Kit could feel tension mounting in the prison. Guards were yelling and shouting orders. There was a banging of doors, with prisoners screaming and banging at their cells. Whispers went round the cells that Jerry was pulling out. Would they all be released when the jail was evacuated?
Schultz said very little when he came, but his visits, once regular, were now more erratic. Sometimes Kit saw the padre looking at him with concern. Their talks together passed the time. Erich was looking forward to returning home. His son was in the Luftwaffe, somewhere in Russia. And he had four grandchildren. He was a family man, so far from home. His wife had passed away.
Kit shared the real story of how Flora had come back into his life. The padre seemed interested in their rescue of Jewish children and asked many questions. A week later, rumours grew that the jail indeed was emptying. Furniture and equipment were being taken out, but there was still no sign of prisoners being released. Then, one night, there was a clanging of cell doors and inmates were marched out into the darkness. They did not return. Something was happening, something that did not bode well.
Next morning, the new guard shoved Kit’s food through the hatch. ‘Enjoy this, Engländer. It will be your last.’
Kit sat on his bed, winded by this news. He was condemned to die. How relieved he was that Schultz had posted his letter to Flora. At least she would know he was thinking of her to the end. All day he waited for the cell door to be opened. He took comfort from the Psalms, reading them out loud. Then the thud of boots along the gallery announced his turn was approaching. How typical of cowards, to execute men under cover of darkness. He wished he could say goodbye to the padre. How strange it had been to find a friend in such a chamber of horrors.
They were lined up, marched down the stairs. Kit tried not to shiver. His mind was racing with both fear and resignation. This is it… He looked out for the padre but it was a Catholic priest who was standing by as they were brought into the yard, to face the wall.
Just as Kit was about to step out into the night air, he heard a voice. ‘Not that one… He’s wanted, the Engländer. He’s to come with me.’ Kit turned to see the anxious face of the padre nodding, as if signalling to him. ‘Come with me,’ he said, grabbing Kit’s arm.
What was going on? Why had he been singled out? For torture, or for more questions? One of the guards was assigned to escort them. ‘Stay close by me,’ the padre whispered. ‘Don’t speak.’
As they were walking, Kit noticed drums of what looked like explosives being shoved into empty cells all along the corridor. They reached the commandant’s office. ‘You can go now,’ said Schultz, dismissing the guard, and he turned to Kit, reiterating, ‘Say nothing.’
It was evident the officer was on the move. Inside, the shelves were empty. There were boxes scattered around as the commandant was emptying his desk. ‘Yes, Padre?’
‘This is the prisoner I was talking about. He will be useful when we move on. He will get the trust of other prisoners and give us vital information. I can vouch for him.’
‘You better had, Padre.’ The officer scanned the prisoner with suspicion. Kit was now so confused. What scheme had he been rescued for? He bowed his head in submission, as the commandant laughed. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Padre, bringing these awkward souls round to our side. Has the Engländer anything to say for himself, to save his life?’ Kit stayed silent. ‘Request granted, but get a move on before the fireworks light up the sky.’
‘What did you mean, I must be moved on?’
‘It’s the only way to save your life. They’ll take you north, to work in the fields with prisoners of war, to gain their confidence… or not.’ Schultz gave him a piercing look. ‘Don’t you see… what you do there is up to you.’ Kit was pushed into a waiting truck, looking down at the padre in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand, why are you doing this for me?’ Kit whispered.
‘Because you must carry on the good work,’ came the reply. ‘Make the most of any chances that appear and may God go with you.’
*
The late August heat bore down on Flora, as she hung washing on a makeshift line. Her back ached with all the scrubbing and sweeping out, to make the house clean for the baby to crawl over the floorboards.
News of the liberation of France brought relief to the area at last, lifting that dread of denunciation and a knock on the door. Was she no longer an alien? Returning to a welcome in the village was a relief, too. Lise ran to greet her, tears flowing down her cheeks. ‘You have come back to us. We heard such terrible tales from Maurice that your guide was a traitor. Don’t worry, he was soon dealt with.’
Christy had a clutch of adoring aunties wanting to pat his ginger curls. Lise made up little dungarees and a new coat for him to grow into.
The best news was that Sandrine’s fiancé, Robert, had returned to them and that a wedding was booked soon. Lise was busy altering an old family gown to fit her slender daughter. The rest of the guests would make do with their well-worn Sunday best. During every visit to Montze, Flora would call in at the post office, to see if there were any letters for her. After each visit she came home disappointed, convincing herself that the chaos of war was delaying post, especially from her Scottish family. Had they disowned her, or did her letter never arrive? Perhaps she should write again, now that she was settled.
It was a labour of love to restore the house. Christy lay on a rug, in the shade of a tree, watching the leaves rustling above him. He was such a happy baby and now ready to be weaned. Her breasts ached, knowing they would never be filled again. More for her own comfort than his need, she suckled him each night, praying Kit would find his way home. This thought spurred her on to clear out a patch for vegetables, to collect hedge berries and nuts and kindling for their winter’s stay. Whoever had left in a hurry had also left a pile of chopped logs, for which she was eternally grateful.
Friday was fish day and a little queue formed to buy whatever the fishmonger had brought from the harbour at Port Vendres. Flora waited in line, knowing she only had enough ration points left to buy the scraps. Then it was time to call in at the post office, but when Madame saw her enter, all heads turned. She shouted, ‘At last, Madame Fleur, you have two letters.’
Flora grabbed them in disbelief. The first had a British stamp and was very crumpled. The second trembled in her hand. She could recognise Kit’s writing anywhere. He’s alive… he’s alive!
There was no privacy to read them in the street. With Christy strapped on her back with a shawl, she hurried up the track, her heart singing with joy at this unexpected bonus. Putting Christy to bed in his makeshift cot, pouring a glass of cold water tinged with peppermint leaves, Flora sat down outside on the bench to read the first letter, to read this most important letter. The Garvies could wait a while. She could see it had been censored and stamped over. Her fingers trembled as she opened the envelope.
My dearest Flora, through the kindness of the padre here I am allowed to write…
The rest was a blur, as tears spattered the paper. This was a last letter home. Kit was in prison and waiting to die. No, no… surely not? Not now, after all this time, when things were looking good. Her head was swimming in the heat, arms slumped as the letter fell out of her hand. Flora looked at all her hard work, her back-aching toil to make a welcome home for him, and now this… He would never see his son, or even know Christy existed. All she had left of her lover was this precious note and Christy. Like so many war widows, she must face the rest of her life alone. It was just not fair. She screamed, ‘Oh Kit, what shall I do next, how can I go on living here without you by my side?’