‘I know there are munition factories and bomb factories – and of course the docks in South Shields – but here in Cullercoats you’re pretty safe,’ Claire said, reassuringly.
‘I know.’ Éric looked at Claire and held her gaze.
‘What is it, Éric?’
‘It isn’t that kind of safety my mother was concerned about. It is because we are Jewish that she made Father bring us to England.’ Éric talked and Claire listened. ‘Jewish people, entire families, are being persecuted. The persecution of the Jewish people began in Germany ten years ago, longer, and now it is happening in France. As the Germans march through my country, Jewish people are disappearing. The official line is that they are being relocated, but,’ tears filled the boy’s eyes, ‘it is a lie, Claire. They are being sent by the thousand to camps in Germany. They say it is to work, but many are too old to work, or too sick – and some are only children.’ Éric broke down and cried and Claire wrapped her arms around him. She tried to imagine what it would be like if England was occupied by the Germans – if her parents and her brother and sisters were taken to work camps in another country – but she couldn’t. Éric lifted his head and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘I will go back and liberate my country, and the Jewish people, as soon as I am old enough. I will join the Army and I will fight the Germans until France and her people are free again,’ he cried.
Éric had an old head on young shoulders. He reminded Claire of her older brother, Tom, who was in the Army. He had joined up as soon as he was able, before war was declared. In his last letter, Tom said he was somewhere in France. Claire shivered. ‘I wonder where my brother is.’
‘Excuse me?’
Claire looked up at her young friend. ‘I was thinking aloud. You were talking about joining the Army and fighting in France, and it reminded me that my brother Tom is doing exactly that.’ Claire pulled the lapels of her coat up to her chin and held them tightly. ‘I’m cold. Shall we go back?’ Éric looked disappointed. ‘Come on. I’ll tell you about my big brother as we walk.’
That evening, when Claire was reading in the library, Éric poked his head round the door. ‘Is it all right if I do my homework in here with you?’
‘Of course.’ Éric lumbered in and sat at his father’s desk. He spread out his books and took a pen from his pocket. ‘You’re keen, working at the weekend.’
‘We have so much homework, we have to. And I need to use Papa’s reference books when he doesn’t need them. Politics!’ he grimaced.
‘I suppose I ought to know about French politics from a young French person’s perspective. If you do the studying tonight, can I pick your brains tomorrow?’ Éric didn’t reply. ‘I’ll buy you coffee and cake in the Beach Café.’
‘All right!’ Éric said, his eyes wide and sparkling.
‘Good. You can tell me what someone who isn’t interested in politics needs to know.’ Claire finished reading de Staël’s Delphine, and returned it to the bookcase. She looked at a dozen other novels, read the information on the fly-leaf of several, and settled on Madame Marron’s favourite book, Corinne.
After supper Éric said he had a little more work to do and returned to the library. Claire joined Mélanie and her father in the parlour. While they played cribbage, Claire read her book. Mélanie, obviously an expert at the game, won almost every match. Eventually the Professor put his hands up and called time on the game. Kissing her father and calling goodnight to Claire, Mélanie danced out of the room the victor.
Claire rubbed her eyes and yawned. ‘I am going up too,’ she said, closing her book. After wishing each other goodnight, the professor moved to an armchair by the fire and put on the wireless, and Claire went to the library. Éric wasn’t there and the fire had gone out. Coming from the warm parlour, the library felt quite cold. She shivered and quickly placed the book she’d been reading, Corrine, on the bookshelf next to its sister book, Delphine. Then she switched off the light and left.
Crossing the hall she noticed a couple of books on the post table. She read their spines. The book on top was an atlas called Maps of France, the one underneath France and its Bordering Countries. She blew out her cheeks. ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough,’ she said out loud. As she turned to leave she saw something white sandwiched between the two volumes. She lifted the book on top to reveal a sheet of note paper. Written in a neat hand was a list of occupied and unoccupied zones. Beneath it, in Éric’s casual scrawl, it said 65 Avenue St. Julien, 8th Arrondissement, Paris. Guessing it was the address of Éric’s grandparents, where his mother was living, Claire committed the address to memory, replaced the note, and went up to bed.
The next morning, when Mélanie had returned to her bedroom to finish dressing and Professor Marron was in his study, Claire asked Éric about the address.
‘It is my grandparents’ address. I thought if you were ever in Paris you might look my mother up.’ Éric pressed a piece of folded paper into Claire’s hand.
Without opening it, Claire gave it back to him. He looked crestfallen. ‘I’ve memorised it. If I am ever in Paris, I will visit your mother and give her your love.’ Éric looked at her through sad eyes. ‘I
