After Dunkirk Page 15

  “Hmm? Oh. Sorry. We’re going to our sister’s farm near Lyon. Your cousins will be happy to see you. The Germans haven’t reached there yet. Ferrand thought you should have time to become established in the community before they arrive.”

  “What’s Father planning with that group he’s formed?”

  “I don’t think he knows yet. He started gathering people together as soon as he saw the British start their evacuation. He knew we were about to be left defenseless.” He spat out the last word with angry intensity. “Our leaders betrayed us with their incompetence.”

  “Have you heard from Nicolas? Did the American get out safely?”

  “You mean the British soldier?”

  “Ah, yes. He speaks French so well, but he has that Sercquiais accent, and once in a while he sounds like an American.” As she spoke of Jeremy, her voice caught, and she felt a strange softening in her chest. She turned her head to obscure the flushing in her cheeks. “His father is American. He told me that.”

  Claude chuckled. “You like him.”

  Irritated, Amélie snapped, “We’re in a war. I don’t have time to think about such things. He’s dead to me.”

  “When you went out in the rain, you saved both Jeremy and your father,” Claude said, adding softly, “and later you saved Chantal.”

  “I’m not proud of it. It’s something that happened that never should have. Why are we living this way, with the Nazis invading our country, dictating our lives, and all those French and British boys getting killed trying to protect us?” She reached for a handkerchief and sniffed. “Jeremy is beautiful and kind and brave, and he might be on his way to be captured or murdered like all the rest. We all risked saving him. I’m worried about Nicolas too. If he gets caught helping…” Her voice trailed away.

  “Nicolas knows how to move around and take care of himself,” Claude said. “The last time I talked with him, he and Jeremy had made it to the northwest of Paris. The Nazis had not yet cut the lines. The refugee traffic is thick and heavy, though. It helps them hide, but they are in the same boat as everyone else heading south.”

  Late in the afternoon, they approached the farm in Dardilly. Amélie’s mind wandered again to Nicolas, and to Jeremy. Once again, her throat and lungs constricted, and she felt warmth rising in her cheeks. “I can’t love you,” she whispered to the mental image of Jeremy’s strong face. “I don’t know you, and I have no time.”

  When they arrived at her cousins’ house, she was surprised to find them in a festive mood. They ran out of the house to greet her, Claude, and Chantal.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Marie, her cousin closest to her age, enthused. “We are excited to have you here, especially at this time.” She glanced at Chantal, who seemed barely aware of the activity around her. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s been very sick,” Amélie said, striking a defensive note. “I’ll have to look after her.”

  Andre, another cousin a few years older than Amélie, chimed in. “I’ll bring in your things. What an adventure you’ve had. We’re glad it’s all over now.”

  Amélie stared at him without comprehension. “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Marshal Pétain is negotiating a peace agreement with Germany. He seeks the end of armed hostilities and told French soldiers that the fighting must stop. France will be saved. It was just on the radio.”

  Claude swore and became silent. No one appeared to have noticed.

  Sensing her cousin’s enthusiasm, Amélie contained her shock as the five walked a gravel path into the stone farmhouse with a thatched roof. “I-I don’t know what to say,” she commented. “The news comes as such a surprise.”

  A few minutes later, as they sat in the living room with refreshments and were joined by Claude’s sister and her husband, Andre crossed to a radio on a stand against the wall. He tuned it to the BBC station, and they listened to music while waiting to hear news from Britain.

  Then, an announcer stated that General Charles de Gaulle would address the French nation from London. He had escaped from France two days earlier.

  Andre snickered. “Doesn’t he realize that hardly anyone will hear his speech? Mon Dieu! Radios aren’t things you can carry around with you or play in your car. Besides, a huge part of the population is out on the roads.”

  “Some cars have radios,” Marie interjected.

  “Not many, at least not in France today. Maybe in America,” Claude said with a sarcastic edge to his tone. “Either way, I suppose that de Gaulle’s audience will be roughly equal to Pétain’s, for exactly the same reasons.”

  They listened to the speech, de Gaulle’s voice sounding hoarse and hollow over the electronic crackling of the radio set. “Has the last word been said?” he asked defiantly. “Must hope disappear? Is defeat final? No!

  “France is not alone! She is not alone! She has a vast Empire behind her. She can align with the British Empire that holds the sea and continues the fight. She can, like England, use without limit the immense industry of the United States.”

  He exhorted his countrymen to join him in the fight by all means available. “Whatever happens,” he finished, “the flame of the Free French resistance must not be and will not be extinguished. Vive la France!”

  When he had finished, Andre said in disgust, “That fool wants France to keep fighting. Many of us remember the last war, even if we were too young to fight. Such death and destruction. We don’t want that again.”

  “Pétain is the idiot,” Claude snapped back. “He gives aid and comfort to the army that drove us from our homes. He thinks he can negotiate with the madman in Berlin who orders Stukas to fire on a fleeing population.” He breathed hard as he struggled to control his rage. “He asks Germany what their terms will be? He sees himself as the great savior of France by surrendering to those monsters who kill our people.” He whirled on Andre. “Our hero of the Great War is a Nazi sympathizer. The man now running France seeks to emulate that atrocious Austrian corporal with the silly little mustache.”

  Nicolas and Jacques had left Saint-Nazaire early that same morning. Although they had intended to get to Marseille as quickly as they could, Nicolas felt compelled to go first to Dardilly.

  “My cousins, Amélie and Chantal, are there. They will want to see me and hear about Jeremy; Amélie in particular.” He told the story of how she had saved the British soldier at Dunkirk and the obvious attraction between them.

  Although sympathetic, Jacques objected. “There is nothing she can do for him now. The Nazi war machine will not pause for sentiment. You’re a valued fighter. We need you in Marseille.”

  “This war won’t be won in a day,” Nicolas had replied. “At the end, if we’ve sacrificed our humanity, we will still have lost. My cousins need me for a short while and then I’ll meet you in Marseille.”

  Reluctantly, Jacques agreed. They traveled together to Bourges. Progress was slow. Vehicular and foot traffic congested the roads, and frightened people filled the trains. The two men used each mode of travel intermittently depending on what was available, catching rides when they could, boarding trains when possible, or just joining the mass of trudging refugees.

  Late that afternoon, they stopped to rest in a small café in a village south of Bourges. The owner apologized for having nothing to serve aside from water, but he allowed them to rest their legs at one of his tables out of the heat. He refused payment.

  Inside, the place was empty, although a radio played from behind the cash register. There, while sipping water and allowing their minds a respite from the atrocities they had seen, the two men listened to General Pétain’s address to the nation calling for an end to hostilities.

  Their eyes met, fury rising as they understood the implications. They scoffed when, at the end of his speech, Pétain said, “I give the gift of myself to France.”

  Jacques leaped to his feet, shoving the chair backward and glaring at the radio. “Keep your gift, coward,” he yelled at Pétain�
�s imaginary presence. “Your illegal government might surrender, but the people of France never will.”

  Out on the street, car horns tooted, joined by a jubilant cry from the stream of people going by. Nicolas hurried to look out the door.

  Some men and women danced and hugged. The crowd had stopped its forward movement. Apparently, word had spread in the street about Pétain’s broadcast. As Nicolas watched more closely, some in the crowd reversed course and headed in the opposite direction with expressions of relief. They engaged each other with animated, happy laughter and conversed with big smiles and bright eyes.

  For others, the news did not appear welcome. Their shoulders drooped further, and they continued their journeys with a seemingly heavier tread.

  As Nicolas returned to his seat, the restaurant owner entered from the kitchen, worry plastered on his face. He brought with him a tray with a loaf of bread, some cheese and sliced beef, a bottle of wine, and three glass goblets.

  “I heard you,” he told Jacques, shaking his head. “This is a bad thing. France will pay a heavy price.” He set the food and drink on the table. “Please, be my guests. This is from my personal pantry.”

  While the two men thanked him, he crossed to the radio and fiddled with the dial. “Let’s hear what they say on the BBC.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they listened as de Gaulle called on his countrymen to resist by whatever means. When he finished with “Vive la France!” all three men stood and lifted their wine goblets in the air.

  “Now there,” Jacques exclaimed, “is a leader we can follow.” They clinked their glasses together.

  25

  Later in the afternoon, Amélie went for a walk. Chantal seemed no better or worse, sitting on the front veranda looking across the countryside while clutching her family photograph. Amélie had tried to raise her spirits by gently pointing out various sights, but her sister barely responded.

  Her uncle and aunt’s farm spanned many acres, with orchards of apricots, peaches, raspberries, and walnuts. They kept a small part of the farm reserved for dairy operations and produced their own branded cheese for market. Situated in the verdant valleys within the Rhône-Alpes, the majestic beauty lifted Amélie’s spirits, and she had hoped that it might have a similar effect on Chantal. When she received no indication that such would occur, she struck out on the dirt lanes leading through the orchards.

  Deliberately shutting out memories of the past week as she walked, she breathed in the sweet air laden with the scent of blooming wildflowers. A cool breeze sweeping down from the mountains reinvigorated her.

  After an hour of hiking, she started her trek back to the house. As she did, her stomach tightened, and the dread that had been her constant companion since hearing the first sounds of war returned. It increased the closer she came to the house.

  When she reached the driveway that led out to the main road, she saw another figure advancing toward her in the waning sunlight. She stopped to see who it was, putting the flat of her hand above her eyes to shield them from the sun.

  She gasped as she recognized Nicolas’ swinging gait. Arms flung wide, she ran to him and embraced him tightly.

  “I’ve been so worried about you,” she said as happy tears ran down her cheeks. She stood back to look at him. He appeared gaunt and tired, and she noticed that his signature big smile was gone. “Your father is here, and Chantal. They’ll be thrilled to see you.” Grasping his hand, she led him up the road to the farmhouse.

  Chantal saw them coming. She hurried to Nicolas, buried her face against his chest, and sobbed quietly and uncontrollably.

  Surprised, Amélie backed away and let the moments linger.

  Claude emerged through the door. Seeing Nicolas, he put his arms around him and Chantal. Very few words were spoken.

  At last, the emotional greetings completed, the uncle, aunt, and cousins welcomed Nicolas into their home. Dinner followed, yet Amélie noticed that despite the happiness at seeing Nicolas, an undercurrent of sadness and dread remained. He appeared reluctant to speak about his experiences of the past week, a period that now seemed an epoch.

  After dinner, as dusk settled in, Nicolas quietly asked his father to keep Chantal engaged while he spoke privately with Amélie. Seeing the grave expression on his son’s face, Claude asked no questions. Chantal had been enlivened a bit by Nicolas’ appearance, so Claude cajoled her into walking with him along the farm roads.

  When Nicolas and Amélie were finally alone, she asked about Jeremy. “You haven’t mentioned him. Did you get him to a port?”

  Nicolas nodded, but tightness in his throat prevented him from speaking momentarily. Amélie put her hand on his forearm, her eyes wide with alarm.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  Nicolas told her of their hike across France, arrival in Saint-Nazaire, and meeting with Jacques. He spared horrific detail but included his last moments with Jeremy and the sinking of the Lancastria.

  “Were there any survivors?” she asked through tears.

  “Many. But also, many dead. We stayed out most of last night searching, and we saved as many as we could find, but…” His voice trailed off.

  “And other boats were out too?”

  Nicolas nodded. “And some managed to get survivors onto other ships.”

  “So, he could be alive.”

  “It’s possible.” Nicolas took a piece of paper from his pocket. “Just before he left, he asked me to give this to you.” He laughed quietly, ruefully. “I offered to be his Cyrano de Bergerac. Anyone could see the chemistry between you two.”

  Amélie dismissed the comment and carefully unfolded the note. It read:

  Dear Amélie,

  I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to you and your family that is impossible to repay.

  You live in my mind. My first waking thought is of you. My last image before going to sleep is of you. I see your hair, your hands, your face, those honey-colored eyes, and I hear your kind voice.

  I pray that someday I might see you again, and hope when this war is over, you will welcome me to visit and get to know you better. Until then,

  Jeremy

  With an almost unbearable mix of emotions convulsing in her mind and heart, Amélie suddenly found breathing difficult. She leaned her head into Nicolas’ chest and then patted his shoulder.

  “Please, I need some time alone.”

  Nicolas squeezed her hand and stepped away.

  Amélie ran through the half-light of late evening down one of the paths she had visited earlier in the afternoon, head down, shoulders hunched, one hand covering her mouth. She saw her surroundings only in a blur. How could so many bad things happen in less than two weeks?

  She slowed her pace and walked on, remembering Jeremy’s face, strong even when asleep with exhaustion. Darkness overtook the last vestiges of daylight, and the half moon, already high in the sky, shone brightly. She found a secluded place off the path. There, she sat alone on a large stone under the light of the silvery orb, and wept.

  “Could I have loved you, Jeremy?” she sobbed. “Were you an infatuation only, because of this war?” She let the tears flow freely until she raised her head to stare up at the moon.

  The time with Jeremy had been so short, and yet they had laughed together and learned something of each other’s character beyond surface attractions. “I will never forget you,” she murmured, “and whether I live through this war or die, with my last breath, I will remember that I was loved, and that I loved.”

  A thought pressed on her conscious mind. Nicolas said that some survivors made it to shore, and some were taken to other ships.

  “Could you have made it to England, Jeremy?” she whispered. “How I hope so.”

  Her thoughts turned to her father. His transformation from sad, retiring widower to a decisive leader in a war against the merciless Nazi machine had shocked her. And Chantal. She is so young to have gone through what happened.

  Through her grief, A
mélie perceived that her father’s and sister’s emotional states were at opposite ends of a range, and probably tenuous. To survive, the three of them would need each other. Achieving victory in this war depended on fighting to the utmost. Returning to normalcy with a life worth living required being humane.

  Jeremy rose again in her mind. “I barely knew you,” she breathed, “but I’ll hold to the belief that you lived, and that someday, we’ll see each other again.”

  She sat a while longer, her emotions calmed. Then she climbed to her feet, returned down the lane, and found Nicolas waiting for her under a tree.

  “You’ve been my best friend all my life,” she said, kissing his cheek.

  “We’ve always been there for each other.”

  They sat in the grass, lost in thought. Amélie told Nicolas what had happened to Chantal and what she had done to Kallsen.

  “That’s why we had to flee.”

  “Will this never end?” Nicolas groaned. He fell back in the grass, seething with anger, and remained silent for a time.

  At last, he sat up. “Have you heard from your father?”

  Amélie tossed her head. “I’m very worried about him. Uncle Claude calls into that wine cellar under the bombed-out restaurant, but Papa is always out. The lines will be cut sooner or later, I’m sure of that, or the Germans will figure out a way to listen in.” She wiped her eyes as tears once again trickled down her face. “What will you do now?”

  Nicolas told her about Jacques and the resistance group taking root in Marseille. “He’s expecting me. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

  Dismayed, Amélie implored him, “Can’t you stay a day or two? I worried about you so much.”

  Nicolas shook his head. “This war won’t slow down or wait, and I’ve already seen that individuals can make a big difference.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and they rocked together. “You and Uncle Ferrand showed the rest of us how to fight. You killed a monster. Your father put a group together very quickly to help people escape. My friend, Jacques, connected with British intelligence on his shortwave radio.” He paused as another thought crossed his mind. “You do know that through his network, Uncle Ferrand helped quite a few soldiers escape to southern France.”