For the next few weeks Charles’s involvement with the resistance cell grew. He felt that they now all trusted him as much as they did each other. He had proved to them that he was not only capable of being discreet but that he was also very useful. He made regular deliveries of the tracts and pamphlets produced by the group and was even given some himself to distribute. He left them in phone booths, in public toilets, on the seats of Metro trains and had even left one or two in the school, which had caused quite a stir. Henri had no doubt who was to blame.
‘I know it was you,’ he said one afternoon when alone with Charles in the playground.
‘You know what was me?’ replied Charles, innocently.
‘That thing… “Pour La France”. Don’t tell me it wasn’t because I know it will have been you. Where did you get it?’
‘Okay, it was me.’ He felt there was no point in denying it. Henri knew him and he didn’t like lying to his friend, particularly when he had helped him in his initial venture into resistance. However, he could not tell him the full truth. ‘I found it.’
Henri rubbed his chin. ‘Hmm… okay.’
‘Truly, I did,’ said Charles. ‘On a Metro train.’
‘You do know you could get in serious trouble if you are caught with one of those things, don’t you? Look what happened to those people last week.’
It was true. The previous week a resistance cell had been caught by the Gestapo and they were all now being held in the Cherche-Midi prison awaiting trial. The news had hit Charles hard, as the outcome for those involved did not look good. He felt an empathy towards them. Lucy and Alain in particular had been very concerned and upset by the whole thing when he had seen them on the Thursday evening. Bernard had told them that it had to be a lesson to them all to remain discreet, vigilant and above all else safe. He had considered stopping operations for a few weeks to see how the land lay, but was persuaded otherwise by Gerard. He had argued that out of respect to their comrades and to show the Germans that a setback such as this would not stop them, he had eventually won the argument and they had agreed to carry on as normal.
‘I’ve heard,’ replied Charles solemnly. ‘But that has nothing to do with me.’
Henri frowned. ’As you wish.’
It was clear to Charles that his friend did not believe that he was telling him the full truth of the matter.
Charles did not like lying to his friend, particularly when he had risked just as much as he had on that first outing when they had painted the slogans on the park monument. It did not sit well with him. But then what could he do? If he told Henri the truth then he would be putting him in a compromising position. It was too big a secret for him to burden his friend with. Charles thought it best that the smallest number of people who were aware of his activities with the resistance group the better for everyone.
Charles had one time considered telling Henri everything. He had given some thought to recruiting him, but he knew that Henri was not as interested in making the same effort as he was. He was just not as passionate. As time had gone by he understood that his friend was becoming more passive as far as the Nazi occupation was concerned. He had mentioned on more than one occasion that it was probably better to ‘keep your head down’ and not to draw any attention to yourself. The chances of survival would be far greater if everyone just minded their own business, Henri had said. After the arrests last week, Charles realised that his friend was probably right.
But he couldn’t stop now. He was in too deep and, if truth be told, he enjoyed what he was doing. He enjoyed it because he knew that he was making a difference and he enjoyed it because he knew that his father would have done the same thing had he been here and not locked up in some camp somewhere in Germany.
The following Thursday, at the usual time, and after telling his mother that he was going out to meet Henri, Charles collected the bicycle from the hallway and set off on the journey to the apartment building in the 14th arrondissement. Dark clouds were gathering over the city and there was a chill in the air. In his eagerness to get going, for he did not want to be late, he nearly dropped the bicycle as he tried to put on his coat and wheel it out of the door at the same time.
This was becoming a ride that he now knew very well and enjoyed. As he pedalled along the streets and boulevards, he liked to use the time to reflect on what had happened to him over the course of the last year. He had decided that he no longer wanted to be a soldier when he grew up and would like to be a reporter or a spy instead.
He had heard many tales from Alain, Lucy and Jean-Claude about what the Nazis had been doing and had witnessed some of that behaviour for himself. There were tales about Jews being sent to camps in Germany and Poland and never returning. He had seen raids on properties in the city and the heavy-handedness in the way that the German soldiers and Gestapo officers treated those they were punishing. The contempt that they had for the people they had conquered.
He wondered about what life may be like in the unoccupied zone, that area to the south and east of the country that the Germans were letting the collaborators in Vichy control. Was it any better than here in the capital? Surely it must be, he thought. Bernard had told him that it was just a question of time before they moved their troops south and occupied the whole of the country. This was something the whole group dreaded. Bernard would often cross into the unoccupied zone, couriering documents to other groups like theirs that they were in contact with, to pass on information and other things that Charles was not privy to. Bernard had told him of some resistance members who had been caught out this way, getting stopped at checkpoints with forged travel papers and then being found with incriminating items upon them. Some of these people had never been heard of again. Bernard would use these stories to emphasise the necessity for discretion from everyone within the group and Charles was glad that he had given them a false name. For they all still thought his name was Victor and had no idea that he was Charles Mercier, nor where he lived. Although he was in no doubt that the others had all given him their true identities, he felt no guilt in deceiving them in this way.
As he approached the end of the road leading to the apartment building it started to rain. He stopped at the side of the road to button up his coat and to pull up his hood. As he was doing this, a black car passed him, followed by two military Opel trucks. As the second truck went by, he could see two rows of German soldiers sitting patiently, each of them carrying either a rifle or an MP40 machine pistol.
He watched as the vehicles all pulled up near the building and the tailgates of the truck dropped down. Suddenly the street was filled with German soldiers who entered the building under the instructions of a German officer and a short man wearing a long leather coat and a homburg hat upon his head.
At first it didn’t register with Charles that this had anything to do with him or his friends and so he watched proceedings curiously from the corner of the street.
After only a couple of minutes he watched in horror as first Bernard, then followed by Alain, Gerard, Jean-Claude and finally Lucy were dragged unceremoniously from the building. He could feel his heart beating within his chest and, despite the chilly evening, he could feel the perspiration run down the back of his neck. He felt like being sick. He knew that should he open his mouth then he would vomit, right there at the side of the road.
But he could not do nothing. He could not sit idly by and watch these people take away his friends. He knew that the materials they had in the apartment, particularly the printing machine and, no doubt, the tracts and pamphlets produced by Lucy would incriminate them all. He was aware that they would more than likely be shot for this, or at the very least sent away to one of those camps that Bernard had told him of. He feared he would likely not see any of them ever again.
He had to show them that he was there for them. They had to know that he was there to support them in their hour of need and, if possible, he would do something to aid their escape.
He put his foot on the pedal and pushed off. It was always a strain to get the bicycle moving but once he had the momentum going then it became easier. He pedalled towards the trucks.
Bernard and Alain had already been forced into the back of the rear truck and Gerard and Jean-Claude were now being made to get in. A soldier hit the butt of his rifle into Jean-Claude’s back to hurry him along and he turned his head angrily in protest. His friends took hold of his arms and hauled him into the vehicle before the soldier had chance to hit him again.
Charles was now only a few feet away and he saw Lucy standing with the Gestapo officer. She cringed before him as he shouted at her in German, words that Charles could not understand. Charles could see a bruise developing on her cheek.
For a brief moment Lucy looked up and their eyes met. She had been unaware of his presence until now and when she saw him, her eyes widened, almost as a warning and in that moment Charles realised that there was nothing he could do for any of them. He was useless to them. The only thing that was left open to him was to get away, to put as much distance between himself and the arrests as he possibly could.
However, as he passed them, he was compelled to stare at Lucy, turning his head to the side as he cycled by, his eyes transfixed, as though mesmerised by what was happening.
This did not go unnoticed by the Gestapo officer who looked from Lucy to Charles and then back to Lucy before barking more angry words at her, gripping her arm tightly. He turned his head once more towards Charles.
‘You,’ he shouted, ‘You, boy… on the bicycle… Stop!’
Charles was momentarily stunned. For a brief moment, all thought vanished from his brain. He was not unable to process what was going on.
He shook himself to clear his head. What should he do? Should he stop and go and speak to the German? Should he ignore him and pretend he hadn't heard him? Should he get away as fast as his legs would allow?
Some of the soldiers had stopped what they were doing and were now also looking in his direction.
Suddenly Lucy shouted, ‘Go, Victor… Go!…Get out of here!’
Broken from his momentary indecision, he acted without further hesitation and pedalled as fast as his strength allowed, pushing down hard on the pedals. The adrenalin was now coursing through his veins and he sped along the street, pumping his legs as hard as he could, grateful that the old bicycle reacted to his exertions.
He could hear shouts behind him and the sound of boots running along the pavement in pursuit of him, but he knew that they could not move as fast as he was going and with each cycle of the wheels he could feel himself getting further away from them.
And then he heard something that filled him with total horror. The sound of a rifle bolt being readied.
He felt the wind of something flying past his right ear and it took him a moment to realise that it was a bullet, the report of the rifle following a fraction of a second later.
They were shooting at him.
They were actually shooting at him!
Hunching his head down, he pedalled furiously. He could hear the sound of one of the vehicles’ engines being gunned and realised that although he could get away from those on foot, there was no way he could outrun a staff car or German truck.
He knew that there was a Metro station close by and decided to head for that. It was probably his only realistic chance of getting away from them.
He got to a corner and turned right. He was now going so fast that he strayed onto the opposite side of the road and was grateful that there were no vehicles there. He mounted the walkway causing pedestrians to jump out of his way, but he was soon back on the road again with their angry shouts ringing in his ears.
He could hear vehicles behind him but dared not look back, all his focus, all his energy, all his trust now resting with this rickety, old, rusty bicycle.
Charles could now see the entrance to the Metro station ahead of him. He chanced a look back but could see no-one following him. Had the Germans given up? Had they decided that he, a thirteen-year-old boy, was not important enough for them to be bothered with? He could not be sure and so, as he pulled up at the top of the steps that led down into the bowels of the city, he abandoned the bicycle at the top and ran down them, taking two at a time.
‘Slow down, young man,’ said a middle-aged woman irritably as he barged past her. ‘You’ll not get there any quicker…’
Fumbling in his pocket he pulled out the few centimes he needed for a ticket and passed it to the old man in the ticket booth. He collected his ticket and ran to the platform, all the time looking around for any signs of people following him. He could see a couple of German soldiers further along the platform but it was clear that they were not looking for him, laughing together, smoking cigarettes and shouting across the train lines at a group of young girls who bashfully tried to ignore them.
After only a few minutes, a train pulled in and Charles quickly got on, sitting near to the door. He did not know, or care, where it was headed, he just knew that he had to put as much distance between himself and anyone who still might be chasing him.
He stayed on for three stops and then got off, making his way quickly to the street above where he found that he was on the northern side of the river and a long way from home. It took him over an hour to walk home but he felt confident that he had got away. Nobody was following him and when he passed any gendarmes or German patrols, they did not give him a second look.
He walked into the kitchen to find his Uncle Michel sitting at the table with his mother and grandmother. Pierre was playing with a toy car on the floor in the corner. Michel was wearing his uniform.
His mother looked relieved. ’Where have you been? It’s getting late. We were getting worried about you… Whatever is the matter?’
He could not help it. The feeling of relief was overwhelming and he burst into tears in front of them.
‘Sit down,’ ordered Michel sternly.
Too exhausted to argue, Charles did as he was told and sat opposite them.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Michel. ‘And where is your bicycle?… I didn’t hear you wheeling it in.’
Charles wiped his eyes. ‘I lost it. I think somebody stole it.’
‘Is that true?’ Michel raised his eyebrows. ‘You see… we have been asked to keep a look out for a boy on an old bicycle that appears too big for him. For some reason, I thought of you when we got the message and so came straight here. And now you come home all flustered and without that old bicycle, that is, let’s face it, somewhat too big for you.’
Charles sniffed. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Uncle Michel.’
‘Hmm. For the love of God, Charles, you have to be careful. People have been arrested. They have been taken to the Cherche-Midi and they will go to trial and if found guilty, then they will probably be shot. You understand that surely. This is a very dangerous game you’re playing.’
‘Like I say… I have no idea what you mean.’
His mother looked up, tears in her eyes. ‘Charles… Whatever it is that you’ve been doing then it stops now. My nerves can’t cope with this.’
Charles was torn. He had never felt so helpless in his life. Here were the people he loved telling him he had to stop what he was doing, that it simply was too dangerous. And yet he felt an enormous loyalty to his friends who had just been taken and knew he should be doing something to help them.
But what? What could he do? They were holed up in cells in the Cherche-Midi and there was no way a thirteen-year-old boy could do anything to get them out. If he spoke out then he would be arrested too. And maybe not just him, but his mother, grandmother, maybe even little Pierre who played in the corner, oblivious to the turmoil his older brother was in. He knew that he could do nothing and so had no option but to do nothing. Maybe a few slogans on walls demanding their freedom, but in his heart of hearts he knew that it would have no effect whatsoever.
He looked around the table. His mother was weeping, his unusually quiet grandmother noncommittal and a look of anxiety upon Uncle Michel’s face. As he looked from one adult to the other, he knew it was over.
For now.
As Charles lay upon his mattress later that night, he found it difficult to sleep. He could not stop thinking of his friends and what they may now be doing. If they were suffering. If they had been kept together or had been separated. If they were remaining strong and steadfast. He wished it so. He hoped they were being resilient.
They were determined characters, all of them. They would not tell the Germans anything, of that Charles was certain. He was not worried about himself personally as he had never revealed his true identity to any of them. They all simply knew him as ‘Victor’. They had no idea of his real name, who any of his family were or indeed, where he lived.
Charles shuddered. Even if they were tortured none of them could reveal anything about him. In fact, had he not cycled by Lucy when she was being held by the Gestapo officer and given himself away, the Germans would not even be aware of his existence. The thought of it made him less anxious about his own personal safety and that of his family, but it also made him feel a bit of a coward. He had let them be taken and had done nothing to stop it. He had fled. He had got away from the whole thing as fast as he could. Even if he knew that this had been the only course open to him, it still made him feel bad and inadequate.
But then Lucy had told him to do it. She had shouted for him to get away.
Maybe if they knew that he was still on the outside and still fighting on, then it would give them some comfort, maybe even some hope that all would be well in the end. That even if they were stuck inside prison awaiting their fate, there were still others outside who would carry on their work.
But then, he thought, as he slowly drifted off to sleep. He was merely one thirteen-year-old boy. What could he do?