Rosie's War (6 page)

At £15 a ticket (over £600 in today’s money) the plane seemed sheer extravagance, the very thing I had promised my father not to indulge in. I didn’t even know if I could get a seat. As I explained to my worried father that same day, Saturday 7 June:

If neither you nor I are in immediate danger it is rather exaggerated.
Don’t
worry that it is so difficult to get back – in case of emergency I can always manage but this time it seems better to wait a bit.

Even at that late stage (the Germans were to be in Paris within the week) we were unaware of how feeble the Allied military effort really was. In the same letter I wrote: ‘If only we can keep up this resistance and no one else betrays us!’ Perhaps the ease and speed with which I was still getting post from England also misled me as to the seriousness of the situation. I petulantly complained about not receiving any word from my brother and cousin, especially since ‘letters from London only take a week to arrive now.’

On Monday 9 June I received another letter from my father. He, of course, was still expecting my return to London. He informed me that he had also received a letter from Mr King, who had told him that ‘Your daughter may apply to me for any assistance of which she may stand in need.’ In a typical Pat move I then decided to hedge my bets and find out about the possibility of a seat home on a plane. I telephoned Mr King’s office, gave my details to the receptionist and asked to be put through to him. To my utter amazement I was told that he had already left for England.

‘Can I speak to someone else about the best way to get back home?’ I asked.

‘Wait a moment, Miss Say,’ said the woman on the other end. Did she notice the note of real concern and shock in my voice?

I suddenly felt rather foolish. Until now I had been so sure that I had time to consider my options and work out what to do. But I had just learned that the British Consul – no less – had already fled. Why was I worrying about spending money on air fares or wondering what people might think of me? Why was I carefully trying to decide what I should do? It was surely time just to get home.

After a long pause a man came on the line. He asked my whereabouts and continued speaking without waiting for a reply.

‘It’s useless to go to Bordeaux. There are thousands of people fighting to get on the available boats. And down here all the transport is already reserved, I’m afraid.’

British Consul’s letter to Rosie’s father offering assistance.

Reserved for whom? I wondered.

‘Hold on, Miss Say. I’ll transfer you to another desk. They might be able to offer some assistance.’

Another pause. Then yet another voice.

‘Miss Say? Look, why not take a train to Paris? You can slip through to Rennes and then make your way to St-Malo. That port is still open. You should stand a chance of finding a boat to England from there.’

With that telephone call I was to start my long journey home of nearly two years. The fatuous piece of advice to ‘slip through’ the advancing German lines to the north-west coast of France has haunted me ever since.

In hindsight I can’t think why I didn’t consider heading down to Nice, the other port on the Riviera from which British citizens were being evacuated. I later found out that the British Consul there had checked all his registered flock and carried out his duties before leaving for England. But at the time there seemed no alternative to travelling to Paris. I was frightened by the gravity of my situation. I was also intimidated by the voice of authority. At twenty-one years of age, I didn’t realize that authority is not an all-powerful divinity that handles every crisis with absolute efficiency but that it is made up of fallible individuals.

I telephoned Avignon station immediately and arranged a seat on the train for the following day. The family gave me a wonderful farewell dinner that evening. I remember plenty of champagne and my boyfriend Patrice at the piano, playing Chopin beautifully.

The following day I went to the station with Madame Odette and the three children. There was chaos as we got near. Our taxi crawled along, trying to avoid the people who thronged the road. Whole families were wandering about, burdened with possessions. They looked lost and bewildered. At the station there was a huge crowd blocking the entrance. They had no luggage with them: they were simply waiting for their loved ones to arrive. We struggled out of the taxi just as the train coming south from Paris pulled into the station. It was absolutely packed. The passengers streamed off in relief, most looking around anxiously to see who was meeting them.

The noise and the press of the crowd were intense. The arrivals were embraced with relief and joy by their relatives and friends. Little Jean-Pierre was knocked over by a large lady in a fur coat. She only had eyes for her husband and certainly not for the child, whose nose was left streaming with blood after coming into contact with her handbag.

A young officer saw our distress and offered to help me with my suitcases. The Manguins left me at the ticket barrier. It was madness for them to try to get any further. The officer used my suitcases as battering rams to push his way through the crowd to the platform. It turned out that he was catching my train as well. We had to wait only a few minutes before it arrived from Marseille.

It was 11 June 1940. The German army was on the outskirts of Paris. The previous night (we later learnt) the Prime Minister and his Cabinet had fled the capital, heading south-west to the Loire. Although I did not know it at the time, I had the rather dubious distinction of catching probably the last train northwards to Paris in the history of the Third Republic.

Talk about lamb to the slaughter. I had almost begged for the knife.

CHAPTER FOUR

Paris and the American Hospital

I
sat in my carriage and looked out at the chaos. The crowds were still on the platforms, presumably waiting for the next train from the north and some sign of their loved ones. The heat of the late afternoon was intense. We stayed in the station for what seemed an age, finally setting off in the dark of the evening. There were very few of us on that stuffy train travelling northwards. I chatted with the other occupants of my carriage. There was a family visiting friends in Lyon – in retrospect, perhaps a curious thing to be doing at that particular time. There was also the young officer who had helped me. He was returning to his regiment from leave.

I dozed through the long hours of the night. But any sleep was fitful, as I was aware of the train constantly slowing, stopping and starting up again. As I looked out in the misty dawn light I had my first glimpse of the reality of mass flight. Every time the train travelled next to or over a road or stopped at a station I saw a steady procession of people moving south, towards the place I had left.

Cars were jammed against each other. Prams, trolleys, carts and tired horses trundled along or were pushed with a resigned doggedness. I saw what looked like whole farms loaded onto carts: pots, pans, children, chickens, pigs and calves all mixed up together. There was a silence, a conserving of energy.

Even more eerie in that mass of desperate people was the sight of the roadsides strewn with all manner of things: dead pigs and horses, household possessions and broken-down cars. There were pieces of furniture that had been precious enough to take on the journey south but were now abandoned, just pushed to the side of the road and left. There were cars that had been packed with so much luggage and so many people that they were stranded with their axles ruptured. Children were running between groups of women, their cries the only sounds in all that herd of people. I was told later that many children were simply lost in the huge exodus.

For a moment I panicked. Was it sheer madness to travel towards the approaching German army just as thousands of terrified people were fleeing from them as fast as they could? I looked at my two big suitcases on the rack above me. I also had various other possessions up there, including a hatbox and some parcels and bags. I surely wouldn’t be able to carry everything if I got off now and joined these people.

So that decided it: I stayed on the train. Perhaps it was also the fact that I felt safer there. Just as you don’t actually feel part of the landscape as it flies past your window, so I couldn’t really connect with those people trundling south. It was as if I was merely an observer of their terrible plight and suffering. I had been told what to do and I was concerned that I would be lost if I joined that extraordinary spectacle of frightened people on the move. No one would know where I was. In Paris, at least, someone would surely be responsible for people like me.

By now we had left Dijon and were well on our way. The young soldier was the only other occupant. He was probably in his mid-twenties, not much older than I was. He told me his name was Joseph. He had intense blue eyes, black hair and sallow skin.

We talked in a desultory fashion. We were both distracted but for different reasons. I was concerned that I was making a mistake in going to Paris. I couldn’t take my eyes off the crowds on the roads still pushing their way southwards. The image of an old woman being wheeled along in a handcart was so harrowing that it stayed in my mind.

Joseph, by contrast, seemed to be quite unconcerned by what was going on outside. He told me he was worried about his mother who was dying of cancer. He had just been to see her, almost certainly for the last time. He was now returning to his unit north of Paris. He didn’t even know if it would still be fighting by the time he reached it. There were all sorts of rumours swirling around that the French government was going to sue for peace.

Our conversation had run its course. He rose and jammed his heavy kit bag up against the carriage door. The blinds were still down, so no one could see in from the corridor. He sat next to me and gently lowered me on to the carriage bench without a word being said. We made love. It was brief, perfunctory and almost totally silent. We both felt comforted.

The last part of the journey was interminable, as we crawled through the southern suburbs of Paris. We were halted at the level crossings by the sea of human misery trying to escape from the German army. People simply took no notice of the train, which had to inch its way through the teeming crowd. Many were using the railway tracks to walk south, slowly and painfully getting out of the way of the oncoming train.

When I had left Avignon the scene at the station had been one of chaos: bewildered and relieved arrivals meeting the mass of nervous, expectant people waiting desperately for news. But this was nothing in comparison to what I saw at the Gare de Lyon in Paris. It was utter pandemonium. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of frantic people pushing, shoving and shouting to get on our train for the return journey. They were demented, fleeing for their lives. Well before we reached the platform they were boarding the train through the doors and windows, pushing possessions and children in ahead of them.

For a while I almost doubted that we’d be able to get off. As in Avignon, Joseph used my heavy suitcases to shove his way through the crowd. We struggled out of the station. I was anxious to get to the British Embassy but couldn’t face making my way there with my luggage. Joseph suggested that we went to a nearby bar, where he asked the patron to look after my suitcases for a while.

‘I don’t know which of us faces the greater tragedy,’ he said. ‘Sois courageuse.’ (‘Be brave.’) He kissed me and departed.

When I arrived at the embassy I found that the British authorities had left Paris the night before. There was a note pinned to the door advising those of us who were left behind to seek help at the US Embassy. With a rising sense of panic I asked a passing old man how to get there, saying that I was English. He explained briefly. He then crossed himself.