier. Things get harder every day now, I have to be so careful who I trust. But I’ve brought you some hot soup to warm you.’
Mariette drank the hot soup gratefully, even though it had no real flavour.
‘I used to pride myself on my cooking once,’ Celeste said. ‘Now it’s so hard to get even the basic ingredients, I just have to use whatever I can find.’
‘It’s the same back in England,’ Mariette told her. ‘People make jam from turnips, the dried egg is disgusting, and the other day we got some dried potato powder called Pomme. You’re supposed to mix it with hot water to make mashed potato, but it’s vile.’
‘I wish I could spend longer with you today, or at least take you somewhere warm, but I can’t,’ Celeste said, with sorrow in her eyes. ‘I think someone back at the café is informing on me; I’ve seen a man watching the place. After this one, we must stop for a while, it’s getting too risky.’
‘Luc said it’s children tonight,’ Mariette said.
‘Yes. All I can tell you about them is that they are the children of two of our people. The youngest is four, the eldest fourteen, and we must get them to safety.’
Mariette guessed by the deeply troubled expression on the older woman’s face that she feared if these children were caught, they would be used as hostages to get to their parents and other people in the escape chain.
‘Is it the usual plan?’ she asked.
‘Yes. The children are already in hiding close to the beach. The rowing boat will be in the same old place, and you must leave by half past five because of the tide. The soldier on guard duty along that stretch of shore normally reaches there at quarter to six. But as he always comes into the café for a cognac when it is very cold, I will get him to linger a little longer in the warmth.’
Mariette wasn’t going to ask if Celeste was sure she could do that. She trusted her.
‘You leave here when the church bell strikes five,’ Celeste said. ‘The oldest boy, Bernard, knows to be ready too. As you approach the beach, give your usual signal so he knows it’s you.’
Mariette nodded. She had invented her signal herself; she rattled a few small pebbles in a tin because using a whistle, or calling out, was too risky.
‘This may be our last meeting,’ Celeste said, reaching out to hug Mariette. ‘I feel better times will be coming soon. I hope I’m right. But if we don’t ever meet again, I thank you now for all you have done for us. Your courage is admirable, and I wish you every happiness in the future.’
Celeste left swiftly, leaving Mariette feeling a little emotional. She had come to like and admire the older woman so much, and she couldn’t really believe she might never see her again.
Huddled in the shed, she heard the church clock strike one, then two, three and four. It seemed far longer than an hour between each one because she was so cold. After four, it was getting dark. She got to her feet and ran on the spot for some time, to get her circulation going.
Finally it was five, and she opened the shed door cautiously, listening carefully. When she was sure there was no one about, she hurried on down to the beach.
As usual, a night with no moon had been picked, but she could just see the shape of the big rock where the boat would be tucked away out of sight. Even over the sound of waves she could hear the tinkle of the bell in the buoy, signalling the direction in which she had to row. She picked up a handful of small pebbles, put them in her tin and rattled it.
At a faint sound she turned and saw the four children slinking like shadows through the garden gate of the house closest to the beach. Celeste had said the house belonged to wealthy Parisians who, before the war, always spent the whole summer here. It was all locked up now, the shutters closed and the doors padlocked, but Mariette guessed Celeste had the use of a cellar or outhouse.
She went over to the children and touched each of their cheeks in silent greeting. The oldest boy, who she’d been told was named Bernard, was taller than her. Both he and the other boy, who appeared to be around six or seven, wore dark balaclavas on their heads. The two small girls wore dark coats and bonnets.
‘Come,’ she whispered in French, holding out her hands to the girls. ‘I’ll put you in the boat first and come back for your brot
hers.’
Telling the boys to go back into the garden and hide behind the wall, Mariette hurried the girls down the beach. At this point in a rescue she always feared the boat wouldn’t be there, or that a soldier would suddenly appear. But the boat was there, secured in place, as always, some hours earlier. She lifted the children in and told them to lie down out of sight while she got the boys.
She had almost reached the two boys, back up the beach, when to her horror she heard footsteps coming along the coastal path from the little town. Just the heaviness of the footfall told her it was a soldier in heavy boots, and her blood ran cold. If the girls in the boat called out, or their brothers tried to reach them, all would be lost.
When she reached the garden gate, Bernard’s anxious expression was evidence he understood the danger. She silently indicated that the two boys were to hide under the wall, and put her finger to her lips to remind them they had to stay silent.
While they crouched down beside the garden wall, Mariette stayed by the gate. She hoped that, as the guard had come early, his intention was to do his patrol as quickly as possible and get back into a warm place. But to her dismay he stopped walking just a few feet from her hiding place, gazing down the beach as if looking for something.
Although there was some snow on the ground, it was less than an inch thick, and she was sure it was far too dark to see all the footprints. But could one of the girls have cried out, or spoken, and he’d heard? This seemed unlikely as the noise of the waves slapping against the rocks was enough to drown out anything but a loud scream. Was the soldier just watching to see if the few snowflakes fluttering down were going to settle?
She waited and waited. But the guard wasn’t moving.
It suddenly occurred to her that he had been sent to guard that area, and he wasn’t going to move on. She felt sick because posting a sentry here meant the Germans must have a suspicion that people were being smuggled out from this beach.
Mariette was stuck in an impossible position. She couldn’t get to the two little girls, and before long they were likely to get so cold and panicked they would climb out of the boat. And there was no way she could get the boys to the boat either.
The soldier would shoot the children, if he saw them. She knew that with utter certainty. She couldn’t let that happen.
PJ’s words came into her head. ‘You will find you will be able to use your knife, as I have shown you, if your life or someone else’s depends on it.’
She put her hand in her pocket and closed it around her knife. There was no alternative but to kill the guard. She couldn’t let four children die just because she was afraid.
But she was afraid. If she had been dressed in women’s clothes she could have boldly walked out of the gate, acted surprised to see the guard there, and then said something flirtatious to get closer to him. But dressed as she was, he would be suspicious of her immediately. That meant she had to take him by surprise.
Taking her courage in both hands, she first signalled to Bernard that he was to stay where he was. She then crept down behind the garden wall, away from the guard, and stopped at a point where a thick bush grew up over it.
Picking up some stones first, she climbed on to the wall. Then, hidden from sight by the bush, she threw one of the stones. It made a sharp crack. Peeping through the bush, she saw the soldier’s head turn in the direction of the sound, but he didn’t move.
She threw another stone, this time throwing it further on to the beach, where it made a rattling sound. This time, the soldier did move. He began walking towards the place where she was hidden, peering into the darkness of the beach as if he thought someone might be lurking there.
The path was no wider than three feet. There was a short drop on the other side, which anyone would be wary of in the dark as it was impossible to see how far the drop was, or even if it ended on rocks or just sand and grass.
Mariette climbed silently down from the wall on to the same path the soldier was on, still remaining hidden by the overhanging bush. She was only four feet from him now, so close she could smell tobacco on his greatcoat.
She weighed him up. He was only slightly taller than her, but he was heavy and slow moving. His rifle was still slung over his shoulder and he had both hands in his pockets. As long as she could spring at him as quickly as she’d done in training, she could cut his throat before he even got his hands out of his pockets.
In order to make herself do it, she pictured the two frightened little girls waiting in the boat and the boys on the other side of the garden wall, afraid that at any moment they would be caught and then killed. She had to do this right for them. Failure would mean they would all die, and Luc, Guy and Celeste would almost certainly face a firing squad.
She crept closer to the soldier’s back. She hoped the sound of waves breaking on the beach would drown out any sound she made.
Taking a deep breath, and rising on to her toes, she leapt at his back. Her left hand grabbed his chin and yanked his head back to expose his neck. He made a roar of surprise, and his helmet thudded against her shoulder. With the knife firmly in her right hand, she slashed it hard across his throat.
He struggled, made a gurgling sound and she felt blood spray out, warm against her cold hand and face. She could smell his blood too, like iron in the icy air. He was sagging back against her, and she pushed him forward so he fell on to his knees, then she ran for the boys.
‘Vite, vite,’ she called.
They moved like lightning down the beach, with only the briefest of sideways glances at the soldier lying on the path.
Mariette had always moved slowly and cautiously on the beach before, to keep noise to a minimum, but she didn’t care now. Her only thought was to get the children into the rowing boat and out to sea.
As Bernard tossed the younger boy into the boat, the two little girls jumped up looking alarmed.
‘Stay down,’ Mariette ordered as she pulled on the rope, which was attached to a metal stake secured in the sand.
Bernard strained to help her push the rowing boat into the water. The delay in getting down here meant that the tide had receded some distance, and it was hard going. But finally, the bows reached the water.
‘Jump in,’ Mariette ordered Bernard. ‘I’ll just push it out a bit further, and then I’ll be in too.’
The boy did as he was told. As Mariette felt the boat begin to float, she threw herself on to the side of it to roll in. She heard a sharp bang, but before her brain had even registered that it was gunfire, a searing stab of white-hot pain hit her right knee.
‘He wasn’t dead!’ Bernard exclaimed. He grabbed her, hauling her right into the boat.
A second shot rang out, and a wail of shock and pain came from the smaller boy. To Mariette’s horror, she saw that he had been hit in the shoulder.
She grabbed the oars, pushed off from the large rock, and the tide began to draw the boat out to sea.
Another shot ran out. She saw the flash from the rifle, low down on the ground and wild, which seemed to suggest the soldier was shooting with his dying breath.
‘Bernard, take this and hold it tight against the little boy’s wound,’ she ordered him, pulling off a scarf from around her neck. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Isaac,’ Bernard said. ‘He’s the brother of Sabine, the little girl. Celine is six, and she’s my sister.’
‘OK, Isaac,’ Mariette said as she rowed briskly, trying very hard not to scream at the pain in her knee. ‘You’ve been shot, and so have I, but we’ll be patched up when the boat comes for us. But we have to be quiet until the boat comes. Can you be really brave and not cry until we are safe?’
‘I’ll try,’ he whispered. ‘But it really hurts.’
‘Mine does too,’ she admitted. ‘But we’re going to be brave soldiers.’
The buoy was ellusive. Mariette could hear the bell tinkling, but she couldn’t see it as the waves were so high. They were all drenched now, and little Sabine was whimpering, big dark
eyes full of fear as she clung to Bernard. Celine was holding the scarf to Isaac’s wound and doing her best to comfort him. It struck Mariette that these four children must have already been through several kinds of hell to remain so controlled in what was a terrifying ordeal. It was dark, freezing cold, they were soaking wet, waves threatened to turn the boat over, and they were with a woman they didn’t know.
She wished she could be so controlled. But she was in pain, and she was afraid that the gunfire might bring other soldiers running, and then the dead man would be discovered. It was too dark to see anything on the shore, but that didn’t mean there was no one there. What if Luc had already been prevented from sailing because the Germans had suspicions about him? How long could she stay out on the open sea, with four children, just hoping help was going to come?
Between her own pain, and her fears for the children, she felt this was the very worst kind of nightmare. She had a mental picture of Celeste trying to charm Nazi officers who had come to search La Plume Rouge. Would they arrest Celeste and take her away?
What was she going to do, if that was the case? She couldn’t keep the children out here all night, and by morning they’d be dead from the cold. If she couldn’t even find the buoy, how would she manage to row the boat further along the coast, and get them safely on to land there? And even if she did manage that, the shed she’d spent the day in was as devoid of comfort as the rowing boat.
On top of all that, there was also her wound and Isaac’s. She knew little about medical matters but she knew her knee was shattered. And at the rate blood was running out of it, she would pass out soon. Isaac was just a child, and without prompt treatment he might get an infection that could kill him.
What was she going to do?
She was feeling faint, but she gritted her teeth and made herself think of what her father had gone through in the Great War. He had fought on with severe injuries, and so must she.