CHAPTER 4

SOMEONE HAD TO GO AND FIND OUT WHAT HAD happened to them and Jo knew it would have to be him. There was no one else who could go. It was too far and too steep for Widow Horcada.

‘Which way does he go?’ Jo asked. ‘The Col de Loraille?’

‘Usually,’ she said.

There were only a few hours of light left, he’d have to hurry. As he turned to go Widow Horcada caught him by the arm.

‘You take care now, boy, d’you hear me?’

‘Course,’ he said and he was out of the door and running.

From the field below the house he could see Hubert squatting on the rock, a hand on Rouf’s neck. The sheep were spread out around him, yellow in the afternoon sun. Come the evening Hubert would drive the sheep home with Rouf. Jo had often gone off eagle watching and left Hubert to bring them in – he’d know what to do. Jo reached the trees and made his way through them down towards the river. From there on he’d be climbing all the way. He knew the path to the Col de Loraille well. It was the route up to their high summer pastures, to Papa’s hut. The trees were loud with wind and the leaves were falling all about him. He followed the tumbling river upwards. Ahead of him, when the trees allowed, he could see the circle of sharp peaks at the head of the valley and above him the clouds raced each other back towards Lescun. He thought of shouting for them but he knew it would be pointless. Nothing could be heard over the roar of the river and the gusting wind. Every now and then he’d stop to scan the hills and woods about him. He saw a deer, but that was all. On and up he climbed until at last there were no trees above him, only the peaks and the sky. Dusk was beginning to settle. A flock of crows harried a lone buzzard towards the mountains. He looked about him for any sign of movement. There was nothing, only the buzzard and he seemed to be making for Spain, chased all the way by the marauding crows. He disappeared over the peaks and the crows seemed satisfied with that for suddenly they broke off the chase and dispersed.

The sound of the shot came a moment later, echoing around the mountains. Without that Jo would never have seen the patrol. He crouched down behind a rock. There were three of them, three tiny dark figures moving slowly along the ridge against the skyline. A few of the crows settled on the ground now by Papa’s hut and it occurred to him then that if Benjamin and Léah hadn’t already been caught then they might be hiding up somewhere, and in that case there would be no better place than Papa’s hut. The hut was several hundred metres away from him, built against a huge rock that had tumbled down the mountainside hundreds of years before. There were boulders strewn between him and the hut, boulders that he could use as cover; but even so he’d have to wait until the patrol had gone or until dark, whichever came first. For an hour or more the patrol moved slowly along the crest towards the Pic d’Anie and then the darkness thickened around him and he could see them no more.

The sliver of moon was for decoration only, it provided no light. It was safe enough to move now. Jo scuttled from boulder to boulder until he reached the hut. He whispered at the door as loud as he dared. ‘Are you in there? Anyone in there?’ But the reply came from behind him, from the donkey shed on the other side of the stream. It wasn’t really a shed, just a cave in a rock with a half door across.

‘Over here, Jo. We’re over here.’ It was Benjamin’s voice.

He leapt the stream and picked his way over the rough ground towards the donkey shed.

‘Inside!’ said Benjamin opening the door and pulling Jo in. And then he saw Léah. She was backing away from him into the darkest corner of the shed. Benjamin limped after her leaning heavily on a stick.

‘Don’t mind her,’ he said. ‘She’s frightened of her own shadow this one, but then she’s got good cause.’ It was some time before she could be persuaded to come out of her corner, and even then she wouldn’t look at Jo but buried her head in Benjamin’s coat. ‘She’s cold and she’s tired, Jo,’ he said, ‘like me. We tried to cross last night. And we’d have made it too.’

‘What happened?’ said Jo.

‘My ankle, my confounded ankle, that’s what happened.’ He stroked Léah’s hair and hugged her close to him. ‘We had the perfect night for it. Lots of clouds, plenty of wind; but soldiers, soldiers everywhere. I must have been over these mountains a dozen times now and I’ve never seen so many soldiers. That’s why we were running. We don’t normally run. It’s always quieter if you walk. I don’t know if it was a stone or a hole in the ground, it doesn’t matter anyway. Somehow or other I turned my ankle over, you could hear it go – like a gunshot it was – and now it’s blown up like a balloon. Anyway, we couldn’t go on any further so all day we’ve been cooped up in here waiting for the soldiers to go. We were going to try to make it back on our own after dark, but I don’t think we’d ever have done it, not on our own.’

‘Is it broken?’ Jo asked.

‘Perhaps, but anyway it won’t be much use to me for a few months, that’s for sure.’ He bent over and kissed Léah on the top of her head. She looked up at him. ‘It’ll get better – God willing – and when it does we’ll try again. I don’t care how many soldiers they put on those mountains, we’ll find a way past them. Now Jo,’ he said, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder, ‘I’m going to need someone strong to lean on.’ He turned to Léah and spoke in another language. Léah looked from Benjamin to Jo and back again. Benjamin nodded and nudged her forward. She reached out slowly and Jo took her hand. ‘All clear outside is it?’ said Benjamin. Jo peered out. He could hear nothing and see nothing. He felt Léah’s cold fingers gripping tighter.

‘All clear,’ he said, and with Benjamin’s arm hooked around his neck they walked out into the night.

It was a slow and painful journey down the mountain. Benjamin may have been a small man but he was heavy enough and Jo’s shoulder ached under his weight. He had to tread very carefully for he knew that if he stumbled they would all fall like a pack of cards. Léah clung to Jo’s free hand and even on the narrowest tracks nothing could persuade her to let go and follow along behind. Any sudden jolt and Jo could hear the stifled groan, and feel the grip tighten around his shoulder. They stopped to rest by the river knowing that the worst part – the uphill part – still lay ahead. From now on Benjamin needed Léah too as a crutch, but even with one hand on her shoulder and an arm around Jo he had to put some weight on his useless foot. Every step was an agony to him, an agony Jo suffered with him.

Jo took them the quickest way up the hillside, across the open fields. There was no thought in his mind now of avoiding German patrols or of meeting anyone else for that matter; and clearly Benjamin felt the same for he began to sing, softly at first, through clenched teeth, and then within moments Léah’s thin piping voice joined his. It was a slow, martial song, with a simple rhythmic tune that Jo soon picked up as well. That song with its regular, defiant beat kept them going all the way up to the house and by then they were singing out loud against the wind. A shadow came out from behind the barn and became Widow Horcada.

She took Benjamin’s outstretched hand. ‘We’re all right, Grandmère,’ he said, ‘we’re all right.’ And Jo found himself suddenly and blissfully free of Benjamin’s weight as Widow Horcada put her arms around him to support him.

‘I’d better be getting back,’ said Jo, rubbing his shoulder. ‘They’ll be wondering.’

‘Bless you, Jo,’ said Widow Horcada. It was the first time she’d ever called him ‘Jo’.

‘I told you, didn’t I?’ said Benjamin. ‘I said this boy was a good one.’ He bent down and whispered something to Léah.

‘Dzi  kuj  , Jo’ she said, and her face broke at last into a shy smile.

‘What does that mean?’ Jo asked.

‘It means “thank you” in Polish,’ said Benjamin.

They were waiting up for him when he got home. Jo had made up his story on the way back. It wasn’t difficult. It was a story he’d used often when he’d been late in, but then the story had often been true, or part of it anyway, and he’d never been this late. He’d seen the eagle again, he said, whilst he was out guarding the sheep and then Hubert had come along so he’d left him with the sheep. He’d followed the eagle all the way down the valley and up into the mountains to see if he could find its nesting site, then he’d lost his way in the dark on the way back. ‘It’s very dark out there,’ he said.

Grandpère was frowning at him. ‘Eagles don’t nest in the Autumn, do they?’ he said.

‘Course not,’ Jo went on, ‘but I thought if I could find where it settled, then next Spring I’d know where to look. I’ve been looking for their nest for ages, you know I have.’

‘Never mind about the eagle,’ said Maman. ‘What about the patrols? Didn’t you hear what Monsieur Sarthol said. Didn’t you? I’ve been worried sick, Jo.’

‘I never saw anything,’ said Jo.

‘Your mother’s told you. She’s told you time and again, you’re not to go off like that without telling her.’ Grandpère was playing stern – he wasn’t very good at it. ‘You wouldn’t have dared do it if your father was here, would you?’ And Jo couldn’t argue with that. He kept quiet, it was the best way. In the end they both ran out of admonishments as he knew they would, but more important they had not doubted his story and his secret was safe.

‘Papa’s written again,’ said Maman pulling a card out of her pocket. They’d had cards like this before. It was a filled-in form, not a letter at all. Jo recognised Papa’s handwriting. It said what all the others had said, that he was well, that he was still working in a timber yard and that was about all. ‘Three years he’s been gone now,’ said Maman, ‘nearly three years.’

‘He’ll be back Lise,’ said Grandpère.

‘Will he?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not if this war goes on like it is. They’ll never let him come home, never.’ Jo hated to see the tears in Maman’s eyes and looked away. ‘You know the worst thing,’ she said, ‘it’s that I don’t know where he is. If I knew where he was, if I could look at a map and say “he’s there, that’s where he is”, that’d be something.’

‘Off to bed, Jo,’ said Grandpère, ‘you’ve got school tomorrow. And no more chasing after your eagles, d’you hear me?’ And he slapped Jo playfully on the bottom as he went out.

It was always the same whenever a card came from Papa. In between whiles they hardly ever talked about him. It wasn’t that he was forgotten exactly. He just wasn’t there, that’s all. They’d all had to get along without him and they’d managed to do it partly because they didn’t think about him; but whenever his cards came Maman would become morose and silent for days afterwards and that would upset everyone in the house, everyone except Grandpère – only the Germans seemed capable of upsetting Grandpère.

The next morning Hubert was waiting for him outside as he was most mornings. He liked to walk to school with Jo because he always had done. He was too old for school now but Monsieur Audap would let him sit at the back and make his miniatures. He even provided him with the bread. Hubert was never any trouble except for the occasional sound of spitting, and everyone ignored even that by now. Hubert’s miniatures were made out of bread. He would cut open a loaf, pull out the soft bread and discard the crust. Then he would knead it into a thick paste, spitting on it all the time. He would roll it out until it was wafer thin and cut out the shapes he wanted. Somehow this unpromising material would be transformed into minute cups and bowls and chalices. When Hubert had finished modelling them, he would press them with the point of a hot iron until they were hard. It was a marvel that his great hands, that seemed often so clumsy, could produce such delicate work. Afterwards, when they had dried out, he would paint them with a fine brush, varnish them and then give them to his friends or to his father, whose house was full of them. Jo had twenty-one of them on the shelf in his bedroom, each one different from the other. They were a testament to a long and lasting friendship, and Jo treasured them.

Monsieur Audap liked to have Hubert in the school, everyone did. There wasn’t an ounce of malice in him. The little children liked him because he would let them climb on him at playtime. The great game was to try and sit on Hubert to keep him down, and he’d struggle and struggle and rise up like a giant and discard them in all directions. Then they’d climb on again and try to haul him down, and in the end he’d let them, and they’d have their triumph. The older children were half afraid of him – Jo too if he was honest. Some, like Laurent, would mock him occasionally, but only from behind his back. And even then they respected him and not just for his size but because Hubert was always game – he would always join in whatever was going on. He was like a chameleon; whatever they were – pirates, soldiers, Red Indians – he would be too. When they were happy, he was happy; and if someone was sad then he’d sit beside them and share in their wretchedness. And without exception everyone admired his handiwork. Monsieur Audap said that one day people would go to see it in an exhibition in Paris, it was that good and no one doubted it.

Hubert was sitting at the back of the class intent on his latest minute bowl, his eyes close to his fingers, when Armand Jollet burst into the classroom. He took Monsieur Audap by the elbow and led him towards the door. Both were talking in excited whispers. Monsieur Audap saw him out and then he called for Hubert, who was reluctant at first to leave his bowl.

‘Now, Hubert!’ said Monsieur Audap clapping his hands, and Hubert left his desk at once, wiping his hands on his trousers. ‘The drum, Hubert,’ he said and Hubert’s eyes lit up; he loved his drum. For the children any interruption to lessons was always welcome, but when Hubert was being sent out around with the drum that meant something exciting had happened, something important even. By the time they were all gathered outside they could hear Hubert’s drumming echoing around the village. Monsieur Audap lined them up in twos. They always went with the same partners. Jo went with Laurent, they had done since they were little, and they walked in a long crocodile down towards the Square. People were running out of their houses, pulling on their coats as they came. No one knew what was going on, not until they reached the Square.

Soldiers were drawn up in front of the Mairie, two ranks of them in grey uniforms. They wore side caps not helmets. In front of them, on a bay horse, was an officer, both hands on his reins, a revolver in his belt. Hubert’s drumming came ever closer as more people came crowding into the Square. Monsieur Sarthol, the tricolour of office around his waist, was standing beside the officer reading some papers. Jo found his view blocked so he climbed up on to the railings behind the war memorial just as Hubert, still drumming enthusiastically, came marching down into the Square. Grandpère, with Rouf beside him, was leaning against a wall studying the soldiers critically. The Mayor told Hubert to stop, but Hubert was so intent upon his drumming that he did not hear his father’s command. Armand Jollet tapped him on the shoulder and shook his head. Hubert stopped drumming. The officer waited until everyone was quiet before he began to speak. His accent was heavy but he spoke slowly and Jo could understand every word.

‘My name is Lieutenant Weissmann,’ he said. He spoke in a reedy voice, a voice that seemed to complement him perfectly. He was lean and long and lanky. ‘I have been sent here to Lescun to guard this sector of the Frontier. My men and I will be billetted in the priest’s house by the church. We will be living amongst you for some time and we wish to do so as peaceably as possible. I can assure you that we will not intrude into your lives unless you compel us to.’ The horse tossed his head as the officer spoke, his bit jangling. He began to paw at the ground. The soldiers were not like the ones who’d come before. These were older men, some portly even, and with grey hair. Their boots were dusty and they looked somehow awkward in their uniforms. These were men dressed up as soldiers, not the real thing. The Lieutenant went on.

‘There are certain rules, however, that must be obeyed. First, there will be a strict curfew. This means that after half past nine at night no one is allowed out of their houses. Of course passes must be carried by everyone at all times. And lastly, all firearms, hunting rifles, shotguns and so on, must be handed in by six o’clock this evening – for safekeeping you understand. I repeat, we are here to guard the Frontier. Too many people have been escaping across into Spain. You all know what will happen if you are caught helping those wishing to escape. I have to tell you we want no unpleasantness but we have our job to do and we will do it. Thank you for your attention.’ He pointed to the ground by the horse’s feet. ‘Six o’clock. You will leave your rifles here. My men will be here to receive them. That is all.’ He turned to face the soldiers. There were barked commands and they marched across the Square and up the road towards the church, their rifles slung on their shoulders.

‘I won’t do it, Jo,’ said Grandpère as they drove the sheep down from the fields later that afternoon. ‘I won’t do it I tell you. They march in here like they own the place. They kick Father Lasalle out of his house and tell us we mustn’t go out after dark. What are we, children? Be good boys, hand in your guns. Who the hell do they think they are? Ah, they’re polite enough these Germans. They say their pleases and afterwards they’ll say their thankyous. All very polite I’m sure, but they can afford to be can’t they?’ It was a monologue that lasted all the way home.

Hubert was waiting for them kicking his heels on the wall. He jumped down to let the sheep in through the gate. At that moment three soldiers came round the corner, marching in step, their packs on their backs. They waited and watched as Hubert and Rouf drove the sheep into the yard. Jo saw that the tallest of them had stripes on his shoulders. He was head and shoulders above the others and wore his side cap at a jaunty angle. He had a drooping black moustache that was too small for his face. Jo caught his eye and the soldier smiled and waved at him cheerily; and then they were gone. Grandpère gripped his arm.

‘Don’t you go smiling at them,’ he said. ‘The last thing we want to do is make them feel at home.’

‘I wasn’t,’ said Jo, and that was the truth. And yet he had wanted to return the smile. ‘I was just looking,’ he said.

The grip on Jo’s arm tightened and Grandpère began to chuckle. ‘They want rifles, don’t they?’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll give them a rifle. Wait here.’ And he opened the gate and walked through the sheep into the barn. Moments later he came back out again and Jo understood at once what he was going to do. He was carrying the ancient muzzle-loading rifle they kept above the fireplace in the kitchen, the one his great-grandfather had used in an old war a long time ago – or so the story went. He handed it to Hubert, who beamed and put it to his shoulder and aimed at a high flying crow. ‘Bang,’ he said. ‘Bang, bang.’

‘You can’t give them that,’ said Jo.

‘And why not? It’s what they asked for. They wanted rifles didn’t they?’ He turned to Hubert. ‘It’s not for you, Hubert; it’s for them, for the Boche.’ And the smile left Hubert’s face. ‘Here, feel this Jo,’ Grandpère went on, and he took Jo’s hand and pressed it against his side. Jo could feel the barrel of his hunting rifle through the coat. ‘Just in case they ever come searching – and they will, you can be sure of that – I’m going to hide this somewhere they’ll never find it, somewhere they’ll never even think of looking. Come on. You come too Hubert, I need you.’ Hubert looked delighted again. He always loved to feel wanted, to feel useful.

They made their way up around the back of the village and came down behind the churchyard. Grandpère sat on the wall and looked about him, then he swung his legs over and let himself down the other side. The family tomb was on the far side of the graveyard overlooking the valley – the best view in the graveyard Grandpère always said. They crouched down behind the tomb and Grandpère opened his coat. He took the rifle out and leaned it carefully against a grey marble slab that served as the lid of the tomb.

‘Here, give us a hand,’ he said. The slab moved much more easily than Jo expected. ‘That’s far enough,’ Grandpère said, looking around him. He plunged his hand into his coat pocket and came out with a single bullet. He held it up between his thumb and his forefinger. His voice was steely, as Jo had never heard it before. ‘When the time comes, if the time comes, then at least I’ll be taking one of them with me,’ and he slipped the bullet in and rammed the bolt home. He wrapped it carefully in a cloth and let it down into the tomb, peering in after it. ‘That’ll do,’ he said, and they heaved and shoved until the marble slab was back in place. ‘Now,’ said Grandpère wiping his hands together and grinning mischievously, ‘now they can have their rifle. We’ll give it to them personally.’ And he picked up the ancient, rusted rifle, and they followed him through the back door of the church, down the dark aisle and out of the front door into the sunlight beyond.

There were two soldiers standing in the Square, half a dozen or so rifles lying on the ground at their feet. Grandpère walked right up to them. For several silent moments he looked them up and down, almost as if he was inspecting them, first one and then the other.

‘Good evening,’ he said at last. ‘You wanted this, I believe,’ and he laid the rifle down on top of the others.

The soldiers looked down at it and then at Grandpère; they seemed uncertain of what to do. ‘It needs oiling from time to time,’ said Grandpère. ‘Make sure you look after it.’ One of the soldiers was about to say something but Grandpère turned and walked away. When Jo looked back both the soldiers were gazing after them.

‘I enjoyed that,’ said Grandpère as they rounded the corner, and the smile on his face set Hubert laughing, and when Hubert laughed he laughed with his whole being and you had to laugh with him.

They were passing the baker’s shop, Grandpère still chuckling, when Jo saw Widow Horcada. She was coming slowly towards them, her head down so you could only see the top of her shawl. She had a basket over each arm.

Grandpère held out his arms. ‘Alice,’ he shouted. ‘You’re looking younger than ever.’

She smiled as he came towards her. He kissed her warmly on both cheeks. ‘Go on with you, you old goat,’ she said, pushing him away, and then she looked at him quizzically. ‘What’re you looking so pleased about anyway?’

‘That’s our little secret, isn’t it boys?’ said Grandpère, taking Widow Horcada’s arm. ‘We’re all allowed our little secrets, eh?’

She tried to shake him off. ‘Henri! What will people think?’

‘Let them think what they like,’ said Grandpère. ‘I’m too old to care and so are you.’ Madame Soulet was at the door of her baker’s shop, her mouth open. Grandpère bowed at her with a flourish. ‘I shall carry your shopping, Madame. I shall escort you home.’

At that moment they heard the sound of laughter and a couple of soldiers came out of the Square towards them. They stopped at the corner to light each other’s cigarettes.

‘I heard they were here,’ said Widow Horcada. ‘How many of them are there?’

‘There’s twenty-two of the beggars,’ said Grandpère, ‘and a horse. They mean business. I tell you one thing, no one’s ever going to get over those mountains again, not now.’

‘That’s your grandson isn’t it?’ said Widow Horcada. Jo dared not look her in the eye. ‘Doesn’t have much to say for himself does he?’ Grandpère nudged him.

‘Good morning, Madame,’ said Jo.

‘Strong boy is he?’

‘Course he is,’ said Grandpère and he squeezed Jo’s shoulder approvingly. ‘From good stock he is.’

The Widow Horcada nodded. ‘You wouldn’t like to lend him to me?’ she said, wrinkling her nose and sniffing.

‘Lend him?’

‘Once a week say. He could bring me my shopping. It’s climbing these hills, Henri – down’s worse than up. My old knees aren’t what they were.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Grandpère. ‘It’s a bit difficult just at the moment, what with his father being away. Don’t know if we can spare him.’

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ said Widow Horcada. ‘I’ll pay him, a kilo of honey every week. How’s that? It won’t take but an hour or two. Help me out it would.’

‘Once a week you say?’ said Grandpère. ‘Well, I expect we could manage that. What do you think, Jo?’ Jo nodded. ‘When would you want him to start?’

‘Now,’ said Widow Horcada, and she held out the largest basket. ‘Well, come along boy, I won’t eat you. Come along.’

Grandpère laughed as they walked away. ‘Mind you pay him now,’ he called after them; and Jo followed the Widow in silence out of the village.

They were off the track and into the fields before she said a word. She put down her basket and bent over, her hands on her knees, breathing hard.

‘Are you all right?’ Jo asked.

She nodded and looked up. ‘I’m sorry, Jo,’ she said. ‘But you’re the only one that knows, you’re the only one I could ask. It’s not that I don’t trust your grandfather but the fewer that know the less dangerous it is.’ She straightened up slowly. ‘We’ve got five of them now, Jo. Five children to look after, and there’s more on the way. Benjamin’s still laid up with his ankle; he can’t even stand up, but even if he was fit they’d never make it over the mountains, not now, not with all these soldiers about. What can we do? We can’t send the children back where they’ve come from, and we can’t take them where they want to go.’ She fanned her face with the corner of her shawl. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do, Jo. I don’t know how long I can keep them all fed. And that Armand Jollet at the shop, he’s becoming suspicious, I know he is. You can’t blame him – I’ve never bought so much in all my life; and what I do buy I can’t carry, not on my own, Jo. I’m just not strong enough any more. I’m going to need all the help you can give me.’