It had been just over a week since the little town six miles inland from Utah Beach in Normandy had been liberated from the Germans; just over a week since the long-awaited and meticulously planned Jour J had finally happened. An old woman, her black shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders even though the weather was mild, walked past a huge mound of bricks and broken glass that had once been a patisserie. It had been derelict for a few years, Leon the baker having disappeared shortly after the Germans had goose-stepped their way into the town. Another boulangerie had opened up nearer to the market square, and so Leon’s old shop had slowly gone to rack and ruin. Now the two-storey building was totally demolished, razed to the ground by Jerry’s last-ditch attempt to reclaim a town that had never been theirs. The old woman covered her mouth with her shawl; the smell of burnt wood, soot and foul, stagnant water still lingered in the air. And there was another smell. One they had all become familiar with – death.
She stood for a moment and said a prayer for those who had been killed, and a prayer of thanks that their lives had not been sacrificed in vain. After four years of occupation – of living in fear and hearing the tongue of the Hun – they were once again free to come and go as they pleased, without the fear of saying or doing something that would bring them to the attention of their captors.
Now they heard American voices, but they did not mind – not one bit – for the brave paratroopers had come and saved them all. Her grandson and granddaughter, whom she was going to see now, would be able to grow up speaking the language of their forefathers and carrying on their Gallic traditions, not those of the Fatherland. She muttered another prayer of thanks and touched the rosary beads in her pocket as her mind wandered to what their futures might have been.
‘Merci Dieu,’ she muttered, crossing herself.
Looking across the azure skyline, her attention settled on the steeple of their ancient church. A parachute was still flapping in the breeze. The story going round the village was that the paratrooper had hung there for several hours while the battle raged around him and the church bells rang non-stop in his ears. She heard he had been cut down and captured by the Nazis but had later escaped.
She walked on, thinking of what she would cook her grandchildren for their evening meal. As she shuffled her way around the demolished building, her eye caught a movement. It was a big rat scurrying over the ruins. There’d been an increase of them since the fighting and the bombings. ‘Charognards!’ Scavengers! As she shouted, she grabbed a rock by the side of the pathway and chucked it with considerable force for a woman so old and arthritic.
‘Va au diable!’ The rock missed the rat but hit some soot-encrusted debris at the top of bomb site, causing it to tumble down the side like a miniature avalanche, taking other bricks and remnants with it. She was just about to carry on walking when she stopped and squinted hard, silently cursing her failing eyesight. What was that in the rubble? She made to go, but still something stopped her continuing on her way. She took a step forward. Squinted again. Mon Dieu! Was that a hand she could see? Or were her eyes playing tricks on her? No, she was sure it was a hand, the skin blackened with dirt.
A young boy ran past her, catching her long skirt as she did so.
‘Garçon!’ she shouted out.
The boy stopped and looked apologetically at the old woman.
‘Pardonnez-moi,’ he said, thinking the old witch was annoyed with him.
The old woman shook her head, showing she was not angry, but puzzled. She pointed to the mound of bricks – to what she was certain was a man’s hand.
‘Gee whiz!’ the young French boy exclaimed. He had been learning a few American expressions. His mouth remained open, revealing a wad of chewing gum.
‘Regardez! Regardez!’ She flapped her free hand towards the ruins.
The boy didn’t need any encouragement. He ran over, scrabbling across bricks and debris to the spot where he had seen the hand.
The old woman watched as the boy started flinging bricks to the side. Suddenly, he stopped. He swivelled around to face the old woman.
‘C’est un homme!’ he cried out. It’s a man!
The boy started frantically throwing stones and bricks to the side. After a few moments, he stopped and stood up straight. Turning to the old woman, his expression was crestfallen.
‘Il est mort,’ he said. Looking down at the mop of blond hair, he thought the figure would have looked German were it not for his French clothes.
‘Venez!’ the old woman shouted.
The boy was about to do as he was told when he heard something.
A muffled banging sound, which seemed to be coming from deep within the ruins.