‘It’s here!’ he exclaimed with a huge smile.
He opened it, discarding everything until he found a length of royal-blue cloth.
‘What is that?’ I asked.
‘Another pagri,’ he explained. ‘My mother sent me away with it.’
He unravelled the cloth to find a wooden-beaded bracelet.
‘This is a prayer string,’ he said. ‘You move the beads as you recite the words.’
I nodded.
‘We call them rosaries,’ I told him. ‘Maman has many. This is all you came for?’
He nodded.
‘The radio is destroyed, and there is nothing else of value, save some tools,’ he explained.
He salvaged what he could, placing everything in his bag. When he was done, we turned back, and he thanked me for bringing him to the plane.
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ I told him. ‘We have not made it home.’
Back at the stream, I led the way towards my clearing. On arrival, we sat on the steep bank and Mo took out his rosary once more. The ground was damp but not too uncomfortable, and across the stream, a rabbit foraged amongst some bushes. I wondered if the fox was close by, watching and waiting.
‘My mother is a devout Sikh,’ Mo told me. ‘I am not so religious, but this rosary carries her blessing. It is my only reminder of her. It is precious.’
I asked how the rosary was used, and he began to recite a prayer in his Punjabi language. I did not understand a word, and was about to ask, when I heard their voices.
‘SHHHH!!!!’ I whispered in alarm. ‘GERMANS!’
SIX
We hurried into the bushes, close to where Mo had hidden after his crash. The plants were dense here, and we managed to find cover just before the German soldiers appeared. They trampled across the clearing in their dirty, heavy boots, guns at the ready and conversing in their own language. There were three in total, and they seemed to be exchanging jokes. Every so often, they would burst into laughter, and I grew angry at their arrogance. Here they were, occupying a foreign country with violence, and yet they seemed unconcerned. Happy, even.
‘Do not move a muscle,’ Mo whispered, as they closed in.
I got a sudden urge to pee, and squirmed. Mo sensed my discomfort, placing his hand on mine.
‘Take courage,’ he whispered.
They gave the bushes a cursory search but seemed uninterested in going any further. Thankfully, we had hidden deep enough not to be discovered. One of the Germans said something that made the others giggle like children.
‘Dogs!’ I whispered.
Something else caught their attention, a rustling from the far bank. The fox dashed from cover, a rabbit between its jaws. The soldiers were startled and one of them opened fire with a machine gun. The fox howled, and I covered my mouth, so they would not hear me cry out.
‘SHH!’ Mo warned, as the nearest soldier turned back towards us.
‘Who is there?” he said in faltering French. ‘Come out!’
My insides churned with fear. How could I have been so stupid? Now they would find us for sure.
The soldier began to hack at the foliage again, and we were seconds from being discovered. Mo edged further into the bushes, pulling me with him. However, our actions were pointless. Under my breath, I told my parents that I was sorry and that I loved them. Then I closed my eyes, awaiting our doom.
‘Hans!’ I heard another soldier shout.
They conversed in German before leaving in haste. I don’t know what happened that day, but I am grateful. Had the soldier searched a moment longer, I would not have lived to tell this tale.
Later, after remaining hidden for some time, we emerged from the bushes and made our way back. We were extra cautious this time, wary of meeting any more Germans, but made it home without incident. Maman was waiting by the door and scolded me in French.
‘Please,’ Mo insisted. ‘This was as much my fault. Blame me.’
‘No,’ said Maman. ‘You do not know the area, nor the dangers we face each day. Joelle does and should know better.’
‘But she is only a child,’ said Mo.
‘It matters little,’ Maman told him. ‘These are no ordinary times. There is no room for childishness, nor mistakes. Not when our very lives are at risk.’
I searched Mo’s face with my eyes, hoping that he wouldn’t mention our close call with the Nazis. Mo seemed to understand and gave a slight nod.
‘Well, I am sorry anyway,’ he told Maman. ‘I put your child’s life in danger and I must accept my responsibility. It will not happen again.’
Maman seemed taken by his manner and his words, and her features softened.
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘No harm done.’
I sighed in relief as she led us indoors.
That evening, Beatrice returned with a stranger in tow. The man seemed stern and unhappy and spoke in a gruff manner. Something about him caused me to be wary. His name was Vincent.
‘The British pilot is ours,’ he told Beatrice and Maman.
‘Ours?’ asked Maman.
‘Yes,’ Vincent insisted. ‘We are the leaders of the Resistance here. We must decide what becomes of him.’
‘But we can hide him quite easily,’ Maman replied. ‘He is not the first to see our cellar. He will not be the last.’
Mo wasn’t with us. He was taking a bath, and I was glad that he could not hear. I wondered what he might make of being referred to as a possession.
‘The British left us to rot,’ Vincent told us. ‘After their shameful retreat at Dunkirk, we paid the price. Now, in exchange for their pilot, they must pay too.’
‘Are you insane?’ snapped Maman. ‘No one is using Mo as a bargaining chip!’
‘Nora, please!’ said Beatrice. ‘This is for the good of France.’
‘I am not insane,’ Vincent growled. ‘In return for their Indian, we will
