I hated Vincent immediately. Some say that hate is too strong an emotion, but I don’t care. I know what I felt, and even though I was a child, I understood clearly the depth of my feelings.
‘We will take him in two days’ time,’ Vincent declared.
‘Where will he go?’ asked Maman.
‘That is none of your concern,’ he replied. ‘We all have our roles to play. Yours is to help us and keep your nose from everything else. We know that you smuggle food and other goods. We allow that to happen. Be thankful and do not concern yourself with things that you can’t understand.’
‘So, what are we?’ asked Maman, growing angry. ‘Your servants?’
‘No, but I am a leader,’ Vincent told her. ‘You have your duty. I have mine. They are not the same thing, however.’
‘And if we refuse?’ she added.
‘Then you will be known as collaborators,’ Vincent replied. ‘The lowest of all.’
Maman turned to Beatrice.
‘Get this man out of my house immediately,’ she snapped. ‘And do not ever bring him here again.’
She was livid, her face coloured, her eyes blazing.
‘You come to my house and speak to me this way?’ she asked him. ‘Get out! And be thankful my husband is not here.’
Vincent shrugged and left, leaving Beatrice to apologise to Maman.
‘He is a good man,’ said Beatrice. ‘Just a little blunt with his words. We must obey him.’
‘He is a donkey’s backside!’ said Maman. ‘And I obey no man with such arrogance.’
‘You must agree,’ said Beatrice. ‘We have to get Mo away from here!’
‘To be used as a bargaining chip by that man?’ asked Maman. ‘Never!’
Beatrice promised to return the following evening, then rushed out after Vincent. Maman slammed the door behind them, just as Mo appeared, his long hair hanging loose.
‘What did I miss?’ he asked.
Maman shook her head.
‘I’ll explain later,’ she replied.
SEVEN
The following morning, I was given a supply run, and happily accepted it as always. This involved taking my bicycle and riding out into the countryside to meet a local farmer, Monsieur Garand. The farmer was another ally, and gave us eggs and milk, and sometimes meat too. Such things were classed as black market, available only by ration, but that did not stop us. The dangers were obvious, but I had never been searched. My age meant that the German patrols left me alone. Mostly they would smile and usher me on my way. I would be polite in return while cursing them under my breath. It was like a game, only with deadly consequences for losing.
‘Joelle!’ Monsieur Garand bellowed when he saw me. ‘Oh my – what a pretty smile!’
‘Bonjour!’ I said, pulling up beside his cart.
We were three miles out of town, at the edge of some woodland, on a dirt track that only locals knew of. Monsieur Garand gestured at his cart.
‘I have eggs,’ he told me. ‘And a surprise for you and your parents.’
‘A surprise?’
Monsieur Garand winked and produced two skinned and gutted rabbits from his huge overcoat.
‘I caught several yesterday,’ he told me. ‘They’re still lovely and fresh!’
‘Oh, I cannot accept them,’ I began to say.
‘Nonsense!’ he replied. ‘I insist that you do. When was the last time you tasted rabbit?’
I shrugged.
‘Before the Germans,’ I told him.
He spat in disgust.
‘May God curse these insufferable devils!’ he said.
He wiped a tear from his eyes, his hands thick with grime.
‘Poor Henri Deschamps,’ he added, speaking of my former neighbour. ‘He was my friend. I cannot abide what they did to him and his beautiful family.’
I nodded and placed my hand on his forearm.
‘One day we will be victorious,’ I said.
‘Yes, yes!’ he replied. ‘Vive la France!’
Monsieur Garand had fought in the Great War, and he saluted. As always, I returned his salute, and that cheered him up.
‘Ah, my little soldier!’ he said with a grin. ‘Now, for the rabbits, I have some onions and some carrots, and a little garlic also.’
He handed me the animals and produced another little package. I placed everything in the basket of my bicycle, underneath some books and a roll of hessian.
‘And the eggs,’ he said.
On the rear of my bicycle were two boxes or panniers, one each side of the wheel. We placed the eggs at the bottom, covering them with straw and some rotten onions that Monsieur Garand had kept especially. If I got stopped, the soldiers would see the blackened and weeping onions and not look any further. At least, that was our hope.
‘Is your family well?’ I asked.
‘So, so,’ he replied. ‘And yours?’
‘The same,’ I told him. ‘I’d better get going.’
‘Come back soon,’ said Monsieur Garand, ‘and tell your papa that I have some brandy waiting for him!’
‘I will,’ I replied, setting off for home.
I did not get far before I spotted the Germans. They had blocked the road into town and were stopping everyone that passed. My heart thumped louder in my chest. My forehead began to sweat.
‘No!’ I whispered to myself.
There was another route, through the fields and around the checkpoint, but the ground was rutted and uneven, and my bicycle would not make it. I also had the option to ditch my contraband, but that wouldn’t be ideal either. I stopped, dismounted, and pretended to check my bicycle’s chain. All the while, I was watching the checkpoint, to see what they were searching for. One or two Germans searched people’s bags and belongings, but most were simply asking them questions. I guessed that they were still hunting for Mo, and with my courage replenished, I set off again.
‘You’re just a schoolgirl, trying to get home,’ I told myself, over and over again. ‘They will not stop a little girl.’
As I drew towards the checkpoint, a young, dark-haired solider held up his hand. He spoke in broken and poor French.
‘Please stop,’ he told me. ‘Where are you going?’
I pointed into town.
‘My house,’ I replied. ‘I live on the far side,
