Bomber (19 page)

‘Hesdin. It’s a little town a few kilometres from here.’

‘You know, we have no real idea where we are,’ said Stearley.

‘You’re about thirty kilometres due east from the coast. Seventy kilometres north is Calais. Now, here is your route. You need a connection to Amiens. There’s a contact at the railway station. You will call him Jacques. He’ll take you to Paris. Then someone else will take over. You’re going back to England through the Pyrenees,
mes enfants
. It’s the surest route.’

‘But that means travelling the length of France,’ said Stearley, his voice betraying his unease. ‘Isn’t it easier to get to the coast here, then across the Channel?’

‘You must trust us, Lieutenant,’ she said firmly. ‘Believe me, getting you through to Spain where you can contact the British Consulate there, is the safest, surest route. It’s in Bilbao, near the border. There are other ways, of course, but this is the one we use.’

Harry felt deflated. He too had imagined they would be taken to the coast and picked up by a boat or submarine. Some sort of journey that would see them back in England in a few days. What Madame Laruelle was proposing sounded like an ordeal, a journey that might take weeks or months, where their lives would be in danger every minute of the day and night. But who was he to argue? He had to trust these brave people completely.

Madame Laruelle passed them each a small bag with a change of clothing, and a few francs for emergencies. ‘
Alors, maintenant, allons-y
,’ she announced.

They left the safety of the farmhouse just as the sun was peeping over the horizon, and the first thing Madame Laruelle did was reach down into the mud and smear her face. Whatever was going to happen next was anyone’s guess.

The light grew in the sky, revealing a few dark clouds but not enough to threaten a deluge. Madame Laruelle said they should now walk separately. They would be in the small town of Hesdin in the next half-hour and it would not do to be seen walking with her. She told them when they reached the town they should stay thirty seconds behind her and make sure they were next in line when they reached the checkpoint.

So Harry and Stearley held back as she put a brisk distance between herself and them.

It was light when they crossed the brow of a hill and saw the spires and rooftops of Hesdin before them. In the main
route into the town there was a checkpoint – with a striped pole barrier across the road, and a sentry box. Several German soldiers were there, checking the passes of the trickle of arrivals wanting to get into the town that early morning.

Madame Laruelle turned her back and carefully splashed a little wine down her blouse. They closed up the distance separating them, hoping no one else would reach the checkpoint and get between them and her.

The plan worked. There they were, right behind her, with a couple of young women in front showing their passes.

Madame Laruelle watched the soldiers’ gaze follow the girls as they walked into town. When they turned to her, she stumbled unsteadily on her feet and got out her wine, pulling out the half-inserted cork with her teeth. She offered it to them both, suppressed a burp and took a swig when they recoiled.

Then she put a hand on the tallest one’s belt and drew him towards her, looking as though she was about to plant a large kiss on his cheek. The soldier pushed her away, roughly enough for her to fall to the ground. The bottle of wine smashed and she began to wail. Both soldiers started to curse at her in German. Clearly neither of them spoke much French. That was good, thought Harry. They would not be inclined to engage him or Stearley in conversation.

One soldier beckoned Stearley and Harry forward. At that moment, Madame Laruelle began to wail again,
something about being an old woman, and tugged at the soldiers’ uniforms. She seemed utterly distraught and Harry marvelled at how she was carrying off this act.

She held out a hand imploringly. One of the sentries relented. He hauled her to her feet and shoved her in the direction of the town centre.

The other one took the briefest look at the airmen’s passes and hurriedly waved them through. Behind them, a busload of workers was approaching. The soldiers wanted to be ready for them.

They kept their distance and neither spoke. But they did catch each other’s eyes when Stearley suppressed a snigger, and they instantly realised they were on the verge of hysterical laughter. Harry could imagine telling this anecdote to his friends and even grandchildren for the rest of his life.

Madame Laruelle was careful to ensure they kept her in sight as they made their way through the cobbled streets of Hesdin and through the main square. Over on the other side was a railway station. Madame Laruelle immediately went over to the fountain and splashed her face in the stream of water that emerged from a heavy iron pipe.

Harry and Stearley looked at each other, as if to say, ‘What happens now?’

A voice behind startled them. ‘
Bonjour, messieurs, vous êtes les peintres en bâtiment?
’

They turned round to see a man of around thirty dressed in workman’s clothes.

‘
Venez, le train va partir dans dix minutes
.’ Harry understood that – they had ten minutes to catch the train.

Harry looked over to Madame Laruelle but she had already gone. Then he saw her making her way out the other end of the square. Obviously there were to be no goodbyes. It made perfect sense, of course. Nothing to arouse suspicion. But he was sad that he was not able to thank her and her husband for their enormous courage and generosity.

The man ordered train tickets for the three of them, behaving as though he was the foreman and they were the apprentices. ‘
Venez
.’ He beckoned them to follow him. They hurried over the bridge to Platform 2. Already, from above the railway line, Harry could see an approaching plume of smoke.

The first part of the journey away from Hesdin was simple enough and the carriage they travelled in was empty.

‘The change at Amiens is easy – one platform to another, but there will be checks on the train. I will speak to the guard or the soldiers … you pretend to be asleep.’

Then he told them in great detail what their Paris courier would look like and what she would say to them and what they should reply. This would establish for both parties that they really were who they were supposed to be.

‘Then, no conversation,’ said Jacques. ‘It is the quickest way to the firing squad, believe me.’

He paused to let his words sink in, then continued. ‘The Gestapo, and our own Milice – they are very cunning. You can trust no one. Even the French police or railway men. No one wears a badge saying they are a
collaborateur
.’

As the train rattled along, Harry stared out at the autumn countryside. It still had its own melancholy beauty. He thought about Tilly working at her factory back in England. She must have found out the
Macey May
had not returned from Schweinfurt when she came to the Saturday dance.
He hoped she had been upset and concerned about him, but he wondered if she had just shrugged and spent the rest of the evening in the arms of another airman. When he wasn’t daydreaming, he pretended to doze. The carriage was filling up and this was the best way to avoid any awkward conversation.

Much to Harry’s relief, the journey to Amiens passed without incident. The ticket inspector didn’t speak to them when he checked their tickets, and the train arrived in Paris on time. At Gare du Nord Jacques walked on ahead and they waited a minute before they followed. This was not a journey where you said goodbye. It went against Harry’s every instinct. These people were risking their lives. He wanted to show his gratitude.

They made their way down the platform, discreetly scanning the concourse for German soldiers. There were a couple close to the main exit, along with two French inspectors.

The station was busy and full of impatient travellers keen to be on their way. No one was paying a great deal of attention to two young men who looked as if they had come to Paris to do a decorating job.

The queue at the end of the platform was dense and impatient. When Harry got to the inspector he handed over his ticket. The man paused. Something was wrong. He could see it in his face. He looked Harry straight in the eye, then he smiled and handed the ticket back. ‘
Bonne chance, monsieur
,’ he said under his breath.

Harry was right behind Stearley and had to bite his lip so as not to blurt out, ‘What the hell was that about?’

They were to leave the station by its main exit and look for a fountain to the right of the square in front of them. Their instructions had been very explicit.

A French girl, maybe still in her teens, stood at the fountain.

‘That can’t be her,’ whispered Stearley. ‘She’s far too young.’

But she exactly matched the description of the girl Natalie who they were supposed to meet. She was carrying a green leather handbag and wore a crocodile brooch studded with green crystals on the left lapel of her cream coat.

Her pale complexion stood in sharp contrast to the dark curve of her eyebrows and the wisps of black hair than curled around her face. Harry thought she was very beautiful. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail, a style many girls would find unflattering, but with her it just accentuated her cheekbones, huge hazel eyes in her oval face, and strong, sharp nose.

Stearley whispered, ‘What a doll!’ Harry flinched. What did Stearley think he was doing speaking to him in English out in the street?

She smiled at them both. Before they could speak she said in French the exact words Jacques had told them she would say: ‘It is still warm in Toulouse. I should have stayed there.’

Stearley trotted out their pre-arranged reply in passable French. ‘Yes, but it will be warm here tomorrow, I think.’

He had practised that over and over. Harry had watched him mouthing the words on the train. He got the feeling that Natalie was someone Stearley really wanted to impress, and that made him feel uneasy.

They took the Métro to Raspail, Natalie standing a distance away from them, but still close enough for them to see when she got off. Harry noticed a few people staring at them, and wondered if they looked different or suspicious.

It was a short journey. After a brisk walk through wide boulevards of imposing apartment blocks they arrived at an elaborate entrance where she swiftly ushered them into a marble lobby. She nodded briefly to the concierge and they took the lift all the way to the sixth floor.

As the lift creaked its way up the floors Harry could tell Stearley was bursting to speak to her. Harry had heard about ‘femmes fatales’ and seen them in the movies. There was something unreal about Natalie and he caught himself wondering if they’d be better off with someone not quite so eye-catching.

The apartment overlooked the street. The rooms were generous in size, with high ceilings, although they were sparsely furnished.

‘Here we are, gentlemen,’ she said in perfect English, with a pronounced French accent. ‘Now, as you are supposed to be decorators, I suggest you do some painting.
Make a bit of noise. You can have a go at that wall over there.’ She pointed to the broadest wall in the living room. ‘We mustn’t give the neighbours any grounds for suspicion.’

Harry wondered if she was joking, but it appeared not. ‘So, we should use real paint!’ said Stearley, trying to mask his disbelief.

‘Yes, monsieur, but just a bit. It’s rationed of course, like everything else. Just enough to give the room and yourself the smell of paint. Don’t worry, you won’t be here long.’

Stearley was anxious to change the subject. ‘So, where did you learn to speak English so well?’ He gave her his best Clark Gable smile.

She wagged a finger. ‘Ahhh, Monsieur. Please, we must not talk about anything that isn’t strictly necessary. I’m sure you understand.’ For the first time she smiled. He held her gaze longer than was strictly proper.

Natalie glanced at her watch. ‘Now I must be going. I will be back tomorrow with some food for you. Meanwhile, I have to get you more travel passes. You must be patient, gentlemen. We will try to get you on your way as soon as possible.’

She turned to go, pausing by the door. ‘There is food in the kitchen.
Bon appétit!
’ Then she was gone.

There was nothing to do, other than pretend to be painting but they soon ran out of paint. The lieutenant tried to read some French books, but without a dictionary to check
those words he didn’t understand, he soon lost interest. Harry had nothing to do at all. Natalie had warned them against standing looking out of the window. Anything that would cause suspicion would mean imprisonment for them and death to their helpers.

The following day Natalie returned with a package from the chemist.

‘Harry, I think we should change your hair colour – make it lighter, yes?’ she said.

He was aghast. ‘What for?’

‘You have very dark hair, and it’s curly. The Germans may think you look Jewish,’ she said matter-of-factly.

Harry nodded. She sounded so determined he didn’t dare argue.

‘The Germans, and our own Milice, have been arresting and deporting Jews for over a year. We know they send them east, and no one ever comes back, or is heard from again, so we fear the worst. They may treat you different as an
américain
, but they still might think you are a Jew to be arrested if they see you in the street.’

Harry was taking all this in with a mounting sense of horror. They had all heard stories about the Nazi persecution of the Jews in occupied Europe. Here he was now facing the same dangers himself.

‘So, let us cut your hair and then we will use a little hair lightener,’ she said.

She cut his hair in the living room, with a sheet spread on the floor, and made a pretty good job of it. ‘I used to do my brother and sister,’ she said. Then she shook her head to indicate he was not to ask her about them.

The hair-dyeing business was not as complicated as he thought it might be. She rubbed a chemical paste into his scalp and eyebrows, then held his head over the bathroom sink to rinse it away. ‘The trick is not to leave it in too long.’