Chapter 1
Monday, 16 December 1940, Nevers, France.
The child's picture and his words have shocked and worried me, reminding me how much we are all at risk now - even innocent young children. If I was back in Paris I would know who to talk to about my concerns. But here? In Nevers?
I'm not saying I don't like being here. I do like being the art teacher in this primary school. I enjoy helping the children with their art. I just wasn't prepared for the answer Philippe gave when I asked if he'd drawn a pile of logs ready to go to the sawmill.
What was it he said? "They are not logs Mademoiselle. They are dead Germans piled in a heap. My uncle says all German soldiers deserve to be killed. So that's what I've drawn. Bang, bang, dead - pile them in a heap."
When he said those words I had immediately stopped talking to him in case other children in the class heard our conversation and innocently repeated it to others. What if a Gestapo informant heard Philippe using such language? The consequences could be fatal for both the child, his uncle and his parents.
As soon as the lunch break starts I leave the classroom, go outside and sit on my own in the hope the cold December air will help me focus my thoughts. It still worries me just thinking of his words and how he might repeat them to other people. But should I become involved? Can I really make any difference?
It's only been a couple of months since I escaped from Paris and I still feel quite alone. Although I've grown to like Nevers I would not have chosen to hide in this small provincial town in the occupied part of France, but then I wasn't given much choice. And right now, today, I have no one with whom I can discuss my worries about Philippe. The writing teacher, Françoise Deferre, has become a good friend and I could have talked to her but she's not here today. And there's no one else I feel I can fully trust.
As I look up I realize I may have chosen the wrong place to sit because I see Philippe walking towards me holding his drawing.
"Mademoiselle. You liked my picture. Do you want it?"
If I take the drawing, then no one else will see it or ask him what it is.
"Thank you Philippe. That would be nice. It's an unusual picture. May I ask why you drew it?"
"My uncle says the Germans invaded France and are killing French people. He says we need to resist and fight the German soldiers."
"Oh I see. Is that what your uncle says?"
"Yes. He and his friends speak all the time about fighting the Germans."
"Do you spend much time with your uncle?"
"Yes Mademoiselle. I live with my uncle now since my house in Nancy was bombed."
Tears begin to appear in Philippe's eyes. I put my arm around the boy and pull him close for a hug. "Where are your parents?"
"My father, mother and sister were all killed by the bomb. My uncle is my new Papa. He looks after me but I miss my real Papa." He begins to sob and I try to comfort him. "I'm sure you do. You are very brave and I'm sure your uncle is proud of you."
Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of the school bell indicating the end of the lunch break. I give Philippe a handkerchief to wipe his tears away so the other children will not ask him why he's been crying or make fun of him. He thanks me and after drying his eyes returns the wet handkerchief to me.
I hold the drawing. "I like this picture. You say I can keep it?"
"Yes Mademoiselle."
"Let's keep this picture a secret - just you and me. So please do not draw any more Germans and don't tell anyone what your uncle has been saying. Is that ok?"
"A secret? Oh yes Mademoiselle. I won't tell anyone."
After Philippe goes back to the classroom, I put the drawing carefully in my bag, slipping it in with my other papers. I know it's a risk for me but I feel I must alert Philippe's uncle. His unguarded comments in front of the child could result in someone reporting him to the Germans. And that could lead to arrest and execution. If something happened to his uncle Philippe would be on his own and I could never forgive myself for not acting.
But ever since June, when the Germans defeated and occupied my country, my France, I've become acutely and personally aware of the dangers I could be facing by talking openly to people, especially those I don't know. With all the betrayal I've seen and experienced I know I'm not alone in being suspicious of everyone, but I mustn't let that deter me from talking to Philippe's uncle.
When I arrived here from Paris the uppermost questions in my mind were all to do with survival. Who can I trust? Who is a collaborator? Who is involved in the resistance? I've seen with my own eyes how just a murmur of dissent can result in summary punishment. In November I witnessed Pierre LaFarge, an old veteran of the Great War, being arrested and sent to Fresnes prison for spitting at a German army patrol as it marched down the street.
And as for me? I now have an incriminating picture in my bag. I can't ask Philippe where he lives as he might ask why I want to know. I go into the classroom as if nothing is worrying me.
During the afternoon break I go into the school office to find Philippe's home address. I hope Madame Segal, the secretary, will be out - but no such luck. She looks up from her desk as I walk in. "Hello Mademoiselle Bruneau. Can I help you? Is it important? I was just going to take my break in the staff room."
A little lie is called for. "No. Nothing critical. I was just wanting to check some dates. On you go. I'll lock up as I leave."
"Thanks. I understand Madame Duchamps has brought in some special pastries and I've been looking forward to that. Don't take too long or there might not be any left."
I think of what she's just said. Pastries? Rationing has certainly made such once common delicacies extra special.
"That sounds wonderful. So go and enjoy. I'll be along soon."
Once Madame Segal leaves the office, I search quickly through the pupil register and find Philippe's address, 22 Rue d'Antoine. To avoid potential questions during the frequent Gestapo street searches, I memorize the address rather than write it down. I leave the office, lock the door and join the others in the staff room.
On the table is a plate with some pastries the likes of which I haven't seen for months. Madame Segal looks at me. "You're just in time Mademoiselle Bruneau. There aren't many left."
"Thank you for leaving some for me. I would hate to have missed this."
Between mouthfuls I express my pleasure. "This is delicious. I understand you brought these in Madame Duchamps. How did you get them? Or would that be an inappropriate question?"
She smiles at me and explains. "No, no. That's fine. I've already told the others. My brother, Tomas, runs the bakery, La Bouchée Parfaite, on Rue d'Antoine and the Germans asked him to provide pastries for a visiting dignitary. He told them that due to shortages, they would have to supply the flour and he somehow over estimated the amount he needed. And of course it would be stupid to let it go to waste."
With a broad smile I concur. "Of course, that would be a waste. Let's hope they invite more dignitaries."
As the staff chuckle at my suggestion, I try not to show concern at the incriminating revelations that Madame Duchamps has just made. Does she not realize she has just put her brother in potential jeopardy? I also hope my flippant comment will be sufficient to distract anyone from questioning my lateness. But no. Madame Segal asks me if my hunt was successful. "Did you find the dates you were looking for?"
"Yes, thank you. I could not remember which of the two Navarro children has a birthday this month."
At this point grumpy Monsieur Garnier speaks up. "Why do you want to know birthdays? You're not going to do something for them are you? Pupils need to be disciplined not indulged. Birthdays are not a reason for frivolous celebration."
I feel like telling him to mind his own business but instead just remark, "I am sure you're right Monsieur Garnier. Your subject is a disciplined subject but art is more of a creative subject and it's important that the -"
"Art is not a subject!" he interrupts me scornfully. "It's a waste of time. Teaching them German would be a better thing to do."
I disagree but keep my thoughts to myself rather than antagonize him further. Is Monsieur Garnier a collaborator or sympathizer? I'm certainly not going to ask him about his political views. What has this world come to?
I steer the conversation to a different subject. "It's a pity Mademoiselle Deferre is off sick. I'm sure she'd have enjoyed these pastries. Do we know when she'll be back?"
The secretary replies to my question. "I understand Mademoiselle Deferre will be back later this week. Apparently it has just been flu and she's recovering well."
Thankfully at this point the headmaster makes an announcement. "Break time is over. Back to classes please, but before we go, I think we all need to thank Madame Duchamps for the pastries."
After we all murmur our appreciation we leave the room and return to our classes. I take note that today's exchange with Monsieur Garnier is a stark reminder of the need for caution when expressing any opinions.
The second half of the afternoon feels as if it drags on forever and I'm increasingly concerned about the picture in my bag. How am I going to broach the subject with Philippe's uncle? He's obviously anti-German but I need to find a way to warn him to rein in his comments and not say such things in front of the child.
At the end of classes I grab my coat and hat and leave the school as inconspicuously as possible. I know the bakery, La Bouchée Parfaite, run by Madame Duchamps' brother, which means I don't need to ask where to find Rue d'Antoine. But the route there takes me past the Hotel de France, defiled by long red banners with their brazen Nazi swastikas. As I walk by I dream of ripping them down and burning them, but if I did that I wouldn't see tomorrow. So I just walk by as if nothing bothers me.
As I turn the corner into Rue d'Antoine I think I hear footsteps behind me and my heart begins to race. Have I been followed? I almost turn around to check until I realize to do so could indicate that I had a reason to be followed. No, I must just walk on as normal. The concept of normal, though, has gone out of the window. I'm embarking on a course of action which could lead to my arrest or worse. What's normal about that?
I stop at number 87 Rue d'Antoine on the pretence of looking at a little bird pecking at a bird feeder hanging from a tree. This gives me an opportunity to look back to see if I'm being followed. I cannot see anyone so perhaps I'm being too paranoid.
I begin to doubt my actions. Why should I care what happens to Philippe's uncle? I've never met him. It's the boy I'm more worried about. This uncle obviously holds some strong views and what if he doesn't listen to what I have come to tell him? Why should he listen to a strange woman who has knocked on his door uninvited? Perhaps I should turn back.
But no. I don't turn back. Philippe is just a child and what he said was said with feeling. I may be frightened but so are many others. And what would happen to Philippe if his uncle were to be arrested?
As I approach La Bouchée Parfaite my mouth waters at the memory of the pastries Madame Duchamps' brother baked for us. Unlike times gone by there isn't much on display in the windows these days. I walk on and all too soon I'm there at Number 22.
I reach up to use the heavy door knocker and pause. Am I really doing the right thing? Is this sensible? There's still time to turn around and walk away - no one will know.
As I pause I think back to spring last year, before the Germans invaded my France. Seven months ago I was living in Paris with my dear husband, Emile, and my family and friends. I even had my own married name back then, Madame Marie-Claire Blanchet, but not now. Here I am Mademoiselle Marie Bruneau - a single woman and all alone. Alone in the world.
The reality of my situation takes hold and I experience debilitating self-doubt. What am I just about to do? This is madness. I begin to walk away with the intention of forgetting the whole idea of talking to Philippe's uncle.
As I retrace my steps I recall my friend Katia showing incredible courage and selflessness just before she was caught by the Gestapo near the Avenue des Champs-Elysées in Paris. She told me that what she did was dangerous but that didn't stop her. Katia showed unwavering determination in her fight for France. With a chest-tightening feeling of guilt that I am choosing the easy option of not being brave enough to talk to the uncle, I stop.
I think about what I'm doing and realize that I owe it to Katia and all of the others who have gone, to display the same level of courage and selflessness myself.
So I turn around, stride up to the house, bang the knocker on the door - and stand back.
Chapter 2
Thursday, 9 May 1940, Paris. (Seven months earlier)
Marie-Claire woke to the soft tones of Emile's voice as he leant over the bed. He gently swept her long dark hair off her face so he could kiss her forehead. "My darling, it's time for me to go to work but I've brought you a coffee so you can lie in bed a bit longer. I'll see you this evening."
"Thanks. And by the way - we're going out for a celebration dinner tonight."
"That's a lovely idea, but almost two months of marriage isn't normally regarded as an outstanding achievement."
"Silly man. I want to celebrate your promotion to assistant manager. Luck seems to follow you and that bookshop is lucky to have you."
"I haven't always been lucky. When I was young I didn't think having tuberculosis was lucky." He paused. "But I suppose I have to admit it did get me out of being conscripted into the army to fight the Nazis."
"Do you think the Germans will invade France? I thought the Maginot line was designed to prevent that. It's there to protect France, isn't it?"
"Yes it is. But my dear, though I would love to stay and discuss world politics with you, if I don't go now I'll be late."
"Don't forget to bring Le Petit Parisien back with you. I'm following the serialized novel in the newspaper."
With a laugh he shook his head. "Don't tell me. It's another of those sexy romances you seem addicted to."
In response to his friendly jibe she threw a pillow at him but he was just able to close the door before it hit him. Rather than retrieve her pillow from across the room she merely reached over and propped herself up using his as she cradled the steaming cup of coffee. She knew she was especially lucky to have Emile as her husband and soul mate. Life was turning out to be all she could have hoped for.
As she lay in bed she mulled over the events of the last few months. Just before their wedding they'd found a lovely apartment near the centre of Paris. Although her mother had offered to have Marie-Claire stay on at home with her new husband she knew that would not really have worked out. Although she loved her mother dearly she had not wanted to start married life sharing an apartment with her.
And her darling Emile was wrong. She couldn't stay in bed. She needed to get up to prepare for her students. Although disappointed she'd been unable to obtain a full time teaching position in a school, giving private tutorials in her apartment on just Tuesdays and Thursdays gave her freedom to do her own sketching and painting on the other days. Today was Thursday which meant four students. The attendees were mothers who wanted some creative activity while their children were at school.
As the ladies tidied up at the end of the lesson, Madame Girard asked Marie-Claire, "Have you thought of holding sessions for children? You're such an inspiring teacher, I'm sure my daughter Amélie would benefit from your guidance. Would you consider running a class on Wednesday afternoons? There's no school that day. I'm sure we would all welcome such a class for our children."
Marie-Claire thought for a moment and then nodded her head. "Yes. That would be possible on Wednesdays, but only after two o'clock. Before then I work at the Soup Kitchen on Rue Saint-Denis. I wouldn't want to give that up. There are so many people needing help."
"I wasn't aware you worked at one of those soup kitchen places," remarked the rather pompous Madame Charbonnet, with a pained expression. "Are you sure they're clean and safe?"
"Oh yes. And perhaps I should not have said work. I volunteer on Mondays and Wednesdays at lunch time."
Marie-Claire was pleased when three mothers expressed an immediate interest in the classes. "Fine. We'll start next Wednesday, the 15th of May. You can drop the children off at two o'clock for a two hour session. Shall we say, half the adult rate?"
She knew she could have charged more, but the thought of being able to encourage children to be creative artistically would be fulfilling in itself.
After everyone left she had a quick lunch and wandered out to do one of the things she enjoyed most - drawing in Montmartre. There she sketched people, she sketched artists, she sketched artists sketching people. In fact she sketched anything which caught her eye. Fortunately she was never likely to run out of paper as the bookshop where Emile worked also . . .
We're back in May 1940.
Why is she in Nevers in December?
And what happens on the 9th of May 1940?
