News came in every day via Émilie, who brought them newspapers and food. Claire couldn’t cook, or even make coffee. Smoke coming from the chimney of a derelict house would cause people to talk. According to Émilie, the nearby towns and villages were crawling with Gestapo demanding to know if anyone had seen strangers in the area – and threatening them with imprisonment and torture if they withheld information.
The Gestapo and a team of structural engineers moved into the village while they swarmed over the crash site carrying out forensic tests. By the time they left, Claire was climbing the attic walls. She hated being confined to small spaces. She wanted to get out, do the job that she and André had stayed on to do, and get back to her daughter.
In the afternoon of the tenth day, Émilie arrived earlier than usual with their evening meal. She banged on the ceiling at the top of the stairs with a broom handle. ‘The Germans have gone,’ she called, laughing.
Relieved, Claire and André left the attic and followed the older woman downstairs. It was the first time Claire had heard Émilie laugh. It suited her. Seeing her now, almost dancing round the table as she laid it for supper, Claire realised how terrified she must have been every day, walking through a village overrun by Germans to bring them food. Some heroes wore medals. Some, like Émilie, Claire thought, did not. But they were heroes all the same.
‘Today is a good day,’ Émilie said, giving André a newspaper and Claire the clothes that she had taken without being asked, and washed and ironed.
‘Thank you, Émilie.’ Claire lifted the clothes to her face. They felt soft and smelled of soap. She left the room and changed. She felt warm for the first time in weeks. Enjoying the feeling of clean fabric next to her skin, she wondered how long it would be until she was wet and cold again. No matter. When she and André had blown up the pylons, she would go home to Aimée and Édith, and he would go home to Thérèse – and soon their baby. They had so much to go home to, and to stay safe for. She thought of Marcel and felt a lump in her throat. She closed her eyes. She must focus on the positive, not the negative. In the New Year, Claire promised herself – after she had spent Christmas with her daughter, and after Thérèse and André’s baby had been born – she would go to Paris and seek out the leader of the Paris Centre Resistance. She would ask him where he saw Mitch, and if he knew where he was now. If he did, she would beg him to take her there.
After supper André packed his rucksack and checked the attic, while Claire packed and examined the other rooms in the house. It was important not to leave anything behind. When she was done, she arranged the old furniture in a slap-dash way so no one would suspect the house had been inhabited. She looked around. The rooms looked neglected and the furnishings run down, which was what you’d expect in a derelict house.
‘All done,’ Claire said. ‘We’ve left nothing behind.’ She felt a catch in her throat. Marcel had been left behind. He was still out there. Or had the Germans…?
Claire embraced the woman who had looked after them for almost two weeks. ‘Thank you, Émilie, for all you have done for us.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ Émilie said. ‘Vive la France!’
‘Vive la France!’ Claire agreed.
When they came to a fork in the road they turned left. Soon the road narrowed to a dirt track ending at a gate. ‘We are close,’ André said. ‘According to the map, the pylon is a mile north of this farm.’ They climbed the gate. The pig farm, as it was described on the map, looked more like a dairy farm. Surrounded by acres of flat grazing land, it gave no cover. André pointed to a low hedge in the distance and they ran for it. Staying close they half circled the farm and walked north. When they saw the pylon they fell to the ground. For twenty minutes they waited, scanning the area for a German presence. There was none.
‘Let’s do it,’ Claire said. Together they got to their feet and approached the pylon. Taking the dynamite from her bag, Claire packed a quarter of it round one leg of the pylon and a quarter around the one next to it. André placed the detonators. From a safe distance they watched the pylon explode and topple sideways. The stench of burning rubber was followed by a loud ripping noise. Some cables snapped; others were torn from their fixings.
The second pylon was an hour’s walk to the north, in an even more remote spot, but it was a clear night and they found it easily. The same action was taken; the same result ensued. It was time to go home.
They set off on the long trek to Gisoir. André had planned the route so they would return via the Loire bridge at Beaugency. They approached with caution, even though the Germans had surrendered it to the Resistance in September.
‘The bridge is as free as France will be one day,’ André said. He put his hand on Claire’s shoulder and together they crossed the Loire and made their way home.
They arrived home exhausted, cold and hungry. Claire put her thumb on the latch of the door to the yard and
