We'll Meet Again (24 page)

In Antwerp they were smuggled off the boat and onto a train going to Brussels. There was a scary moment when the Gestapo came along the train examining papers. Dick was unconvinced that the identity cards and work permits they had would fool men who were paid to be suspicious of everyone. He diverted the guard’s attention with some triviality they could not understand but it gave the two escapees the opportunity to slip past and find a carriage which had already been searched.

In Brussels, not wanting to risk the address they had been given, Dick handed them over to his own contact. They were taken
to a safe house and stayed there three weeks while new identity documents, complete with new photographs and travel passes, were obtained for them. Tim’s fair hair was dyed dark brown and he was given a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. Patrick sported untidy brown hair and an equally untidy beard, which made Tim laugh because Pat was known for his fastidiousness. It was while they were there they learnt that everyone connected to the address at Avenue Voltaire had been betrayed and several British airmen had been captured in the round-up that followed. They thanked their lucky stars for Johannes and Dick.

From Brussels they were taken to Paris by a middle-aged man called Jacques who left them with a contact on the top floor of a luxury apartment block. They were not told who owned it, but were looked after by an elegant French lady who told them her name was Anne. They didn’t think it was her real name; no one in the risky business of helping escapees used their own names. Two days later, they were on their way to Lyon, accompanied by Anne.

The train was packed with German troops, foreign workers, among whom they counted themselves, women, children and old men; there were no seats to be had. They stood in the corridor not talking but feeling confident, almost blasé. Everyone they had met so far had been thoroughly efficient and knew exactly what they were doing. But even the best-laid plans could go wrong as they discovered when half a dozen Gestapo boarded the train at Orleans and went along it inspecting everyone’s papers and hauling several people out onto the platform. They protested strongly and one man resisted so strenuously he was struck with the butt of the soldier’s rifle and went down on his knees, his nose pouring blood. Women were shrieking, children sobbing.

‘What’s happening?’ Tim whispered to Anne.

‘They’ve had a tip-off that there are escaped prisoners on the train.’

‘What do we do?’

‘Follow me.’

He beckoned to Pat who was a little further away, and they pushed their way down the length of the train until they came to the guard’s van. The guard was known to Anne. As soon as he saw the men with her, he understood the problem. He took the lid off a metal crate on wheels and beckoned to Pat to climb in. When he had put the lid back on, he pulled forward another crate and Tim squeezed himself into it. ‘Will we be safe in here?’ Tim asked.

‘Not if you stay on the train,’ the guard said. ‘The Gestapo are very thorough, especially if they are sure there are fugitives on board.’

‘They found out about us?’

The man shrugged. ‘Who knows? I’m going to wheel the crates out onto the platform. It’s up to you to get yourself out and away when the hullabaloo has died down.’

‘Anne?’

‘I’ll stay with you as long as I can,’ Anne said. ‘Then I must go back to Paris.’

‘Could we get on the next train?’

‘Too risky. If the Boche don’t find anyone on this train, they will search the next.’ She pushed his head down so that the lid could be replaced and a few seconds later he felt himself being wheeled down a ramp. In the confined space of the crate, he felt battered and bruised and short of air to breathe. He could hear Anne speaking to someone, telling whoever it was that the crates would be collected by truck and they were to be taken outside to wait for it. Then he was on his way again. ‘What have you got in here?’ a man’s voice asked. ‘Stones?’

‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘I’m only the courier, but I know it’s important for the war effort whatever it is. Best not to ask.’

They stopped. He heard the man thank Anne, presumably for a tip, and then there was silence for several minutes. Tim was feeling cramped but there was no room to move. At last the lid was removed and Anne peered in at him. ‘Get out quickly,’ she said, then went to let Patrick out and told him the same thing. They tumbled out but neither could stand properly until the circulation returned to their legs. They were outside the station in a yard where several vehicles were parked, most of them German military vehicles.

‘Let’s walk,’ she said, and took each by the arm. ‘Be relaxed, laugh a little. We are having fun.’

They walked down the road away from the station, pretending carefree chatter. Behind them they heard the train leaving and a little later they were passed by several of the military vehicles they had seen. One truck was full of civilians, guarded by soldiers with rifles. ‘We could have been with them,’ Tim said. ‘If it hadn’t been for Anne and that guard.’

‘Too true,’ Pat said. ‘But what now?’

‘A bus,’ she said. ‘We can’t trust this line for the next few days, so I’m going to take you on a little detour.’

The detour meant boarding a bus which, like the train, was full to overflowing with no way of escape if it were searched. They sat, not daring to speak as they were carried mile after mile across the French countryside. They were going west, not south, which did not augur well, but Anne had been good so far, so they had to trust her. They left the bus at Auxerre where they went into a café and each had a cup of coffee and a stale bun.

‘What now?’ Pat asked

‘I need to think,’ she said. ‘This is off my usual route and I’m
not sure of contacts.’ She rose. ‘Sit still and drink another cup of coffee. I’ll be back.’

After half an hour, they became worried that she had abandoned them. ‘Supposing she’s gone to give us up?’ Pat whispered. ‘Are we going to sit here and let it happen?’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘I don’t know, do I? We can’t get caught now, can we? Not after coming so far.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘Make a run for it?’

‘No, but we could hide somewhere and keep watch. See if she comes back and who with.’

‘OK.’ They rose and walked to do the door, just as Anne returned.

‘Leaving me, gentlemen?’ she queried, smiling.

‘No, no, of course not,’ Tim said. ‘We didn’t like the look of some of the patrons; they seemed a bit too curious for comfort.’

She laughed, obviously not believing him. ‘Come with me.’

She took them to a house a few streets away and introduced them to a man called Pierre. ‘This is where I leave you and Pierre takes over,’ she said. ‘I need to report what happened today, warn the rest of the people not to send any more men down the line for a few days. You were lucky.’

‘We realise that,’ Tim said. ‘And we are very grateful. After the war, when the world is at peace, we might meet again. You never know.’

‘You never know,’ she repeated, then reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘Goodbye and good luck.’ She moved on to Pat and kissed him too. And then she was gone.

They turned to Pierre. He was a big man, middle-aged, already balding. He was a man of few words, perhaps not too pleased
to have these two pushed onto him so unexpectedly. ‘The lady belongs to a different line from me,’ he said. ‘We don’t have contact with each other. I don’t know how she came to hear of me. It is worrying.’

‘Are you worried about us or her?’ Tim asked.

‘Both. I am not stirring from here, nor are you, until I have checked you all out.’

‘Fair enough,’ Tim said. ‘We are in your hands.’

‘If you don’t want to help us, we’ll be on our way,’ Pat put in.

‘No, don’t do that. You risk your own lives and those of a great many other people if you are caught. I will not take any longer than I can help. In the meantime, please make yourselves comfortable. My wife will show you to your room, where you must stay until it is time to move you. She will bring you food and wine.’

They were conducted to a room in the attic. It was sparsely furnished with two single beds, two chairs and a table. Its daylight came from a skylight in the sloping roof. Here their hostess left them. But she took care to lock the door. ‘We’re stuck now,’ Patrick said. ‘I told you we should have made a run for it.’

Tim stretched out on one of the beds and watched his friend prowling about the room. ‘Well, I am inclined to trust them. Johannes didn’t let us down and neither did Dick nor Anne. They know what there are doing and we don’t. I’m going to make the most of this bed and sleep. I advise you to do the same.’

Pat flung himself on the other bed and was soon snoring. Tim lay awake, going over their journey so far and what might still be to come. They had come safely more than halfway, out of Germany, across Holland and Belgium and into France. There were still hazards to be met, obstacles to be overcome, and they would need to keep their wits about them, but he was more optimistic than he had been for some time.

After three days locked in Pierre’s attic and a grilling from someone whose name they never discovered, they had been judged genuine and set off hidden in the back of a dilapidated van driven by Pierre. What fuel it used Tim did not know, but the engine coughed and spluttered and would not go faster than fifteen miles an hour. It seemed a lifetime had passed by the time they entered the small town of Ville Sainte Jeanne and drew up outside a bicycle repair shop. Here they were given some soup and bread and a bottle of wine to share between them.

When that had been consumed, their host, who said his name was Paul, placed a ladder against the trapdoor in the roof and invited them to climb it. ‘I am afraid I cannot offer you a more comfortable hiding place,’ he said. ‘But the Boche are particularly busy at the moment and causing problems. Please do not make a noise. I have to leave you, but I will be back.’

They climbed the ladder and stretched out in the confined space, where there was no room to sit upright, let alone stand. The trapdoor was firmly shut behind them.

‘He’s taking the ladder away,’ Pat said. ‘We can’t get out. He could leave us here to die and nobody would be any the wiser.’

‘Leaving the ladder would direct German eyes to the trapdoor, wouldn’t it?’ Tim said. ‘Without it they probably wouldn’t look upwards.’

‘Could we get out over the roof?’ Pat nodded towards a small skylight above their heads.

‘I’m not even going to try.’

Pat continued to grumble, mainly about the heat because the loft was like an oven, but Tim ignored him and let his mind drift. His parents would be glad to see him safely home, he did not doubt that. His doubts were centred on Prue. The first thing he would do as soon as he arrived back on home soil would
be to telephone her and arrange to meet. She would agree to that, wouldn’t she? On second thoughts, perhaps he wouldn’t telephone, he would just turn up. He spent a pleasant half hour imagining a joyful reunion, until he realised it was over eighteen months since he had seen her and in that time she could have found someone else. After all, she was lovely to look at, self-assured, titled and wealthy. She would not be short of suitors. It made his impatience all the more difficult to bear.

‘What’s the matter, Prue?’ Sheila stopped singing ‘Deep in the Heart of Texas’ and turned to her friend. They had had their evening meal with Constance, who had gone out afterwards to a parish council meeting, leaving them to wash up. ‘You look as if you’ve lost a guinea and found a sixpence. Are you worried about Tim and your brother?’

‘Course I am. Wouldn’t you be?’ She stood a washed plate in the rack for Sheila to dry. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.’

‘That’s all right. Have you had bad news?’

‘I’ve had no news at all.’

‘I’m sorry, Prue.’

‘Not your fault.’ She emptied the bowl into the sink and wiped it before standing it on its end on the draining board as she had seen Constance and Sheila do. Before she came to Bletchley she had never washed up in her life and even now she did not do it while Mrs Tranter was in the house. The lady would not allow her to demean herself doing something so mundane, but was quite content to sit talking to her while Sheila did it all.

‘Then cheer yourself up. When the war’s over, Tim will come home and it will be happy reunions all round.’

‘But will it? It’s been a long time and heaven knows what he’s been through in the meantime. And he was the one who severed our relationship, not me.’

‘He wrote to you from the camp.’

‘Only because I sent him a parcel.’

‘Don’t be so pessimistic. At least he’s alive.’ Sheila paused, thinking of Chris and Charlie, then shook herself. ‘Come on, let’s go for a bike ride. It’s too nice an evening to stay indoors.’

It wasn’t only Tim Prue was worried about; she assumed he was comparatively safe in a prisoner of war camp, but some of the messages interpreted at Bletchley were about what was happening in France. It was through these messages that she learnt that the German authorities had arrested all British and American men, women and children still living in what had been the free zone and deported them to Germany, considering them a risk in the event of an Allied invasion. She read about the conditions in concentration camps and the massacre of Jews in their thousands. Meticulous at keeping records, the camp commanders announced their numbers in the same way as her father would brag about the number of pheasants they had bagged at a shoot on the estate. How could human beings do that to each other? It made her fearful for captured resistance fighters and their treatment at the hands of the Gestapo. She did not know Gillie’s codename, so she had no idea where he was, what he was doing and if he were safe. The worry of that, she kept to herself. Her parents were still receiving postcards from him, but she was not at all sure they deceived her mother, though she pretended they did.

‘Gillie is safe and well and we are not to worry that he can’t get home for a bit,’ she had told Prue the last time she was home.
‘He is kept hard at work and missing us. He remembered Papa’s birthday and sent him a new pipe. We have to write to the War Office to reply, like we used to do for you before we learnt the address of your lodgings.’

‘It’s done when people move around a lot,’ Prue had told her. ‘It saves having to keep telling people you’ve moved.’

‘You haven’t moved.’

‘I might have done in the beginning. I’m more settled now.’

‘Are you comfortable there? It doesn’t sound like anything you’ve been used to.’

‘No, of course it isn’t but it’s OK, and I’ve got Sheila for company.’

‘You wouldn’t have had anything to do with her before the war.’

‘I know and it would have been my loss. She is a lovely person and has taught me a thing or two about courage and loyalty, and making the best of what you’ve got.’

‘There’s no news about her brother, then?’

‘No. I think he must be dead. I think, in her heart of hearts, she knows it too, but she hasn’t actually said so.’

‘Is she still seeing that American?’

‘Johnnie, yes, they meet now and again and correspond.’

‘Will they make a go of it?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think she knows. There’s plenty of time. After the war …’

‘After the war. Everyone is saying that nowadays. When do you think that will be?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘I hope it will be soon. I am so tired of it all.’

‘We all are, Mama. But it can’t be long now.’

‘And then Gillie will come home.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think he is doing anything dangerous?’

She had sighed. ‘I have no idea what he’s doing, Mama.’ She hated telling fibs to her mother, not only about Gillie but about her own work, especially when she was sure her mother knew it and pretended to believe her. No wonder poor Mama was so tired of it all.

The last drop had brought with it rifles, ammunition, hand grenades, explosives and detonators, plus French money in the form of coins and banknotes. Gilbert had no idea how London had come by them and wondered if they were genuine or had been forged, just as his identity papers had been.

Some of the explosives had been put to good use blowing up an ammunition train standing in a siding in the marshalling yards, which had the added advantage of damaging the nearby buildings and tearing up the line. French workmen were repairing the damage, but they were taking their time about it. Equipment and materials kept mysteriously disappearing. And of course there had been German reprisals and that was hard to stomach. They had a sadistic way of doing this, arresting perfectly innocent people and shooting them, or imprisoning them as hostages against future sabotage. He tried not to think of these poor prisoners helplessly awaiting their fate. There were those who condemned the
resistants
on the grounds that they did no lasting damage and were not worth the lives that were taken as a consequence. It was a point of view with which he could sympathise.

‘It has to be done,’ he said on one of the few occasions when he went to the farm to speak to everyone. ‘What we are doing is helping to cripple the German war machine and when the allies invade …’

‘When is that likely to be?’ Gustave demanded. ‘Seems to me, they are more interested in Italy than France.’

The battle for North Africa had been won and the German army sent packing, leaving the Allies to turn their attention to Italy. They had taken Sicily and, the week before, invaded the mainland. ‘I can’t tell you what is in the minds of our leaders,’ he said. ‘But our turn will come. We must keep going.’

They went on to talk tactics and each of the men was given instructions to take to his own section, then they dispersed, leaving the farmhouse one by one. Gilbert stopped to speak to Esme. They went up to her room so that she could send her scheduled message.

‘Thank you for your letters,’ he said quietly when that had been done and the aerial withdrawn and put into the case with the wireless. She pulled up the corner of a rug and lifted two floorboards to reveal the hiding place for the wireless. He put it in there for her and replaced the boards and carpet.

‘Was it what you wanted?’

He smiled. ‘Love letters. Oh, yes. Monsieur Lebonier is a lucky man to have such a devoted sweetheart.’ He had read the letters with mounting pleasure, hoping they were not entirely fictitious, but written from the heart. He was disappointed when she did not answer.

‘I think the time has come for me to find a new place to work,’ she said. ‘I am sure the Germans are watching this farm.’

‘Your cover hasn’t been broken, has it?’

‘I don’t think so, but Anton is sometimes reckless about security and walks about with a rifle over his shoulder and a grenade in his pocket. I have spoken to him about it, but he laughs and says it’s in case he comes across a lone German. There are no lone Germans, Boris, they patrol in packs, like wolves, and when they come for milk and eggs, they look about them and poke about. It makes me fearful.’

‘So where do you want to go?’

‘I think I should move into the town. It won’t be so easy for the Germans to trace the signal in among the buildings and I might have a better chance of escaping if they come for me. We are isolated here, but there is nowhere to run to, except farm buildings and ditches. I would soon be caught.’

‘Heaven forbid,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask Paul what he suggests. I’ll read the riot act to Anton too. He is putting everyone at risk, including his own mother.’

Madame had been as good as her word and carried messages backwards and forwards as she went about the business of selling her farm produce and queuing up for food. Her voluminous black skirts could hide a myriad of small items.

‘So I told him.’

He stopped speaking to take her shoulders in his hands. ‘Esme, you will take care, won’t you?’

‘Of course. And the same goes for you.’

‘Don’t worry, I have every intention of surviving.’ He smiled. ‘I should like to think you meant some of the nice things you said in your letters, and it wasn’t all about deceiving the Boche.’

She laughed. ‘That would be telling.’

‘Damn this war, damn the Germans, damn everybody who is playing such havoc with our lives. I’ve got to go. I’ll send word by Madame about a move, when I’ve found somewhere safe.’

He put his finger under her chin and raised it so that he could see her face. The strain was beginning to tell, he realised. She was far too thin and there were dark shadows under her eyes which contrasted sharply with the pale of her cheeks. ‘Take care,’ he said and bent to kiss her. ‘From Gerard, your sweetheart,’ he murmured, then clattered down the stairs, found his bicycle in the yard and pedalled away.

Before the move could be accomplished, Madame came to Paul’s house with the news that Esme had been arrested. Paul had already left for work and Gilbert was there alone. ‘She came into town and was stopped in a routine street search,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know why they decided to take her in. Perhaps they didn’t like the look of her identity papers or perhaps someone betrayed her. I don’t know.’

Gilbert’s heart sank. They had been told to prepare for such an eventuality, but the news was a shock just the same. His lovely Esme, what would the beasts do to her? ‘How do you know this?’ he asked.

‘I was stopped in the same search, further down the road, but they weren’t interested in me and let me go.’

‘Why did she come to town?’

‘I don’t know, but she was expecting a call from London. Perhaps it was urgent and she couldn’t wait for me to come back and take it for her.’ She paused. ‘Did you know she had been arrested before?’

‘No, I didn’t. When and where?’

‘In 1941. She told me she had been in Fresnes prison for sabotage, but she escaped when they tried to transport her to Germany.’

He was puzzled. ‘But that can’t be. I met her in England.’

‘She went to England on a fishing boat from Marseilles to Gibraltar. She was flown out from there. Someone in London asked her to come back. I don’t give much for her chances if the Boche learn her real name.’

‘My God! She never said a word of this to me. Why didn’t she tell me?’ He didn’t know whether to be angry or full of admiration for her courage.

‘We all have our secrets, Monsieur. No doubt she thought it was
safer for you not to know, but she told me in case she was arrested again and you would need to know. She said if that happened, not to do anything foolish.’

He had to think quickly. ‘Go home and get rid of that wireless set. Take it out of the house and make sure it can’t be found. If the Boche come, stick to Arlene’s cover story. Go now, please.’ He watched her hurry away, then left himself to go to the bicycle shop.

‘The arrest might not be anything to do with the circuit,’ he told Paul. ‘But we must warn everyone, shut down all letterboxes, make sure the arms and explosives are hidden well away from anyone’s home and stop everyone from going anywhere near them. With luck we might avert total disaster.’

‘And Arlene?’ Paul queried.

‘Arlene won’t talk. But somehow or other we have to get her out. Is there any way you can find out where they’ve taken her and what they are charging her with?’

‘I’ve got a German contact I met in
Le Coq Rouge.
He likes to talk about football. He used to be a professional player. I buy him a cognac now and again to keep him sweet. I’ll see what I can find out.’

‘Thank you. I’ll go the rounds and make sure everyone is alerted. I’ll meet you at the farm this evening.’

It took him the rest of the day to warn everyone and shut down the circuit. As far as he could tell, neither the Germans nor the
Brigade Speciale
were instituting an all-out search. It didn’t mean they were safe; the Boche could simply be watching and waiting, ready to pounce on the whole group.

At nine o’clock, he set off for the farmhouse. Crossing the bridge meant showing his papers to the guards. If there had been anything wrong with Esme’s, the same would probably be true of
his. He decided not to risk it, but walked along the bank to a place where he knew there was a small rowing boat moored. It was illegal to have it, but its owner had pulled it up into a little boathouse and covered it with sacking. It had been used to help people from occupied to unoccupied France, but now there was no unoccupied France, it was still used to help escapees down the line.

He found the boat’s owner and was soon being conveyed to the other bank. It was a quiet evening; not even the sound of aircraft droning overhead on their way to bomb Germany disturbed the rural peace, nothing but the quiet creaking of the oars and the occasional splash. The scene contrasted sharply with the scene going on in his head. His lovely Esme being interrogated and tortured, starved and humiliated, and no doubt keeping quiet to save his life and the lives of others in the circuit. He was fairly certain she would hold out for the forty-eight hours required of her, but would she break after that? How could he let her suffer? He was well aware that this situation was just what his bosses in London would deplore: one of their operatives being emotionally involved with another. He assumed they knew all about her previous adventures when they had encouraged her to return. Why hadn’t he been told? Sometimes this fixation with security went too far. He had to keep a cool head. Nothing would be gained by rushing his fences.