Pied Piper (32 page)

Howard was silent.

Diessen said: ‘So there is Anna who must be provided for. I think it will be better if she goes to live with Rupert in America.’

The old man said: ‘She is five years old?’

‘Five and a half years.’

Howard said: ‘Well, I should be very glad to take her.’

The German stared at him thoughtfully. ‘How quickly after you reach England will the children go? How many of them are you sending to America? All of them?’

Howard shook his head. ‘I doubt that. Three of them will certainly be going, but of the six two are English and
one is a French girl with a father in London. I don’t suppose that they would want to go—they might. But I shall send the other three within a week. That is, if you let us go.’

The German nodded. ‘You must not wait longer. In six weeks we shall be in London.’

There was a silence. ‘I do not want that you should think I am not confident about the outcome of this war,’ Diessen said. ‘We shall conquer England, as we have conquered France; you cannot stand against us. But for many years there will be war with your Dominions, and while that is going on there will be not much food for children, here or in Germany. It will be better that little Anna should be in a neutral country.’

Howard nodded. ‘Well, she can go with my lot if you like to send her.’

The Gestapo officer eyed him narrowly. ‘There must be no trickery. Remember, we shall have Mademoiselle Rougeron. She may return to Chartres and live with her mother, but until I have a cable from my brother Rupert that little Anna is safe with him, we shall have our eye on mademoiselle.’

‘As a hostage,’ said the old man quietly.

‘As a hostage.’ The German stared at him arrogantly. ‘And another thing, also. If any word of this appears, it is the concentration camp for your young lady. I will not have you spreading lies about me as soon as you reach England. Remember that.’

Howard thought quickly. ‘That has another side to it,’ he said. ‘If Mademoiselle Rougeron gets into trouble with the Gestapo and I should hear of it in England, this story shall be published in my country and quoted in the
German news upon the radio, mentioning you by name.’

Diessen said furiously: ‘You dare to threaten me!’

The old man smiled faintly. ‘Let us call off this talk of threats,’ he said. ‘We are in each other’s hands, and I will make a bargain with you. I will take your little girl and she shall travel safely to White Falls, even if I have to send her by the Clipper. On your side, you will look after Mademoiselle Rougeron and see that she comes to no harm. That is a bargain that will suit us both, and we can part as friends.’

The German stared at him for a long time, ‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You are clever, Mr. Englishman. You have gained all that you want.’

‘So have you,’ the old man said.

The German released the automatic and reached out for a slip of paper. ‘What address have you in England? I shall send for you when we visit London in August.’

They settled to the details of the arrangement. A quarter of an hour later the German got up from the table. ‘No word of this to anyone,’ he said again. ‘To-morrow in the evening you will be moved from here.’

Howard shook his head. ‘I shall not talk. But I would like you to know one thing. I should have been glad to take your little girl with me in any case. It never entered my head to refuse to take her.’

The German nodded. ‘That is good,’ he said. ‘If you had refused I should have shot you dead. You would have been too dangerous to leave this room alive.’

He bowed stiffly.
‘Auf Wiedersehn,’
he said ironically. He pressed a button on his desk; the door opened and the sentry took Howard back through the quiet, moonlit streets to his prison.

Nicole was sitting on her bed, waiting for him. As the door closed she came to him and said: ‘What happened? Did they hurt you?’

He patted her on the shoulder. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘They did nothing to me.’

‘What happened, then? What did they want you for?’

He sat down on the bed and she came and sat down opposite him. The moon threw a long shaft of silver light in through the window; faintly, somewhere, they heard the droning of a bomber.

‘Listen, Nicole,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you what has happened. But I can tell you this, and you must try to forget what I am telling you. Everything is going to be all right. We shall go to England very soon, all of the children—and I shall go too. And you will go free, and travel back to Chartres to live with your mother, and you will have no trouble from the Gestapo. That is what is going to happen.’

She said breathlessly: ‘But—I do not understand. How has this been arranged?’

He said: ‘I cannot tell you that. I cannot tell you any more, Nicole. But that is what will happen, very soon.’

‘You are not tired, or ill? This is all true, but you must not tell me how it has been done?’

He nodded. ‘We shall go to-morrow or the next day,’ he replied. There was a steady confidence in his tone which brought conviction to her.

‘I am very, very happy,’ she said quietly.

There was a long silence. Presently she said: ‘Sitting here in the darkness while you were away, I have been thinking, monsieur.’ In the dim light he could see that she was looking away from him. ‘I was wondering what
these children would grow up to be when they were old. Ronnie—I think he will become an engineer, and Marjan a soldier, and Willem—he will be a lawyer or a doctor. And Rose will be a mother certainly, and Sheila—she may be a mother too, or she may become one of your English women of business. And little Pierre—do you know what I think of him? I think that he will be an artist of some sort, who will lead many other men with his ideas.’

‘I think that’s very likely,’ said the old man.

The girl went on. ‘Ever since John was killed, monsieur, I have been desolate,’ she said quietly. ‘It seemed to me that there was no goodness in the world, that everything had gone mad and crazy and foul—that God had died or gone away, and left the world to Hitler. Even these little children were to go on suffering.’

There was a pause. The old man did not speak.

‘But now,’ she said, ‘I think I can begin to see the pattern. It was not meant that John and I should be happy, save for a week. It was intended that we should do wrong. And now, through John and I, it is intended that these children should escape from Europe to grow up in peace.’

Her voice dropped. ‘This may have been what John and I were brought together for,’ she said. ‘In thirty years the world may need one of these little ones.’ She paused. ‘It may be Ronnie or it may be Willem, or it may be little Pierre who does great things for the world,’ she said. ‘But when that happens, monsieur, it will be because I met your son to show him Paris, and we fell in love.’

He leaned across and took her hand, and sat there in
the dim light holding it for a long time. Presently they lay down upon their beds, and lay awake till dawn.

They spent the next day in the garden, as the day before. The children were becoming bored and restless with the inactivity; Nicole devoted a good deal of her time to them, while Howard slept in his arm-chair beneath the tree. The day passed slowly. Dinner was served to them at six; after the meal the table was cleared by the same waiter.

They turned to put down beds for the children. The
Gefreiter
stopped them; with some difficulty he made them understand that they were going away.

Howard asked where they were going to. The man shrugged his shoulders.
‘Nach Paris?’
he said doubtfully. Evidently he did not know.

Half an hour later they were taken out and put into a covered van. Two German soldiers got in with them, and they moved off. The old man tried to ask the soldiers where they were being taken to, but the men were uncommunicative. Presently, from their conversation, Howard gathered that the soldiers were themselves going on leave to Paris; it seemed that while proceeding on leave they were to act as a guard for the prisoners. That looked as if the Paris rumour was correct.

He discussed all this with Nicole in a low tone as the van swayed and rolled inland from the coast through the leafy lanes in the warm evening.

Presently they came to the outskirts of a town. Nicole peered out. ‘Brest,’ she said presently. ‘I know this street.’

One of the Germans nodded. ‘Brest,’ he said shortly.

They were taken to the railway station; here they got out of the van. One of the soldiers stood guard over them
while the other went to see the R.T.O.; the French passengers looked at them curiously. They were passed through the barrier and put into a third-class carriage with their guards, in a train which seemed to be going through to Paris.

Ronnie said: ‘Is this the train we’re going to sleep in, Mr. Howard?’

He smiled patiently. ‘This isn’t the one I meant, but we may have to sleep in this one,’ he said.

‘Shall we have a little bed, like you told us about?’

‘I don’t think so. We’ll see.’

Rose said: ‘I do feel thirsty. May I have an orange?’

There were oranges for sale upon the platform. Howard had no money. He explained the requirement to one of the German soldiers, who got out of the carriage and bought oranges for all of them. Presently they were all sucking oranges, the children vying with the German soldiers in the production of noise.

At eight o’clock the train started. It went slowly, stopping at every little local halt upon the line. At eight-twenty it drew up at a little place called Lanissant, which consisted of two cottages and a farm. Suddenly Nicole, looking out of the window, turned to Howard.

‘Look!’ she said. ‘Here is Major Diessen.’

The Gestapo officer, smart and upright in his black uniform and black field boots, came to the door of their carriage and opened it. The German sentries got up quickly and stood to attention. He spoke to them incisively in German. Then he turned to Howard.

‘You must get out,’ he said. ‘You are not going on in this train.’

Nicole and Howard got the children out of the carriage
on to the platform. Over the hill the sun was setting in a clear sky. The Gestapo officer nodded to the guard, who shut the carriage door and blew a little toot upon his horn. The train moved forward, the carriages passed by them, and went on slowly up the line. They were left standing on this little platform in the middle of the country with the Gestapo officer.

‘So,’ he said. ‘You will now follow me.’

He led the way down the wooden steps that gave on to the road. There was no ticket-collector and no booking-office; the little halt was quite deserted. Outside, in the lane, there was a grey car, a Ford van with a utility body. In the driver’s seat there was a soldier in black Gestapo uniform. Beside him was a child.

Diessen opened the door and made the child get out.
‘Komm, Anna,’
he said.
‘Hier ist Herr Howard, und mit ihm wirst du zu Onkel Ruprecht gehen.’

The little girl stared at the old man, and his retinue of children, and at the dishevelled girl beside him. Then she stretched out a little skinny arm, and in a shrill voice exclaimed: ‘Heil Hitler!’

The old man said gravely:
‘Guten abend, Anna.
’ He turned to the Gestapo officer, smiling faintly. ‘She will have to get out of that habit if she’s going to America,’ he said.

Diessen nodded. ‘I will tell her.’ He spoke to the little girl, who listened to him round-eyed. She asked a question, puzzled; Howard caught the word Hitler. Diessen explained to her again; under the scrutiny of Howard and Nicole he flushed a little. The child said something in a clear, decisive tone which made the driver of the car turn in his seat and glance towards his officer for guidance.

Diessen said: ‘I think she understands.’ To the old man he seemed a little embarrassed.

He asked: ‘What did she say?’

The officer said: ‘Children do not understand the Führer. That is reserved for adults.’

Nicole asked him in French: ‘But, monsieur, tell us what she said.’

The German shrugged his shoulders. ‘I cannot understand the reasoning of children. She said that she is glad that she has not got to say “Heil Hitler” any more, because the Führer wears a moustache.’

Howard said with perfect gravity: ‘It is difficult to understand the minds of children.’

‘That is so. Now, will you all get into the car. We will not linger in this place.’ The German glanced around suspiciously.

They got into the car. Anna got into the back seats with them; Diessen seated himself beside the driver. The car moved down the road. In the front seat the Gestapo officer turned, and passed back a cotton bag tied with a string to Howard, and another to Nicole.

‘Your papers and your money,’ he said briefly. ‘See that it is all in order.’

The old man opened it. Everything that had been taken from his pockets was there, quite intact.

In the gathering dusk they drove through the countryside for an hour and a half. From time to time the officer said something in a low tone to the driver; the old man got the impression once that they were driving round merely to kill time till darkness fell. Now and again they passed through villages, sometimes past barricades with German posts on guard. At these the car stopped and the
sentry came and peered into the car. At the sight of the Gestapo uniform he stepped quickly back and saluted. This happened two or three times.

Once Howard asked: ‘Where are we going to?’

The German said: ‘To l’Abervrach. Your fisherman is there.’

After a pause the old man said: ‘There was a guard upon the harbour.’

Diessen said: ‘There is no guard to-night—that has been arranged. Do you take me for a fool?’

Howard said no more.

At ten o’clock, in the first darkness, they ran softly to the quay at l’Abervrach. The car drew up noiselessly and the engine stopped at once. The Gestapo officer got out and stood for half a minute, staring around. All was quiet and still.

He turned back to the car. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Get out quickly—and do not let the children talk.’ They helped the children from the car. Diessen said to Nicole: ‘There is to be no trickery. You shall stay with me. If you should try to go with them, I shall shoot down the lot of you.’