‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘Have you been bothering that old witch again?’
I smiled.
‘Mrs Moreau is not a witch,’ I replied. ‘At least, not to me.’
‘Oh, the stories I could tell you,’ said Beatrice. ‘You know she once said I had a face made for slapping?’
‘Perhaps you upset her?’ I suggested.
Beatrice smiled back.
‘How is she holding up?’
‘Not great,’ I said. ‘I will keep a closer eye on her.’
‘You are a fine little soldier,’ Beatrice told me. ‘With children like you, we will survive this hell.’
At our door, we dismounted, and I noticed the horse and cart by the garden wall.
‘Ah,’ said Beatrice. ‘Claude has arrived.’
FOUR
Maman was fussing when I entered the kitchen. The two men we’d been hiding were at the table, and Mo sat with them. The Resistance members were young – in their twenties. One was short and fair, the other taller with dark hair and an olive complexion. I had not spoken to them at all, nor seen them very much, even though they had been living in our cellar. Both had grown beards and I could smell their body odour from where I stood. Neither man spoke.
‘You must take food,’ Maman was saying. ‘Who knows when you will eat again?’
‘It is fine,’ Claude told her.
Claude was Beatrice’s brother – a local farmer with thick, calloused hands and a gruff temper. His nose was huge and bent, the result of a boxing match from his teenage years. Had I not known him, I would have taken him for a ruffian.
‘We must get moving,’ Claude told Maman.
‘Some bread and butter, that’s all,’ said Maman.
‘Very well,’ said Claude. ‘But hurry!’
Papa was sitting by the fireplace, drinking wine and chewing on a lump of bread.
‘How was Mrs Moreau?’ he asked me. ‘Did you get some books?’
I nodded and set my latest treasures down beside him.
‘Some ghost tales and a pirate adventure,’ I replied. ‘She is fine and thanks you for the rations.’
‘I must go and see her,’ said Papa. ‘Are you hungry?’
I nodded.
‘Nora,’ said Papa. ‘A plate for Joelle, chérie, and perhaps Beatrice too?’
Maman sliced some bread, buttered it, and poured me a little wine. She did the same for Beatrice.
‘There is some cheese,’ said Papa.
As Claude and the men left, Beatrice took a seat, and at first we ate in silence.
‘The Germans have placed a reward on your capture,’ Beatrice eventually informed Mo, via Maman’s interpretation. ‘We must think very carefully about our next move.’
‘I need to return to England,’ said Mo. ‘Perhaps I could make my way north and find a fisherman willing to cross the Channel?’
Once Maman had translated, Beatrice’s face lit up in alarm.
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘It is too risky! The northern coast is teeming with German patrols, and the Channel is treacherous. Calais, Boulogne, Dunkirk – they are all out of bounds.’
‘So, what then?’ Mo asked, his face falling along with his expectations.
‘South,’ Beatrice replied. ‘We have contacts in Toulouse. They can take you into the Basque region, and on to Santander. It will be safer to find passage there.’
‘Into Spain?’ said Papa. ‘But won’t that be just as risky?’
‘No,’ said Beatrice. ‘We have many Spaniards fighting with us. They know the region well and have contacts of their own. Compared to the northern coast, Spain will be easy.’
She eyed Mo for a moment.
‘Besides,’ she eventually said. ‘The people of the south are swarthier than those around here. With a haircut and shave, he will not look so conspicuous…’
Maman finished translating, and Mo’s shoulders slumped.
‘I do not wish to cut my hair,’ he told us. ‘My hair has never been cut. It is part of who I am.’
I looked up at him.
‘But you will always stand out with it,’ I told him. ‘You will get caught.’
Mo shook his head.
‘Then let me go,’ he said. ‘I would rather get caught.’
Maman sighed.
‘Let’s think about our options,’ she said in English. ‘We have some time.’
Only, we didn’t.
The Germans came without warning, at around three in the morning. Mo had been sleeping in a spare bedroom, the third of three. When the Germans began to bang on the door, I shot out of bed and into my parents’ room.
‘Take him down to the cellar!’ Papa told me. ‘Now!’
I ran to fetch Mo and led him downstairs. We went through the kitchen to a larder and entered it. Inside, hidden behind some sacks of firewood, lay a secret panel. I set the shelves aside and pushed on the panel, uncovering stone steps that led down into the gloom. The cellar had been divided in two with a brick wall. One set of stairs was accessible from the front of the house, and the second set hidden from view.
‘Come on!’ I said, leading the way without any light to guide us. Once Mo had passed by, I repositioned the sacks and replaced the panel, pulling it tightly into place. The back of the panel had been densely padded with straw, so that it wouldn’t sound too hollow if tapped.
‘Keep quiet,’ I whispered. ‘They will not find us down here.’
The sound of boots and raised voices reached us, and then I heard a shout and Maman screamed. My heart thumped in my chest and I held back a scream of my own.
‘Dear God!’ I said. ‘Please don’t let them hurt her!’
Suddenly, I heard a banging noise, followed quickly by a second and third. I guessed that the Germans were using their rifle butts to check the walls and floor of the house, to find any secret compartments.
‘How can they know?’ I whispered to Mo.
‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘I am sorry to cause you so much danger.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ I told him. ‘It’s not like we were safe before you appeared.’
We stayed hidden for over an hour, as the Germans searched every inch of the house. They were careless in their search, and I heard them breaking dishes and splintering wood. Eventually, though, they relented and left. Finally, I heard the panel being removed and my mother’s
