‘Good thinking, Batwoman. We’ll need to write a list of all the names you remember, how many Resistance members were there?’
‘In France, thousands, with more spread throughout the rest of Europe and Poland. In our group there were eight of us who worked closely together, plus a radio operator, a recruiter and someone who arranged surveillance and other operations, but for raids we would sometimes join with others. Did I tell you what it was called, our network?’
Through the corner of her eye, Dottie saw Maude shake her head.
‘Historian, I always liked it and wondered how they chose it, anyway, we were part of the Shelburne Line that moved evaders through France and back to England, along with all the other bits and bobs we got up to.’
‘It sounds so exciting, Gran, never mind jumping out of a plane, all this espionage and the camaraderie too.’
‘Yes, but for the most part I lived a life of fear, with some wonderful moments scattered amongst the bad.’
‘What were you scared of most?’
‘That’s easy, being captured. I got it into my head that I could handle death, but not torture or living with the knowledge I’d given away secrets. That truly terrified me for the whole time.’
Even though the air conditioning in the car could be glacial, having all the windows closed sometimes made Dottie feel claustrophobic so she wound down the window and relished the feel of the breeze on her face.
‘The thing was, there were so many people moving through France from all walks of life and all over the place, Spain, Poland, Russia, there was simply no way of checking everyone out. When I handed my identity papers to a German soldier, how was he going to find out if I really was an orphan from Paris? For all he knew I could have been the Pope’s sister from Pompeii. The only way he’d know is if he checked the serial number on my identity card. So there was always an element of risk. We had to trust strangers, take apart their stories to the best of our abilities when they turned up without papers. Had they really lost them, or had them destroyed when their boat capsized at sea, or were they infiltrators, hoping to wheedle their way in?’
‘I see what you mean. So you had to rely on instinct.’
A sigh. ‘Yes, we did, and unfortunately sometimes it was a mistake and the Maquis paid the price.’
‘That’s awful… but I can see you’re getting a bit maudlin, that blooming churchyard didn’t help, so on a lighter note, you haven’t told me about how you met Uncle Konki. And when you’re ready I’d love to know about Vincent, but not the gory details, okay? Just be tactful and remember I’m your granddaughter.’
They were entering another village, the narrow streets empty of pedestrians, the blinds on the bread shop pulled down, the flashing green cross on thepharmaciegrey and dull.
Dottie laughed at that, grateful for Maude’s ability to lift the mood. ‘Oh, you are such a prude, Maude, but I’ll try to remember. Oh look… there’s a little bistro, let’s go in there and once we’re settled, I’ll tell you about Vincent. Pull over and we’ll peep in.’
Maude did as she was told and they both peered through the window.
Dottie gave a little clap. ‘Marvellous. There’s a few empty tables so park up. I’m famished.’
As they made their way towards the bistro, Dottie was looking forward to a large glass of white wine, no, she’d order a bottle. Not for Dutch courage, because she was ready now to talk about Vincent. After looking away for so long and turning down the volume, she wanted to describe him, see his face in her mind’s eye and hear his voice and laughter in her ear. And today, she would drink white wine with him and be happy, like she did the very first time they met.
15
Yvette and Vincent
Renazé, 1943
Yvette watched for patches of ice as she freewheeled down the hill, her hair coming loose from underneath her beret, a fiery tangled mess that she would have to tidy before she saw Vincent. Her nose ran from the cold of a December day and apart from her legs, the rest of her body was warmed by exercise. It had done her good though, the trip to Châteaubriant, even if it was a good hour and a half there and back. She hadn’t slept well again, the same nightmare coming back to haunt her and no matter how exhausted she was after a day on the farm or riding for kilometres to make a delivery, the abyss waited patiently.
The road began to straighten out and Yvette pedalled, a steady pace so as not to exert herself too much because she didn’t want to arrive in the forest all sweaty and smelly. It was hard enough keeping up appearances as it was, wearing second-hand clothes that frankly had seen better eras never mind days, and the last of her stockings were irreparable so bare legs were the norm, tanned during the summer, goosebumped under her trousers during the winter. She was becoming weather-beaten. This thought troubled Yvette slightly and her poor, wind exposed face was probably ageing with each turn of the pedal.
In the countryside it hardly mattered, but she tried hard to keep up appearances with a hint of make-up, a touch of rouge on the lips and cheeks. Back at home and in French cities and towns, women were encouraged to look the best they possibly could. Everyone knew Hitler abhorred women who wore make-up or painted their nails, so it was a small act of defiance, annoying Adolf.
How different she looked from her city days before the war, especially when she and her friends would get all dressed up and go down to the Pally on a Saturday night. What would her friends and parents say if they could see her now, masquerading as a simple country girl? That thought was immediately squashed because she couldn’t bear the swell of homesickness that enveloped her like a wave, washing her out, leaving her feeling isolated and vulnerable, stupid maybe. Had she not realised that this is how it would be, hundreds of miles away from home, away from her loved ones, for who knew how long?
No, she hadn’t, not really. That was the truth. When Yvette looked at the person in the mirror, she saw that her summer sun-kissed skin and nose scattered with freckles had been replaced by winter ruddy, red cheeks. She also saw sad green eyes that looked away quickly, not prepared to countenance the reality that lay behind her defiant facade.
Yvette was scared most days, really. When she saw the German patrol move through the village, two grey pillars of stone marching along the streets, occasionally hammering on doors to randomly check the inhabitants were obeying the 8pm curfew. Or when, as today, she delivered her missive, destined for Rennes and the printing presses of a clandestine group who produced propaganda leaflets. Paperwork was easier to conceal than most things she couriered and could be folded and hidden inside her clothes, but her heart still raced whenever she was stopped at a checkpoint. And her mind, it never stopped thinking, preparing, noting. Surveillance was another of her jobs, to report back anything she saw or was told, the smallest snippet could be useful.
But the true fear came from the mere notion of being exposed, and it happened frequently; agents were captured or betrayed and Yvette lived in trepidation of that moment. Not that she wasn’t brave, she knew that now, and told herself if she could jump out of a plane into a blanket of ebony, watching the moonlit earth hurtle towards her, she could face the Nazi torture chamber. But could she?
Forcing her mind elsewhere, she rested instead on Estelle and again her chest constricted. What was that phrase she’d learned at school, ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’? At the time she had no idea at all what the English teacher had been droning on about, but she did now. Saying goodbye to her family and then to Estelle had been the hardest thing of all. But now she had Vincent and amidst the maelstrom of apprehension, at least they had snatched moments, hours and once almost a whole day, of happiness.
Being in love was not how she imagined it to be, not in this climate of fear, but in some ways the days of longing in between their reunions fuelled the passion when they were able to meet. No wonder they had grabbed their moment, once both of them realised they felt the same way. Yvette felt herself blush, not recognising the well-brought up woman who made love in a field of maize to a man she’d only just met, but this was the war, and since the moment she’d laid eyes on Vincent, she wanted only to be with him.
