‘So, we must keep the fires burning?’
‘Always,’ he replied, with a distant expression, as though he were forlorn in some way. ‘Always…’
Now, Maman urged me to sleep once more.
‘I cannot,’ I replied. ‘I cannot sleep. Not when they might come, and we have…’
‘SHHH!’ Maman told me. ‘Do not even mention them!’
Down in our cellar, behind a secret door known only to us, hid two people. Two resistors. To think that they, and we, might be discovered chilled my bones more than any ice could.
‘It will be fine,’ Maman told me. ‘Chin up, as I used to say in England.’
Maman was English by birth, from a town called Gravesend in Kent. I had never visited England at that time, but Maman was always full of stories of her childhood and had taught me her language.
‘What shall we do?’ I asked her. ‘If the Germans come?’
‘Nothing,’ she advised. ‘We will do nothing but continue our daily routines. We will be polite and friendly and cause no trouble. They will not suspect a woman and child of anything.’
I nodded and pulled the covers around myself, praying that she was right.
The plane crashed beyond our little house, in fields that had been owned by Monsieur Deschamps until the Nazis shot him and his family for Resistance activity. Their bodies were taken to the town square and left by the fountain. A warning to us all. Grace Deschamps had been my friend, only two years older than me. A happy and gentle girl with a kind heart. Now, as I trudged down an icy lane, I wondered what had happened to the pilot. Whether he had been German or British, or some other nationality. And I thought of Grace and how we had played together in the very fields where the plane had crashed.
Some distance away, several Germans searched the area, while another stood atop an armoured vehicle looking through field glasses. I was not concerned about them spotting me. I was just a young girl, heading in the opposite direction, towards a stream that ran through woodland. The woods were my secret place, my escape. As I approached the bank of the stream, however, another German appeared from the trees to my left. He was young, no more than twenty years old, and he half-smiled at me.
‘Have you seen a man here?’ he asked in poor French.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I have not seen anyone.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I told him, showing my best manners, just as Maman had suggested.
‘You live nearby?’
I turned and pointed out our house, about half a mile back towards town.
‘There,’ I told him.
He wore a grey overcoat, grey trousers and black leather boots caked in dirt. A rifle hung around his right shoulder.
‘Are your parents at home?’
‘Just my maman,’ I replied. ‘Papa is in town.’
‘Very well,’ he told me. ‘Run along!’
I nodded and bid him good morning. At the edge of the woods, I turned and saw the soldier heading towards my house.
‘Please don’t find them,’ I whispered. ‘Please don’t hurt Maman.’
I followed the stream until I came to a clearing. I knew the woods well and found my usual rock and sat down. The stream widened here, and its edges were icy. The water was pure and clear, and I sat to think about my life and my future, as I always did. I longed for the day that France would be free, but that day seemed a long way off. A dream, impossible to reach.
A sudden rustling broke my thoughts. To my right, from a thicket of bushes dwarfed by several great oak trees, came a thin and ragged fox. Its bright carroty fur brought a welcome splash of colour.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Renard,’ I said.
The fox looked up at me, cocked his head, then continued to forage. Thinking no more of it, I turned back to the stream. That was when I heard something moaning. Startled, I jumped up and took a step away.
‘Hello?’
When no one replied, I assumed that a small animal might be in the bushes – perhaps a victim of the fox. Only, the moaning grew louder and more human, and that was when I knew.
I edged closer to the thicket, and saw only branches and leaves, but in an awkward formation. As though they had been cut, moved and replaced – perhaps as cover for…
‘Hello?’ I said again, only this time in English.
‘Help…’ someone croaked in reply. ‘Please!’
The person was male, and English, but with an accent I had never heard. I had seen some Senegalese soldiers before the Germans took over – marching with French troops, speaking the language in strong accents, but this was different. It had to be the English pilot of the crashed plane.
‘Stay there!’ I said. ‘The Germans are looking for you.’
I pushed aside branches and lifted some away, and there he was, bloodied and bruised, but not overly so. He lay on his side, legs drawn up, so that he might better hide himself. He was dark-skinned with a moustache and beard, and on his head sat a wrap made of royal-blue cloth. His honey-coloured eyes seemed to plead with me.
‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered. ‘I won’t tell the Germans. Stay here and I’ll get my mum.’
‘RAF,’ he croaked. ‘Thank you.’
That was how I met him.
TWO
We left the pilot hidden until nightfall but took him some water and a little food, once the Germans had gone. The bread was dark and hard, and consisted of flour dust more than flour itself. Maman also made coffee and laced it with a little brandy, to help with any pain the pilot might have been suffering. He sat up and thanked us, in heavily accented English, but Maman shushed him.
‘Stay quiet and reserve your energy,’ she said in English. ‘My husband will be along soon, and then we’ll get you inside.’
Maman stayed with him but sent me home to await Papa. When my father arrived, I explained the situation, and
