The German soldier nodded.
‘And what do you carry?’
I shook my head, trying to avoid his gaze and thinking furiously about what I would say next. I could not let him find my smuggled goods.
‘Well?’ he asked, as an idea took shape in my head. I would call his bluff and see if he wanted to touch some rotten vegetables.
‘Just some books and some old onions,’ I told him, hoping that my plan would work.
‘Onions?’
I nodded.
‘I found them by the roadside,’ I lied. ‘Please, sir, Maman can make soup with them.’
‘Show me,’ he said.
I got off and opened both panniers, and the stench rose from them immediately. The German swore in his own language.
‘Enough!’ he said in French. ‘That’s disgusting!’
I shrugged.
‘We might be able to rescue one or two,’ I said. ‘Enough to eat, perhaps…’
He waved me away, shaking his head, and called me a pitiful creature. I waited until I was clear before grinning, satisfied and proud that I had fooled him.
Maman was delighted with the rabbits. As Mo and I watched on, she cut them up, and then set about making a stew. I thought of the fox in the clearing, wondered whether it had survived being shot. We were far more fortunate, I thought. Poor Monsieur Renard.
‘I have never eaten rabbit,’ Mo told us. ‘Is this normal here in France?’
I grinned.
‘It used to be,’ I told him. ‘Now, we have to beg, borrow or steal any meat.’
‘Perhaps I could eat just the vegetables?’ he said.
‘You could,’ I told him. ‘But you’ll miss out on the best bit. Rabbit is delicious.’
Maman cooked the onions in butter and a little flour, before adding carrots and some wine that was lying around.
‘You should use better wine for such magnificent creatures,’ she said. ‘But we don’t have any.’
Mo looked fascinated.
‘This is how my mother makes chicken,’ he told us. ‘But we use ginger and spices too. And we don’t add any wine.’
‘Perhaps we might visit your country one day?’ I said. ‘I would like that very much.’
Mo nodded, and for a moment he was lost in thought.
‘My region is very fertile,’ he told me. ‘The food is delicious, and the people are warm. You would be very welcome.’
As we waited for the stew to cook, we exchanged stories and Mo told us some more about the Punjab. He spoke of missing his mother’s cooking and the games he loved to play as a child, and of his village and the people he knew.
The stew took two hours, and just as it was ready, Papa returned. I knew immediately that something was wrong.
‘Papa?’ I asked. ‘What is it?’
He shook his head.
‘It’s Claude and the two men we hid,’ he told us sorrowfully. ‘They were captured.’
‘Oh no!’ said Maman. ‘Do we know where they were taken?’
Papa shook his head once more.
‘They were not taken anywhere, my love,’ he explained. ‘The Germans murdered them…’
EIGHT
I awoke deflated and depressed the following morning. The world felt colder, harsher, and less hopeful than ever before. As always, Papa had gone to the bakery before starting his errands. Maman was drinking coffee, having just let Mo out of the cellar. Our house guest seemed as dejected as I was. He sat next to Maman, his pagri removed, his beard overgrown, and his eyes sore.
‘Joelle,’ said Maman. ‘Would you like breakfast?’
I shook my head and sat beside Mo.
‘I don’t feel very hungry this morning,’ I told her. ‘I don’t feel much of anything.’
‘The murders?’ said Maman.
‘Yes.’
Mo shifted in his seat, before sipping his coffee. He had eaten bread and butter, and a few slivers of cheese.
‘I will leave,’ he told us. ‘I cannot thank you enough for protecting me, but I must go. Your lives are at risk while I stay.’
‘No,’ said Maman. ‘You don’t have to leave.’
‘What about Vincent?’ Mo asked, making clear that Maman had been honest with him.
Maman sighed.
‘Vincent is not our concern,’ she told him. ‘You cannot allow yourself to be used by such men. We will find another way to get you back to England.’
‘There is no other way,’ Mo told her.
‘Beatrice will help,’ she said. ‘After she has…’
I thought of Claude and his bent nose. His smelly clothes and gruff but warm laughter. Lying in a ditch somewhere, with a callous Nazi standing over him. How would Beatrice cope with losing her brother, I wondered. They were the last of their family, with no children, nor spouses. Now Beatrice was left all alone, and my heart ached for her. I had known them my entire life. Had stayed with them before the Germans came, played games with them, eaten with them. First Grace, now Claude. My heart was broken all over again.
I left Maman and Mo to talk and went to wash and get dressed. I needed fresh air. I needed my no-longer-so-secret place. Only, I did not get the chance. Beatrice arrived in a dreadful state, worn out from a night of tears and despair. When Maman let her in, she collapsed and sobbed, holding on to Maman’s olive skirts.
‘CLAUDE!’ she groaned. ‘MY BROTHER!’
Maman helped her to her feet, ordered me to fetch the brandy, and sat her down beside Mo. The alcohol was hidden in a barrel, and I found a new bottle. It was dusty and cobwebbed, but the liquid inside would calm Beatrice. Act as an anaesthetic even, to help her forget for just a while.
‘Why?’ Beatrice repeated over and over again. ‘Why did they shoot him? Where is the justice, Nora? Where is the humanity?’
Her dark hair was a mess and her face patchy with a rash. I tapped Mo on the shoulder and nodded towards the kitchen door. He seemed anxious and guilt-ridden.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Maman will deal with this.’
Outside, behind the garden walls, Mo seemed to relax. He sat on a wooden bench that Papa had made.
‘I need a cigarette,’ he said.
‘I do not smoke,’ I told him. ‘It is a filthy habit!’
‘Me neither,’ he admitted. ‘But isn’t that what you do – smoke
