Henderson's Boys: The Escape (16 page)

‘I suppose,’ Paul said reluctantly, snapping the wooden box of ink and drawing pens shut and clambering out of the grass.

Marc had got used to the sight of French troops. Unshaven, underfed and frequently drunk; their uniforms didn’t fit and their horse-drawn artillery seemed like a relic from a different age. Germany was only a few hundred kilometres away, but their army seemed to come from another world.

The first columns entering Paris were led by motorcycles and sidecars, followed by senior staff sitting in open-topped Kübelwagens
⁴
with swastika flags draped across the bonnet. A soothing French voice came out of a megaphone, urging citizens of Paris to stay calm and stand clear of the troops.

Then came infantry. Marching in step, immaculately dressed – from green helmets down to polished boots. Marc stood close enough to the kerb to get a whiff of the superbly groomed horses. Tank tracks left their mark in sunbaked tarmac and polluted the air with a haze of diesel fumes.

The German forces seemed to sweat raw power. It was the most impressive thing Marc had ever seen and he was completely awed. He’d often dreamed of running away to fight for France, but now France was on its knees, and he wanted to swap sides.

Marc could imagine himself in the smart Nazi uniform, commanding his own tank as it smashed buildings and slaughtered anyone stupid enough to defy him. He’d been on the losing end his whole life and this brazen display of strength intoxicated him.

He turned to face the café owner, but instead found himself staring at his daughter Livia.

‘Some of them are
so
good looking,’ Livia said enthusiastically. ‘That uniform …
oooh là-là
!’

It was the first time Livia had ever shown Marc anything other than a sneer, and her attraction to German soldiers made him even keener to join up.

‘Do you think they’ll let French boys join?’ he asked. ‘When I’m older, obviously.’

A wiry man who often sat in the Café Roma smoking a cigar and drinking Espresso shocked Marc by cracking him around the back of the head.

‘Think of France,’ he said bitterly. ‘These are your enemies. These are the ones who drop bombs on us. In Poland they rape the women and treat the people like cattle. Our time will come.’

Marc was affronted at being hit by a man who’d never even spoken to him, but he remembered the sad look that crossed Jae Morel’s face whenever her two missing brothers were mentioned. On the other hand, Marc didn’t feel very patriotic. What had France ever done for him?

‘Blond hair and blue eyes,’ Livia said, as she looked at Marc. ‘You’d make a good little Aryan soldier.’

Marc wasn’t sure what Aryan meant, but he was excited by the sudden communication with Livia.

‘I expect they’ll take all the French boys they can get when they want to fight the British Empire,’ the wiry man said. ‘The Führer’s not fussy about whose blood he spills.’

Another huge column of troops had rounded the corner and Marc was annoyed that the wiry man was killing the mood. Livia seemed almost to read Marc’s mind.

‘Buzz off, you old misery,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s interested in what you’ve got to say. Would you rather they came through like this – or blowing up Paris, one street at a time?’

Affronted, the man turned to walk away, but before he did he scowled at Livia. ‘I fought in the last war,’ he spat. ‘Italian fascists! I suppose you’ve been on their side all along.’

Marc and Livia exchanged a look, as if to say
What’s his problem?

*

An hour later, Marc was back in the house. He’d stood Henderson’s glass-fronted cabinet back up, but the collection of vases was smashed to pieces. He switched the radio on and listened to the BBC French service reporting on the orderly occupation of Paris and rumours that the French Government had begun negotiating surrender for the rest of France.

In contrast, Radio France continued to portray the surrender of Paris as a tactical withdrawal and boldly predicted a counterstrike that would sweep the Germans from French soil. Marc was twelve years old and he’d led a sheltered life, but even he could tell it was propaganda of the feeblest sort.

It was a warm day and Marc sat in an armchair with his shirt thrown on the floor beside him. When the news turned to music he closed his eyes and became engrossed in his tank commander fantasy: conquering countries in his smart German uniform by day and conquering pretty girls like Livia by night. Hitler would award him medals for bravery. He’d have a pretty wife in the country and a mistress or two in the city. One day he’d return to Beauvais in his officer’s uniform with a massive horse whip. He’d haul Director Tomas into the village centre and thrash him until he passed out. Then he’d run over the old fool’s legs in his tank.

The thought of Director Tomas with squashed legs made Marc laugh aloud. But his mirth was curtailed by a thunderous knock on the front door. He dived out of the armchair and crawled up to the bay window, where three men stood on the doorstep. One wore a pale suit, the other two wore the black uniform of the Gestapo – Hitler’s feared secret police.

When they didn’t get a response, the younger Gestapo officer ripped a pistol out of his holster and shot the lock off the front door. Marc jumped with fright, then switched off the radio and ran into the hallway as one of the Germans barged the front door open with his shoulder. This forced him to double back and squeeze into a gap between the wall and an armchair.

‘Henderson has left for the south,’ the man in plain clothes said irritably to one Gestapo officer, as another ran to search upstairs. ‘He knows we compromised all the leave-behinds in France. He’s got no reason to remain in Paris.’

‘
No
,’ the Gestapo officer said firmly. ‘Henderson will remain and try to set up a new spy network. I’ve questioned the British suspects myself and they all say that he’s most determined.’

‘Questioned – or
tortured
?’ the plain clothes man snorted. ‘People just say what you want to hear if you push them like that.’

‘I know my job, Herr Potente,’ the Gestapo officer snapped. ‘This is no longer your command.
I
have orders to run counter-intelligence operations in occupied Paris, and Henderson is our top priority.’

A second crash came at the rear of the house, as a Gestapo officer who’d been sent around the back kicked in a door and entered the kitchen.

‘Herr Oberst
5
,’ the black-uniformed man said, clicking his heels obediently and giving a Nazi salute. ‘Nobody tried escaping out the back. The houses on either side appear to be unoccupied.’

‘There’s nobody upstairs either,’ the other officer added, as he ran back down the stairs. ‘But the bed is ruffled, as if it was slept in recently, and there are damp clothes hanging over the bath – either a boy or a very small man. I’d say they were washed out late last night or early this morning.’

Marc’s heart thumped as the four men stood in the doorway less than five metres away.

‘A boy,’ the Oberst said, stroking his chin curiously. ‘Find the boy, and whatever neighbours you can. Interrogate them. Use force if necessary, but our orders are to behave as gentlemen until the occupation of Paris is complete. So if you have to make a mess, make sure you clean it up.’

‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ the officer said, before heading out of the front door and calling to a couple of regular soldiers who now stood by the front gate.

‘We must search carefully,’ Herr Potente said, warning the two officers. ‘When we captured the British spies we found several booby traps. One of my men lost three fingers when a filing cabinet blew up on him.’

The Oberst nodded. ‘Then be careful everyone, but don’t waste time. Obergruppenführer Heydrich is taking a personal interest in the Mannstein affair. He’s extremely unhappy that Digby Clarke made it out of Paris.’

‘I spoke with Mannstein at the hotel late last night,’ Potente said. ‘He’s disappointed that his drawings were stolen by Clarke, but he says he’ll be able to recreate them within weeks.’

‘But we don’t want the British getting the plans out of France,’ the Oberst shouted. ‘And I want Henderson before he can recruit new spies. If we don’t capture Henderson, Clarke
and
the plans, I’m going to make sure that your next posting is a very unpleasant one, Herr Potente. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ Potente said, giving a Nazi salute as the Gestapo officer backed out of the room.

Marc was terrified. He could only understand about half of the Germans’ conversation, but he’d picked up enough to realise that they were prepared to torture him for information.

⁴
Kübelwagen – an open-topped German car, similar to a British Land Rover or American Jeep.

⁵
Oberst – a high-ranking German officer.

Father Doran and his sister Yvette still worked two acres of land around the small farmhouse in which they’d been born more than seventy years earlier. The Father had been parish priest for almost half a century and was one of the most respected men in the area. It had surprised nobody when the elderly siblings took in three orphans and several neighbours had offered help, especially for Hugo, who’d arrived with nothing but the clothes on his back.

The Dorans always stopped for two hours in the middle of the day and ate a large meal made from garden vegetables and meat butchered on a nearby farm. After a soup and a main course of beef cooked in a wine sauce, Paul and Rosie struggled through a fruit tart for dessert. Hugo barely touched the first two courses, reserving all of his available stomach space for afters.

‘I have some friends coming around to play cards this afternoon,’ Father Doran said, as he dabbed his shrivelled lips on a napkin. ‘So you three keep the noise down if you’re staying indoors.’

The three kids nodded as they left the table. Rosie went to the sink to help Yvette wash up, while Hugo followed Paul upstairs to the small bedroom shared by all of them. There was a double bed, in which Paul and Rosie slept, and two sofa cushions pushed together on the bare floor for Hugo, although he usually claimed to be scared of the dark and crawled up under the bedcovers to sleep between Rosie and Paul.

‘Do you want to play outside?’ Hugo asked, as Paul pulled a brown case out from beneath the bed.

‘I want to take another look at these papers,’ Paul said. ‘Dad was always moaning that he had a terrible memory. He
must
have written down contact details for Henderson somewhere.’

‘
Please
,’ Hugo whined.

‘You’ve just eaten half a tart,’ Paul said, as he flipped the suitcase open. ‘You’ll throw up if you start chasing around now.’

‘So boring,’ Hugo complained, as he slumped backwards on to the bed beside the case.

Paul perched on the edge of the bed and grabbed his father’s pocket book. He’d been through it a dozen times and could now remember the words and numbers before he came to them. Meanwhile, Hugo rummaged inside the case.

‘Don’t mess all the papers up,’ Paul warned, but he saw that Hugo had grabbed his father’s cigar tube. Mr Clarke always kept the fat tube case with compartments for six Cuban cigars in his briefcase so that he could offer them to clients. ‘Oh. You can play with that if you want,’ he added.

As Paul twisted his brains, trying to find something he’d previously missed in the pocket book, Hugo unscrewed the lid on the metal cigar case. He pulled out the largest of the wrapped cigars and placed it between his lips.

‘Look, Paul,’ Hugo grinned.

Paul tutted. ‘I’m trying to concentrate.’

‘Why can’t kids smoke?’ Hugo asked, as he blew imaginary smoke out of his lungs.

‘I don’t know.’ Paul shrugged. ‘It’s like, adults try to stop kids having all kinds of fun. Rosie lit up one of my dad’s cigars once for a dare. She puked
everywhere
and our mum whacked her on the bum with her hairbrush.’

Hugo laughed as he slid the cigar back into its pouch. ‘When I’m older I’m gonna smoke fifty cigars and a hundred cigarettes every day.’

‘
I
won’t,’ Paul said. ‘I don’t like the smell. My dad never smoked.’

‘So why did he have cigars?’

‘For his clients. My dad said if you give a client a lit cigar, they have to sit still and listen to your sales pitch until they’ve finished smoking it.’

‘What’s a pitch?’ Hugo asked, as he threw the cigar tube high into the air.

‘Hey,’ Paul said. ‘That belonged to my dad! Don’t wreck it.’

But Hugo had already thrown it up again. This time it hit the ceiling and veered wildly off course, hitting the edge of a dresser with a clang before landing on the floorboards.