‘Forgive me, Polo, for rambling on. We need to take things a step at a time and you haven’t told me about where you went after you left Vincent.’
‘It is fine, Yvette, I know this has been a great shock to you but for me, I have had plenty of time to think it through.’
Dottie slumped against the back of the bench, already exhausted by his words, but preparing for more. ‘Please, go on. Tell me about afterwards.’
Polo took a cursory glance at the site and then back to Dottie before he began the rest of his story. It began with a frightened little boy, racing through the woods on a dewy May morning.
38
Polo’s Hiding Place
Renazé, 1944
The first thing Polo did was to retrieve Vincent’s bag. Then he placed the gun inside, along with the folded leaflet which he slipped between the documents, after which he slung the bag across his chest and raced back towards the village. But even before he emerged from the trees Polo heard a sound that filled him with dread – the rumble of trucks as they made their way into the marketplace, then the sound of boots on the ground. Terror coursed through Polo’s veins as he scrambled up a tree and watched from within its boughs. He was far enough away to remain undetected but close enough to see and hear what was going on.
The soldiers swarmed like grey beetles, women and children were ordered at gunpoint on to the street where they could only stand and watch as their homes were searched and ransacked. The priest ran from his church that was being invaded then began protesting to the officer who merely laughed in his face. Next, they went inside the hotel and when he saw his aunt dragged into the courtyard Polo thought his chest would explode from the pressure of his wildly beating heart, his bones had turned to stone. Paralysed he watched as she was flung to the floor, an officer shouting, demanding answers and then a kick to her stomach.
After more searching, the beetles scurrying out of sight up side streets, they returned with Armand and from another corner of the square they brought two more men, the grandfather and crippled uncle of his best friend, Louie. Polo watched as the officer barked more orders and had the three men loaded onto the truck, his attention drawn away from Tante Elise.
Polo hated going to church but today he prayed with the priest who had now given up protesting and pleading with the officer and instead, pleaded with God. Polo fervently made the sign of the cross then prayed.Please do not take my aunt, please do not let them hurt her, I will be good, I will never forget to feed the chickens, I will work hard at school, I will go to mass every Sunday forever, please, God, hear my prayer.
When the officer gave the instruction and the truck started to drive away, Polo allowed himself to breathe. But instead of all the soldiers departing, some of them stayed, making their presence known like a sullen, watchful threat. A few stomped around the square, guns pointed, flicking the butt towards doors and ordering everyone inside while others lounged and smoked, laughing amongst themselves.
There was no way Polo could risk going back to the hotel, so he slid down the tree and made his way further into the forest. He was used to foraging and would easily survive, he knew the tracks well and could hide for days if need be. It would be cold at night, but he couldn’t risk sleeping in Vincent’s hut. Instead he took the blanket from his bed and squirreled himself away. Once the Germans left, he would find someone to trust, then he could tell them about the bag and that Claude was a traitor and Vincent was a hero.
Polo emerged from hiding four days later, cold, starving and smelly. He’d managed on berries and mushrooms and water from the stream, sleeping deep in the forest and only venturing to his lookout tree once a day. He watched the Germans leave on the third day, but waited for another twenty-four hours, just in case.
When he crept around the back of the hotel at day-break, Polo crouched in the garden until it was light, watching the windows, checking for signs that a stray beetle hadn’t stayed behind waiting for him to return. By mid-morning his stomach and heart could bear it no longer, so he took off Vincent’s bag and hid it behind the chicken coop then tentatively made his way to the back door and listened. Somebody was crying, Tante Elise. Slowly Polo pushed open the door and as it creaked, the crying ceased for a second until their eyes met. As her chair tumbled to the floor in the rush to hug him, Elise began to sob uncontrollably, holding him tightly while thanking Mother Mary and God and the angels and the saints for bringing him back.
Polo allowed her to kiss his greasy hair and filthy face and for a while, he was happy again as she called upstairs for his cousins. Once bleary-eyed Nicole and Mimi stumbled into the kitchen, they took over fussing him while Tante Elise hurriedly made breakfast. But his bread and comfiture had barely touched the sides before Polo’s world descended into despair once again.
The Germans had wreaked havoc, rounding up those who were suspected of being partisans and along with the three men from their village, more from the surrounding areas had been arrested. Elise was sure that the rest of the Maquis had got away but their shared relief at their escape was tainted by the thought of never seeing their friends again, or at least until the war was over. The rest of her tears were for the twenty-seven poor souls who had been imprisoned in the camp at Châteaubriant, questioned and tortured, and then sentenced to death. They would be shot the following day in reparation for attacks on German supply stores, the death of the young soldier and a daring robbery in Nantes.
Polo felt his world tip upside down. He thought he might pass out from the terror of it all. Never had he imagined that people he knew, harmless old men and a boy aged only seventeen, were going to be executed. Fear ravaged his soul and his mind wandered to the bag lying behind the chicken coop. Whatever was inside it was dangerous, Vincent had said so, and the traitor wanted it. Polo knew he had to go as soon as possible in case the Germans or Claude came back. But where?
His aunt ordered him to take a bath and while Polo scrubbed the dirt from his skin and fingernails, downstairs she was washing Vincent’s blood from his clothes. The bag and its contents felt like a weight around his neck, a death sentence for them all if it was discovered. Vincent said to hide it, this time he would not disobey.
Later that evening as his family slept, Polo crept downstairs and into the garden from where he retrieved Vincent’s bag. He knew exactly where it would be safe; somewhere the Nazis would never find it.
* * *
Dottie was drained yet curious, in awe of the little boy she remembered as she imagined him scurrying about in the darkness, riddled with fear but determined to keep his promise to Vincent.
‘So where did you put it, the bag?’
Polo turned away from her and with his left arm he pointed to the hotel and building site. ‘In there.’
Dottie followed his gaze. ‘Inside the hotel?’
Polo shook his head. ‘Do you remember the cave in the cellar?’
‘Yes, of course, that’s where we hid one of the evaders, only for a night but I collected him and took him to the next safe house.’ Dottie could picture the low roofed room where all manner of things were stored and a young chap huddled in the corner, a pilot desperate to get home to England.
Polo looked pleased she remembered. ‘On the far wall there was a range, the chimney was blocked, and nobody had used it for years. I took the bag and Uncle Xavier’s ladder and climbed onto the sloping roof, it wasn’t hard. I was nimble in those days.
‘I made my way to the chimney and threw the bag inside. The bricks around the edge were loose so I pulled them free and dropped them on top, the mortar came away easily, so I kept scraping and throwing until I thought the bag was covered. Nobody heard. Aunt Elise and my cousins slept at the other end of the house. Afterwards, I slid back down the roof and put the ladder away. It was done. I kept my promise to Vincent.’
Dottie was mesmerised by the images of a seven-year-old child standing on a roof, under a jet-black sky lit only by stars and a watery moon, keeping his family safe, honouring his best friend’s last command.
