After Dunkirk Page 2

  Chantal’s eyes widened with alarm. “Are you a fool? If the Nazis catch us…” She made a slicing motion across her throat.

  Amélie shrugged impatiently. “They don’t need an excuse. That man is here because he fought for us, for our country. He needs our help.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Ferrand Boulier, the girls’ father, appeared behind them. Thin, wizened, and bent, he regarded them with dubious eyes and then stared out the window. “What is it? What did you see out there?”

  The sisters exchanged glances. “It’s nothing, Papa,” said Chantal. “We were just watching the German soldiers running up the beach to get out of the rain.”

  Ferrand eyed them. He pointed a finger by his head skyward and wagged it, an eternal French gesture. “Don’t be watching them too much. They are not our friends, and I’m going to have enough trouble keeping them from you.”

  Amélie swayed back and forth on her feet, anxious to end the conversation and get back to the window. “We know, and we don’t like them either. Seeing them run for cover was fun, that’s all.”

  Ferrand’s eyes narrowed as he examined his daughters’ faces. “You could never lie to me,” he told Amélie. “Every time you tried as a little girl, you twisted back and forth on your feet just like you’re doing now. What else is going on?”

  “She saw a British soldier in that gully,” Chantal blurted. “She wants to help him.”

  Ferrand whirled on Amélie, whose cheeks flushed as she glared at her sister. “That’s not true. I thought I saw another dead body on the beach where the gully ends. But it’s gone. I must have been mistaken.”

  Her father stepped closer to the window and stared down at the beach where Amélie had indicated. “My eyes are not what they were,” he said quietly after a moment. “I can barely make out the beach.” He turned and craned his neck toward Amélie, his expression muted. “Tell me exactly what you saw, and don’t lie to me. Twisting on your feet is not the only way you gave yourself away.”

  Amélie sighed and told her father everything she had seen. “We have to help. If we leave him out there, les Boches will either capture or kill him.”

  Ferrand listened carefully, then remained in thought for several minutes.

  “You are to do exactly as I say,” he said at last, “which is nothing. If you saw such a soldier, he is not your concern. I won’t risk your lives.”

  Amélie looked furious. “How can you say that? He risked his life for us. That’s why he’s down there in the mud. We can’t leave him. Our duty—”

  “I know our duty,” Ferrand stormed. “I know my duty. I fought in the last war, and my obligation now is to protect my daughters. If your mother were alive, God rest her soul, she would tell you the same thing. I’ll have a hard-enough time keeping you from being raped by these pillagers without you going out and inviting it.” He pointed a finger at them. “You are not to leave this house until I say so. Is that understood?”

  “But Papa—” Amélie interjected.

  “Is that understood?” Ferrand repeated.

  “Yes,” Chantal replied.

  Amélie only nodded, her face pinched in anger.

  Ferrand exhaled. “Now, I have to go to my brother’s house for bread. We have none, and the baker was closed today. He’s already short of supplies, but luckily, his shop still stands. When I get back, I expect to see you both here, dry, and no strange man in my house. Do I have to say that again?”

  Both girls shook their heads. Ferrand nodded brusquely. Moments later, they heard him rummaging about in the kitchen for his raincoat, and then the back door slammed.

  The heavy rain collected in the gullies and poured mud and water down their beds to the ocean. It produced a new challenge to Jeremy as he struggled to reach higher ground, his boots either sinking in the ooze or slipping without traction. Progress was slow, but better than when he was low crawling on the beach.

  Ahead, the gully narrowed, and above it he saw flat ground that appeared to be a road crossing in front of him. Finally. From his desperate flight to the beach, he recalled stands of trees where he could hide while gaining his bearings. He had dodged between houses then, and now thought he might find a place between or behind them where he could shelter. Maybe a garage or a garden shed.

  As he approached the gully’s tapered upper end, he saw another channel running at a right angle to his left. When he reached it, he heard a hiss, and a small, thin man stepped into his path.

  “I am Ferrand,” the man said in heavily accented English. He motioned to indicate the direction of Dunkirk. “Nazis!” He turned in the opposite direction and gestured for Jeremy to follow.

  Jeremy hesitated.

  Ferrand turned to him, his face expressing urgency. “Vien,” he called. “We help.” He beckoned again and started back in the direction he had come.

  “Why did you have to tell Papa?” Amélie demanded of Chantal. “We could have saved that soldier.” They huddled on the floor together, staring out the window.

  “He would have found out anyway. You were never good at lying.”

  “Now we’re stuck inside when we could be doing something.”

  Chantal sighed. “You’re always more adventuresome than me. I’m not brave. I just want this war to end so we can get back to normal.”

  “This is no adventure. We can’t let the Germans overrun our country and do nothing.”

  Chantal buried her face in her hands. “But they kill, and they take everything. If we resist, they will make us pay.”

  Amélie embraced her sister, caressing the back of her head. “We’ll get through this, little one, but I think we’ll both have to be braver than we ever thought possible.”

  Chantal whimpered and rubbed her eyes as she straightened to look once more out the window. “Look!” She pointed at two German soldiers making their way up the road from Dunkirk. They would pass right above the head of the gully where Amélie had seen the British soldier.

  “They might see him,” Amélie gasped. “We must do something.”

  She flew into the kitchen, emerging moments later with her raincoat. Before Chantal could protest, she headed out the front door while still wrapping and clasping herself in the garment.

  The rain came in torrents as she stepped out. She halted to regain sight of the two German soldiers and pull the hood over her head. They had moved past the house and stood over the gully, staring into its recesses.

  Amélie hurried through the garden gate, leaving it open behind her. “Allô,” she called after the soldiers. They did not hear her, so she ran to close the distance and called again, “Allô.” Without waiting for a response, she darted to the soldiers and tugged on the sleeve of the nearest one.

  Startled, he whirled on her, and seeing his sudden movement, his companion did the same.

  “We need food,” Amélie yelled in French above the roar and splash of the falling rain. With her hand she mimicked eating.

  The soldiers eyed her at first with anger and impatience, then amusement. One smirked, a salacious gleam in his eye. He said something to his comrade and then reached to the top of Amélie’s raincoat as if to pull it open.

  Amélie drew back, her eyes betraying her horror. “Essen,” she screamed, using the German word for food, one of the few she knew. “Essen,” she repeated, standing her ground.

  The second soldier grasped his companion’s shoulder and shook his head while locking his eyes on Amélie’s face. “Abendglocke,” he said slowly, his tone stern. Then, more deliberately, he said in French with a heavy Germanic accent, “Couvre-feu.” Curfew.

  The soldier who had tried to open Amélie’s jacket reached out again, shoved her, and waved her off. “Raus,” he commanded. Then the two moved away from the gully and recommenced their patrol.

  Breathing with relief, Amélie stood on the drenched pavement in the rain, watching them go. For good measure, she bleated out again, “Essen,” but the soldiers paid her no heed and continued on their
path.

  In the gully, Jeremy watched Ferrand go, and hesitated. Then, above them, he heard voices. Pressing against the side of the gulch and hardly daring to breathe, he craned to see through the rain to the street surface. Ferrand also froze in place and lifted his eyes toward the road.

  Two German soldiers stood there peering into the channel. Jeremy pressed himself harder against the mud wall.

  A woman’s voice joined those of the soldiers. Her utterances were few, and she stooped against the wind and rain. One of the soldiers reached for her twice, but the other restrained him, and they motioned for her to leave. Then they proceeded on their patrol, away from Dunkirk.

  Jeremy glanced at Ferrand. Even in this light, he saw that the thin old man’s grim face had taken on an extra layer of anxiety.

  “We go,” Ferrand called, motioning for Jeremy to follow. His urgency was palpable.

  With a quick glance at the road, Jeremy followed. The water ran ankle-deep with a rapid current, and the walls, slick with mud, offered no place to grasp for balance. Soon, this second gully curved upward, where a culvert emptied below the roadbed.

  Ferrand crawled into it with no difficulty, but being much larger, Jeremy struggled through, squirming against the flowing water and fighting down a claustrophobic panic. When he emerged on the other end, Ferrand stood waiting and helped Jeremy out.

  “This way,” Ferrand said, moving swiftly to a stand of trees and then to the shadows of an alley behind a row of houses. They came to a garden gate. Immediately inside stood a toolshed. He opened the door and motioned for Jeremy to enter. The shelter was dry and long enough that Jeremy could lie down. “You wait here,” he said.

  Ferrand stepped inside behind him and leaned into the shadows. When he straightened, he handed over a blanket and a small pouch he had packed before leaving the house. “Food,” he said. “You eat. I come back, yes?”

  Exhausted and grateful, Jeremy only nodded. He collapsed on the floor and pulled the blanket over him while clutching the small bag of food. Even before Ferrand had shut the door, he closed his eyes in sleep.

  2

  Ferrand’s eyes blazed when he entered his house through the back door. He pulled off his raincoat and threw it across a kitchen chair before striding into the front room, tracking thick mud behind him. His daughters sat on the floor, still staring out the window; however, at the front door, he spotted a puddle of water that trailed into the living room.

  “Don’t play innocent with me,” he fumed. “One of you went outside the house, against my orders, and into the rain. Stand up.”

  Crestfallen, the girls climbed to their feet. There was no hiding Amélie’s wet shoes. “Just as I thought,” Ferrand said. “You disobeyed me.” He directed his attention to her. “Are you trying to get yourself killed along with our family? Why did you speak with those soldiers?”

  Amélie looked up sharply. “What soldiers?”

  His anger rising further, Ferrand snapped, “Don’t play with me. I heard you begging those soldiers for food. How did you know that word in German?”

  Ignoring his question, Amélie stared at him. “I confess. I went out to talk to them. I couldn’t let them catch the British soldier.”

  “You were foolish,” Ferrand retorted. “There is no British soldier, and even if there were, he’s not worth your life, or your assault. That Nazi had his mind on doing bad things to you.”

  Amélie’s eyes dropped to take in the muck caked around Ferrand’s boots and the trail of mud leading from the kitchen. She glanced at her father’s face. “You were there. How else could you know what happened?”

  At a loss for words and still angry, Ferrand could only stare with wide, yellowed eyes. A smile broke across Amélie’s face. “You went to help him.”

  She crossed the room and wrapped the old man’s head in her arms. “You talk so tough, but we all know what a soft heart you have.” She pulled back suddenly. “Did you see him? Where is he?” Leaping away from Ferrand, she ran toward the kitchen. Seeing it empty, she turned back into the living room. “What have you done with him?”

  “I didn’t see him,” Ferrand grunted, shifting his eyes.

  Amélie’s laugh had the excited, musical tone Ferrand had known and loved since she was a child. “You’re no better at lying than I am,” she said. “Tell me. You know I’ll find out.”

  “Is he really here?” Chantal broke in with mixed excitement and fear. “Can we see him?”

  “He’s in the shed, isn’t he?” Amélie watched Ferrand’s face closely, then turned and started toward the kitchen.

  “No,” Ferrand bellowed. “He cannot come in here. It’s too risky, and he’s filthy and wet. At least if the Germans find him in the shed, we can say we didn’t know he was there. But if he’s in the house…” He shrugged, leaving unstated his fear of impending doom.

  “We can’t leave him out there,” Amélie said. She embraced her father again. “You already risked your life for him—”

  “You did too,” Ferrand interrupted. “We’ve done our part. We can’t do more.”

  “He’s cold and wet.” Amélie laid her head on his shoulder. “He could die from exposure.”

  She stood and once more moved toward the back of the house. “Chantal,” she called, “I’ll need your help.”

  Her sister clambered hesitantly to her feet, her eyes on Ferrand, torn between Amélie’s command and her father’s wishes.

  He breathed deeply and nodded, his reluctance showing on his face. “I’ll help.”

  As though through a fog, Jeremy heard piano music. The melody was familiar, one he had often heard his sister, Claire, play while growing up. It was a classical piece, thunderous, moving, and requiring great skill as the concentration on bass notes moved to light trilling at the higher end of the scales.

  Jeremy thought he dreamed the tune, bringing as it did images of his sister at the piano in his home in the English Channel Islands, and slowly he realized he was awake. He had no idea how long he had slept. He vaguely recalled horrific sights and sounds of war, thrashing among images of dark-uniformed soldiers tromping him into the sand and of a skinny little man leading him into a dark, tight tunnel. He squirmed against the panic of being unable to move. In the recesses of his mind he heard the voice of a woman, maybe two, and remembered the sensation of being half-dragged and half-carried through rain and wind into a warmer place.

  He awakened by degrees, first sensing dim light, then the warmth of blankets and a soft bed, and then the enchanting music.

  When he finally opened his eyes, his first view was a blurred image of a figure standing next to his bed. As his eyes cleared, he perceived a young girl smiling at him. She spoke, but he was too groggy to make out her words.

  He shook his head to clear it and looked again. The girl was still there, and she held his hand. She let it drop. Then he felt her hand again, wiping his brow with a moist cloth.

  She had moved closer, and he saw that she was perhaps in her early teens. Her hair was dark with a reddish hue, her skin white and soft, her stature smallish, but he could not make out the color of her eyes.

  He tried to sit up.

  “Shh,” Chantal said. “You rest.” She spoke in broken English.

  He sank back into the sheets. “England,” he croaked. “I must get back.” He dropped his head onto the pillow and reached behind his head, noticing that his hair was soft and clean.

  “Wait. I get my sister.” Chantal rushed out of the room.

  Moments later, the music stopped, and almost immediately, Chantal reappeared leading Amélie, a version of herself only a few years older.

  “He’s awake,” Chantal said, “and he says he wants to leave.”

  “Not now,” Amélie said firmly, her French accent strong. She carried an air of authority. “You rest. I get food.”

  As she left, their father entered the room. Jeremy studied Ferrand’s face, his memory flashing to the small man who had helped him escape the gully and the G
ermans on a dark, wet night. He raised up on his right elbow and reached forward.

  “You saved me,” he rasped. “Thank you.”

  Ferrand nodded and clasped Jeremy’s hand. Chantal stepped forward.

  “My father not speak English,” she stammered. “My sister—”

  Jeremy fluttered his right palm to interrupt her. “I speak your language,” he said in French.

  “Ah, bon,” Chantal replied, delighted, and reverting to French. “My sister speaks a little English.” She laughed and held her thumb and forefinger close together to demonstrate her meaning. “I do too. We studied it in school. My father speaks only a few English words, but he understands a lot, and yes, he saved you. My sister, too.” She twisted from side to side and laughed again. “Not me. I’m too afraid.”

  Jeremy smiled and shifted his eyes to Ferrand. “Thank you again.” He squeezed the old man’s hand.

  “I did nothing,” Ferrand said.

  “My sister saw you on the beach,” Chantal broke in. “She ran out in the rain to distract the soldiers.” She detailed what Amélie had done. “My father was very angry with her.”

  Jeremy closed his eyes. “Thank you so much.” He put his hand behind his head and again felt his clean hair. “Who—”

  Anticipating his question, Chantal’s eyes flashed with amusement. “We cleaned you, Amélie and I. You were cold and shivering. My father watched us. He wouldn’t let us see or touch…” She indicated Jeremy’s middle parts. “You have to do that yourself.”

  In spite of his fatigue, Jeremy chuckled. Then his face became grave. “I must leave. I’m a danger to you.”

  “You’ll go when you’re strong enough,” Ferrand said. “You need rest. We’ll watch the Nazis. If they come, we’ll move you. You stay here.” His tone was one of finality.