The following day, Saturday, Erwan awoke refreshed and clear-headed. Gone were the worries of the previous night caused by the message from Grendon. The plan for Marcel’s and Jean’s return had changed. So what? The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Erwan could accept that; he was a farmer, often dependent on the weather which was always changing his farming plans. He would stop fretting and execute Plan B, which was a trip to the Saturday market in St-Brieuc with a load of winter vegetables. This would be an opportunity to introduce Annette to his wholesale business operation; vegetables and fish. He would show her the best and safest truck route to the coast, and let her meet all his contacts in the fishing villages as well as those at the St-Brieuc market.
The truck was already partially loaded with vegetables from his and other farms, and, with Claudette’s help, he quickly made it a full load by transferring barrels of potatoes stored in his barn into the truck. Claudette had made some sandwiches for him as he would be away all day. She handed these to him, along with a bottle of her cider, gave him quite a passionate kiss, which was a surprise, and waved him good-bye. Erwan did not mention to her that he would first go to Guillaume to try and persuade Annette to come with him. Claudette would not appreciate them being together on such a trip. Annette jumped at the chance of a day’s adventure.
Erwan’s truck had seen better days. It was fifteen years old and sounded it. The gearbox alternately growled and whined, as though it were in severe pain. The engine burned more oil than gasoline, as indicated by the volumes of blue smoke that exited the exhaust pipe. The carburetor had given up trying to provide the correct air-to-fuel ratio, and the brakes really had no intention of stopping the truck at speeds greater than 20 miles per hour. Nevertheless, Erwan was its master, and his knowledge of the truck’s temperament enabled him to more or less control it, and get it to perform the duty he asked.
They followed the quiet backroads up through Mauron, Merdrignac and Moncontour to St-Brieuc, a distance of about fifty miles. The Brittany countryside was coated with a heavy frost that sparkled in the winter sun, knowing that by noontime its short life would be over as it turned into cold water droplets. Annette had her window partially open and she breathed deeply the fresh, clean air. It was cold enough to sting her cheeks and bring out a rosy glow in them as she marveled at the beauty of the fields, the moorland and the woods. Erwan’s eyes were elsewhere; directly on the road ahead and filled with an intense concentration as he strived to control his mechanized beast. Several times he barely escaped ending up in the deep ditches on either side of the road. He said few words but occasionally whistled a popular song to show Annette how composed he was, how she could rely on his impeccable driving skills. After two hours, they slowly entered the ancient and picturesque town of St-Brieuc, capital of the Côtes d’Armor département, situated between the ravines of the Gouët and Gouëdic rivers near St-Brieuc Bay on the English Channel. As the truck gingerly navigated the narrow streets, Erwan could not resist giving Annette a little history lesson.
“Because you’re not really from these parts, you should know that the town is named after a Welsh monk, St-Briocus, who tried to evangelize the region in the 6th century. But religion didn’t stop the town’s inhabitants being put to the sword by all kinds of so-called noblemen and foreign pillagers, like the Spaniards in 1592. And of course there were the standard plagues to deal with, one of the worst being in 1601. Then we had Bonaparte and the Chouans. Now we have the Germans; Lord help us! Who’ll invade us after they’re gone? Russians, Indians, Africans?
“Look, there’s the estuary and the fishing port. Boats should be coming in soon. Sometimes I buy my fish there and sometimes I go farther up the coast to Plouha. It all depends. But first, to the market place and a bit of dealing with the local vegetable sellers. Remember the people I deal with and what prices I get. Some of them can be tricky.”
After only an hour, Erwan had sold all his vegetables and for a good price. It was winter time and supply was low, prices high. Annette enjoyed the market scene, the bustle, the bargaining and the friendliness, even though the shadow of occupation was not far away. Off-duty German officers and other ranks wandered from stall to stall, behaving well but nevertheless providing an insidious threat.
From St-Brieuc they drove north along the rugged coast, passing through quaint little fishing villages, and seeing who was selling the catch of the day. Just passed Plouha, Erwan decided he was hungry for lunch. He pulled off the road, stopped and pointed to a path that led to the edge of the cliffs.
“Come on, Annette, grab that pack; it’s got sandwiches and a bottle of cider in it. Claudette was in a good mood this morning; she made the sandwiches herself. I’m starving, so what say you to scrambling down the cliffs to Bonaparte Beach and having a picnic?”
“Sounds a great idea. Lead the way,” agreed Annette.
“The cliffs are very high here; over 200 feet so the view from the edge is very dramatic. You should be here in a storm when the sky and sea are angry at one another. Thor and Poseidon don’t get on well together.”
They had not gone very far when they heard a shout coming from behind them. Across the road, in the front garden of a small house, an elderly woman was frantically waving what appeared to be a piece of red flannel.
“Stop, you imbeciles, stop!” she shouted. “Do you want to get killed.”
Erwan and Annette stopped walking and stood confused. They did not really understand what the woman was trying to say. They were about to proceed farther down the path when the woman hobbled across the road and yelled more loudly than before.
“Mines, you fools! German mines! Don’t move or you’ll be blown to bits.”
This warning had the desired effect. Erwan and Annette froze in place, feeling terrified and stupid at the same time. The woman walked slowly and carefully to where they stood and commanded them to follow her back to the road.
“I’m sorry, Madame. I am very stupid. I should have guessed that all the approaches to the cliffs would be mined. We owe you our lives. Thank you a thousand times,” said Erwan, taking her hand and gently shaking it in both of his.”
“You young people don’t think enough. Didn’t you see the danger signs? Just ignored them, didn’t you. Now get in your truck and leave. If a German lookout in that post on the hill has seen you, he’ll send a patrol to arrest you. Now go, go!”
They reached the road without having their legs blown off, and the woman started towards her house.
“Madame, a moment please,” said Erwan. “I would like you to accept this bottle of cider. We thank you again.”
The woman stared at Erwan with twinkling eyes set in a creased and weathered face. She smiled and gave a small laugh, grasped the bottle eagerly and continued to her house. At the garden gate she waved to them with her free hand as they climbed into the truck, then she held the bottle to her lips as though to drink.
Erwan and Annette sat in silence for a while, still shaken from their near disaster.
“Don’t worry, Erwan, the threads of Fate did not want us today. Here, your sandwich. Eat and enjoy; I am. I must thank Claudette for making such a tasty one when I see her next.”
“Better not do that. She thinks I came alone. You know how she is. She has the green-eyed monster inside her.”
“Jealousy? You think she’s jealous of me?”
“Always has been, and you know it; if you don’t, you must be blind.”
“Yes, I know it,” answered Annette, coyly, “but what can I do about it?”
“Do nothing to provoke her. She can have very dark moods, almost dangerous moods.”
“Come on, Erwan! What’s she going to do? Kill me?” Erwan did not answer this. Instead, he bit into his lunch with gusto.
“You’re right, it’s a good sandwich, but I wish I had some cider to wash it down.” They finished their food, satisfied but wanting more.
“We’d better get going. The fishing boats should have returned to Plouha by now. I think that’ll be the best place to buy our fish today. We’ll go straight to the harbor, buy blocks of ice and then look for Jacques Carnac’s boat. He’s a fair man.”
For Annette, it was hard work loading the blocks of ice; a school teacher does not have much of a chance to develop strong arms and shoulders. But what she lacked in strength she made up for with enthusiasm. The catch was not good today, partly because Jacques had stayed close inshore in an area that had become overfished. The French fishermen did not venture far from home waters for fear of aerial attack by British and German planes. The former sometimes mistook the boats for armed trawlers on their way to protect a German coastal convoy. The latter thought every boat was trying to reach England with escaping Allied airmen. Erwan had to be content with a barrel of cod, two barrels of mackerel and one of assorted flat fish. Jacques’s wife had gathered a fair number of oysters from a safe, rocky area near the headland, so Erwan bought a hundred of these then quickly got back on the road to St-Brieuc. It was already early afternoon, and he wanted to get back to Basbijou and Guillaume before the fishmongers closed. If he did not, he would have to keep the fish, albeit well iced, in the back of his truck until Monday. Sunday was the Sabbath so the shops would not be open.
The unexpected happened five miles south of St-Quay-Portrieux; a German roadblock.
“No problem,” said Erwan, “they know me and my truck and what I carry. They’ll just wave us through, although they’ll probably want to see our papers. It’s unusual though, a roadblock on this stretch of the road, and on a Saturday.”
They waited in line to be checked by two Wehrmacht soldiers, one thin, one fat. The fat one examined papers while the thin one stood a little back, nervously holding his automatic. And even further back stood a leather-coated, leather-gloved civilian, except that he did not look very civil. Annette immediately sensed that he was a member of the Gestapo. She stiffened in her seat as her traumatic experience in the woods with one such animal rushed into her consciousness. Erwan put his hand on her knee for reassurance, but it did not help much. Then it was their turn to be checked.
“Guten Tag, Karl. Wie geht’s?” was the limit of Erwan’s German. He pretended that he knew the fat soldier. “Where’s Johann today? Haven’t seen him for a while? On a spot of leave, eh? Back in the glorious fatherland?
“OK, Karl, this is my new partner. Good looking, eh? Hard worker as well. She’ll be making a few trips by herself in the future, so you’ll be seeing more of her.”
The fat soldier’s name was not Karl, so he immediately became flustered. Also, he spoke no French so he had no idea what Erwan was talking about. Not so the Gestapo man who stepped forward and snatched Erwan’s papers from his hand and examined them thoroughly. He reluctantly returned them, went around to the other side of the truck and gave Annette’s papers the same concentrated examination. He seemed satisfied.
“Open up the back of the truck,” the Gestapo man ordered. This surprised Erwan, for he had only ever been searched once before. He thought that they must be looking for someone in particular; an escaped POW or a member of the Resistance. Little did they know whose identity papers they had just approved. Erwan laughed inwardly as he went round to the back of the truck to untie the canvas flaps that were part of the cover which was draped over the truck’s simple tubular frame. The contents of the truck were separated from the cab by a plywood wall.
“Behold the bounty of Mother Nature plucked from the cold, cruel sea,” said Erwan with a dramatic flourish of his left arm. The Gestapo man did not appreciate Erwan’s satiric tone, neither did he appreciate the strong fishy smell that hit him full in the face. He was obviously not a seafaring man, and he did not intend to inspect the fish barrels personally; instead he ordered the fat soldier to clamber into the truck and search for weapons by plunging his bare arm into each barrel. The fat soldier did not enjoy this activity on two counts; first, the fish were packed with loose ice that froze his arm; secondly, the fish were very slimy and looked at him, accusingly, with dead, staring eyes. But he finished his task and reported that no weapons were present. The Gestapo man grimaced, disappointingly, and told Erwan that he was free to proceed. Erwan wasted no time in getting back in his truck, and with a thumbs-up to Annette drove off with a sigh of relief.
What they never knew was that fifteen minutes later three men in a Citröen, that had been four cars behind them at the roadblock, were forcibly dragged from their vehicle, beaten, and thrown into a Gestapo van that came in from a side road. The men, who were members of the Resistance, were taken off to a local Gestapo building where they suffered a brutal and ultimately fatal interrogation.
Erwan and Annette arrived back in Basbijou in time to catch the fishmonger and sell their load before closing time. The fishmonger, in fact, had no option but to extend his hours by customer demand as word spread of his display of fresh fish. By six o’clock not even a cod’s tail was left in his shop. Erwan took a tired but happy Annette back to her home, then he returned to Claudette and presented her with a dozen oysters and some of his hard-earned cash.