‘Don’t worry, Joelle,’ he said. ‘I have a new plan…’
THIRTEEN
To my shame, we stole three bicycles as we left town. As we rode away, entering the Forest of Retz for cover, I wondered what Maman and Papa might have said. Ordinarily, they would have scolded me for stealing. Yet, this was no longer everyday life. This was a time of war. A time to be bold. Orphaned and on the run, I had little choice but to use what I could find. Morals and teachings about the kindness of the human heart were afterthoughts at such a time. I had to make tough decisions.
Thinking of my parents caused much pain and left me feeling glum. I said nothing as Beatrice led the way through the forest. I knew that Lille was far away, perhaps a hundred miles or more. Our journey would be slow and hazardous, even if we made it. We were travelling deeper into the German-controlled area of France. Heading towards the enemy. It made no sense, based on what I knew of the Occupation. Yet I trusted Mo, and was willing to follow him. Besides, what else was there? Without Mo and Beatrice, I was on my own.
The Forest of Retz lay north-east of Paris. It was thick with woodland and the perfect cover for us. Beatrice seemed to know every path and lane, and she refused to stop, even after two hours or so. However, even she tired eventually, and we rested.
‘We go to Chauny,’ she said in English. ‘Then Cambrai. This route is quiet, no?’
Mo shrugged.
‘I do not know your country,’ he told her. ‘But I trust you.’
Beatrice smiled.
‘And I trust you, also,’ she replied.
When I failed to speak, she glanced at me. Her expression showed sorrow.
‘Dear Joelle,’ she said in French. ‘This is not what I wanted, but we have no choice.’
‘I know.’
‘I have an uncle in Cambrai, and more friends. You are welcome to live with us now. It would make me very happy.’
‘You told Vincent you were going to Lille,’ I replied.
‘I lied,’ said Beatrice. ‘It was the least he deserves. I wanted to kill him.’
I nodded but said nothing more. I knew what she meant. The emptiness I felt within was Vincent’s fault. He had caused this, and now he would remain free. He would not pay for his crimes. At least not at our hands. The thought depressed me further. I was not supposed to feel such things. I was not supposed to think that way. I should have been playing with Grace Deschamps, going to school, sitting beside the fire with Maman and Papa. I should have been a child.
Mo built and lit a fire. We sat around it, trying to keep warm. At some point, I fell asleep. I dreamed of my parents and our house, and the garden where I had played. I dreamed of Maman’s warm embrace and Papa’s ready smile. When I awoke, dawn was breaking above the treetops and I was frozen.
‘Come, Joelle,’ said Mo. ‘We must move on.’
He removed his jacket and placed it around my shoulders.
‘Wear this until you warm up,’ he told me. ‘I do not need it.’
Mo looked odd without his jacket, however. He still wore the hat and scarf, so most of his face and head were covered. He resembled a bandit.
‘What is it?’ he asked, when he caught me staring.
‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘I am just sad.’
He nodded and looked away, unsure of what to say, I guess.
Later that day, we emerged from the forest and travelled north-east towards the town of Chauny. The landscape opened up to reveal miles and miles of fields. Now and then, we passed small villages or hamlets, most of them deserted and often destroyed. Many of the fields lay fallow too. An eerie gloom lay over everything, a shroud of despondency and hopelessness. Was this what had become of my country, I wondered. My beautiful, vibrant country, now dazed and beaten, and bloody and worn down.
We didn’t see any sign of German soldiers as we travelled. This was entirely down to luck, of course. By that evening, we were only three miles from Chauny, and my legs ached. Beatrice chose a deserted hamlet to rest in; just four houses, some outbuildings and a barn. The houses were derelict, so Mo suggested we stay in the barn. He led the way, opening the doors and ushering us inside with our bikes. Outside, the snow was returning, the flakes growing ever thicker and more frequent.
The barn was dark and damp, and cold and smelly. Yet it was welcome nonetheless. I could not have put up with another night outdoors. Not in such weather.
‘I’ll start a fire,’ said Mo. ‘Use the torches and see what you can find.’
Beatrice and I began to search. The barn was wide and long, with a second level spanning half of its area. A single wooden ladder gave access to the upper floor. I heard and smelt the tell-tale signs of rodents and other animals, and even heard a strange yelping sound. I put that down to a cat and thought nothing more of it.
‘Here!’ I heard Beatrice shout.
When I reached her, she was pointing at a wooden chest.
‘I wonder what’s inside,’ she said.
She knelt and opened it, and then groaned in disappointment. The chest was empty, save for a rusting knife, a small hip flask and a moth-eaten scarf.
‘I thought it might have something useful inside,’ she told me.
I shrugged but did not reply. When it became clear that we would find nothing of use, we rejoined Mo and took in the fire’s warming glow.
‘Stay here,’ he told us. ‘I will check the other buildings.’
He wrapped up, took a torch and left us to stare into the flames. He had been gone perhaps twenty minutes or so when we heard the dogs barking.
‘Sacre bleu!’ Beatrice gasped. ‘Germans!’
We scrambled up the
