‘Wait here,’ he told me. ‘If you see or hear any German vehicles approaching, you know what to do.’
We had several alarms in case the Nazis were spotted. During the day, I would ring a bell, mounted in our small garden. It was a child’s toy and easily excused as a bit of fun but could be heard some distance away. We also closed the shutters in a specific way, just in case we couldn’t reach the bell. If the upstairs windows were shuttered during the day, they signified danger. And after dark, we used flashlights, flicked on and off, to warn of peril. It was the latter that Papa left with me.
‘Hurry, Papa!’ I replied.
My parents returned half an hour later, with the pilot in tow. He was tall, towering over them both, and his beard was caked in dried blood. Papa helped him to sit at the kitchen table, and Maman began to boil some water.
‘I’ll clean up your wounds,’ she explained in English. ‘No serious injuries, by the look of you.’
The pilot nodded.
‘I was lucky,’ he replied. ‘Managed to get out before the plane went down.’
‘Perhaps not so lucky,’ said Papa. ‘This area is thick with Nazis.’
The man nodded and then looked at me.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I am Mohinder Singh. People call me Mo.’
‘Joelle Breton,’ I replied.
He smiled and sat back, rubbing his left shoulder.
‘I think it was damaged during my fall,’ he said. ‘Hurts.’
Maman soaked some cloths in hot water, allowed them to cool a little, and began to clean Mo’s face. Meanwhile, Papa finished the coffee and cut some more slices of stale bread, which he placed on a plate with a few slivers of cheese.
‘We don’t have much today,’ he said in apology. ‘I should have more food tomorrow.’
Mo shook his head.
‘I cannot eat your food,’ he told me. ‘I will be fine until morning.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Maman. ‘Eat, please.’
Eventually Mo relented. Once Maman had cleaned him up, he tucked in, and drank down his coffee. Afterwards, Papa poured some wine but again Mo was hesitant.
‘I don’t drink alcohol,’ he told us.
Maman’s face fell.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise. I put brandy in your coffee earlier.’
Mo shrugged.
‘It is not a problem,’ he said.
He gestured towards the glass.
‘It smells very good,’ he added.
Papa nodded.
‘It’s not the best,’ he replied. ‘But we cannot pick and choose these days.’
‘Perhaps, then,’ said Mo, ‘I will try a little. I cannot afford to be picky in my current situation either.’
He took a sip and grimaced.
‘It is bitter,’ he said.
‘An acquired taste,’ said Papa, and the two of them laughed.
I was sitting on a stool, by the fireplace. The embers glowed and crackled and kept me warm on another chilly evening.
‘Where are you from?’ I asked.
Mo took another sip of wine and smiled.
‘England,’ he said. ‘I am based just south of London.’
‘But you’re not English?’
Mo shook his head.
‘I am from India,’ he told me. ‘From a place called Punjab.’
‘Hush, Joelle,’ Maman said in French. ‘Leave the poor man be.’
Mo didn’t speak any French, but he seemed to understand.
‘It is fine,’ he told Maman. ‘Children should be curious. I come from a family of farmers. We are Sikhs, although…’
He looked at the wine glass.
‘I am not a practising Sikh.’
I shrugged.
‘I don’t know what a Sikh is,’ I admitted. ‘Is that why you wrap cloth around your head.’
Mo laughed again.
‘It’s called a pagri,’ he told me. ‘And yes, that’s why. Sikhism is a religion – from India.’
‘Pagri,’ I repeated, although not very well. ‘I like it. Perhaps you should get one, Papa?’
My father grinned.
‘I’m not sure it would suit me,’ he replied.
‘You would certainly look taller,’ I joked.
Papa was short and stout, with sandy hair that was beginning to recede. Maman was slightly taller than Papa, and of a similar build, but her hair was dark brown to match her eyes, and she had a mole on her right cheek, just above the jawline – just like me. Compared to them, Mo was a giant – over six feet tall with strong hands and wide shoulders. His dirty uniform was either grey or blue – I cannot really remember. All I recall is that it grew dirtier with each passing day. But then, considering what we overcame, that is unsurprising.
A knock at the door broke our conversation.
‘Quick, hide!’ I whispered to Mo, but Maman shook her head.
‘Don’t worry, she said. ‘It will be Beatrice. She said she would call by.’
Maman went to let her in, and when Beatrice saw Mo, her eyes grew wide.
‘You are English?’ she asked, her accent thick. ‘The plane that crashed?’
‘Yes,’ said Mo.
‘My God!’ she replied. ‘The Germans go crazy looking for you.’
She turned to my parents. She wore a navy dress under a long grey coat, with black ankle boots. The coat was oversized because she often smuggled food and other contraband within its lining. Today, she removed some sausage and a package of butter from it as she spoke, in French.
‘Can you hide him, Nora?’ she asked, placing her smuggled goods on our table.
‘Of course,’ said Maman.
‘You understand the risks?’ she asked, her pale blue eyes wide.
My parents nodded in unison.
‘We do not care about risks,’ Papa told her. ‘Only that France might one day be free again.’
Beatrice nodded.
‘Me also, Jacques,’ she said. ‘I will arrange for the ones hiding downstairs to move on. And I must speak to Claude at once!’
As she hurried back into the night, Mo looked at us.
‘Who was that?’ he asked.
‘Beatrice?’ I replied. ‘She is Maquis – a rebel, like us.’
‘And who is hidden downstairs?’ he added.
I looked to Maman, and she shrugged.
‘They are wanted by the Germans,’ Maman explained. ‘We often hide people, Mo. You’ll be safe here.’
THREE
Mo seemed much better the next morning. He was sitting with Maman when I came downstairs.
‘We’ve been talking about England,’ Maman said in English.
‘You miss your homeland,’ I said.
‘It’s only natural,’ Maman replied. ‘But it’s not my home, Joelle. That is here, with you
