Perfectly Ordinary People(61)

Moustache dragged some branches away, revealing a wooden boat – a sort of flatbed canoe – which he slid down to the river with surprising ease. Climbing in was a messy, wet business, but in the end, half soaked, we all made it in, and then he started to paddle us towards the other side. It looked like really hard work because the current was pretty strong, but as there was only one paddle we couldn’t help. An owl hooted somewhere nearby, making me jump, and then halfway across, the moon – shining through a passing gap in the clouds – suddenly lit up our surroundings. Being able to see was a relief at first, but just as I was thinking how beautiful everything was in that strange light, and feeling a sort of gratitude that I’d had that glimpse, that snapshot to remember this moment by, I saw our guide glancing left and right and realised the moonlight was putting us in danger.

By the time we’d reached the far side, it had gone dark again. The owl hoot repeated, and this time our guide replied, prompting the owl, who was in fact a woman, to step out from behind the trees.

The carpenter handed her my suitcase and she gave him a small package in return. I don’t know what it contained but it was the size of a big lump of cheese, or a sandwich or perhaps even a gun, and was wrapped in a piece of chequered cloth like a tea towel. Then he gestured that Pierre and I should follow her. As he turned back towards his canoe I grabbed his sleeve and tried to press the roll of banknotes my father had given me into his hand, but he refused to take it and gestured that we should follow the woman, Marie. I assumed the second payment must be for her.

We headed on into the woods, and on that side of the river it was even harder to walk. There were fallen branches all over the place, and the undergrowth was much thicker. At one point my foot snagged on some brambles and I fell forwards, flat on my face, squashing poor Ansgar in the process.

Just then, we heard someone shouting in German in the distance, which was utterly terrifying. I didn’t dare move a muscle. I just lay there, holding my breath and trying not to put too much weight on the baby – amazingly, he didn’t make a sound.

After a minute or so, Marie prodded me with one foot and signalled that we should move on as quietly as possible, and because Ansgar still wasn’t making any noise or even moving, it was as much as I could do not to burst into tears. By that point I thought I’d knocked him unconscious, or even killed him, you see.

When we finally stepped out of the woods on to a proper tarmac road ten minutes later, I had to steel myself to be brave before I could check if he was still alive.

That was the first time I realised how my feelings for him were growing, I think. Up until then I’d thought of him more as a burden that had been thrust upon me, and sometimes even a sort of alibi. But when I thought I’d hurt him I felt devastated.

Anyway, I pushed a finger into his mouth and he started suckling and I shed a few more tears because I knew that all was well. I’ve always wondered – actually, I still wonder – was he silent because he was scared when I fell? Babies do that, apparently, if they get a shock. I’ve heard they can even stop breathing for a while.

Yes, I’ve heard that too.

Or maybe he somehow knew to be quiet. Perhaps he sensed that his life depended on it. Anyway, we started walking single file along the road and, even though there was no one around, it made me feel visible and really vulnerable. It seemed like a very reckless thing to be doing.

Marie dropped back and whispered to me that there was no choice but to walk along the road, but there were bushes up ahead. ‘Just pray the police don’t decide to go for a night drive,’ she said.

I was horrified and asked if we were talking about German police and she laughed and said, ‘No, French police. But they can be bastards too.’

Pierre, who’d been listening, caught up with us and asked if we were in the occupied zone, and Marie shook her head. ‘No. I’ll explain it to you when we get there,’ she said. ‘Now walk. We need to get a move on.’

We reached the bushes and ducked out of view and after another ten minutes along a muddy country footpath, we reached an isolated chalet with a barn, to which Marie led us. It had horses in a stable area at the rear and she pointed to a ladder and told us we could sleep on the mezzanine bit above them.

‘You’re safe here,’ she said. She would have let us stay in the house, she explained, but we wouldn’t be able to get out in time if someone unexpectedly came.

She said not to make a noise and not to go wandering off, and that she’d bring us some food in the morning, when we could talk about what came next.

I asked her if she had milk for the baby, and when she looked surprised and asked why I didn’t have milk for the baby I had to explain, again, that the baby wasn’t mine and I couldn’t breastfeed.

She went off to the main house and returned with a proper baby bottle filled with warmed milk. I remember that she wished us sweet dreams, and though I thought that was most unlikely, I did sleep through until quite late the next morning, when she returned with some bread and a pot of ersatz coffee.

Ersatz coffee?

Yes, it was this sort of fake coffee substitute. It was made out of chicory, I think.

Like Ricoré?

Exactly, only not quite as good. But it’s what we had to make do with. There was no real coffee during the war.

Pierre woke up when she arrived, and it was only when he stood up that we realised he’d been bleeding again. The crotch of his overalls was stained red.