Chapter 12

Invasion. June 1940

N ews of the advancing Germans was terrifying, especially for many of the locals. The British were still evacuating, according to the latest reports. Their ships had arrived over a week ago, and now countless small boats risked the Channel crossing to bring the troops home. Meanwhile, the Luftwaffe continued to dive-bomb the soldiers on the beaches and even the hospital ships. One ship, loaded with casualties, was sunk as it left port. Everywhere I went, I saw the same look in people’s eyes: dark, hollow, and haunted, with frown lines and thin, pressed lips. Some wore vacant stares, shocked by the swift hand of defeat. Those who remembered the last war warned others, deepening the fear. Hope had fled, replaced by anger at the Allied retreat, a sense of betrayal. It felt as if Britain had abandoned us in our hour of need. I prayed they would return. They had little choice.

Yesterday’s bombing raid in Paris killed hundreds—men, women, children, the sick. I found myself caught in another air raid and dashed into a shelter. It was stifling inside, people from all walks of life crammed into every inch of space. Wealthier ladies sat prominently, dressed in their Parisian best, their smoky eyes darting this way and that. They huddled together, their overstuffed handbags likely hiding jewels and money. One of them cast me a fleeting, snooty glance. I must have looked a sight—exhausted, my khaki shirt and trousers dusty and grimy from work, my hair dull and flattened by my tin hat. A vein throbbed in my temple as I shot a stern look back at her, vexed by society’s expectations and greed. I was risking everything for France, for her.

The rest of the people around me huddled together, their faces a mix of anguish and disbelief. ‘This cannot be happening,’ one woman muttered. Another clung to her crucifix, whispering prayers under her breath. I thought of Henri. The Germans were taking prisoners. Was he among them? Was he making his way home, as he’d promised? He had to be alive—I would surely feel it if he weren’t. My eyes swam with tears, and the people around me merged into a dark, swirling mass. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. It did no good to fear the worst. I had to hold on to hope; it was all I had.

Small children and babies clung to their mothers, while men stood by, helpless. An eerie shriek from outside made me hold my breath, bracing for the explosion. The ground shook beneath my feet, a vibration running up my legs. Dust sprinkled down from the ceiling. Couples clung to each other, and the rest of us sat frozen. In that moment, my life flashed before my eyes—Mum, Dad, my brothers and sisters. Stanley, somewhere at sea. Henri, somewhere in France. I thought of everything I longed to do, things I had done, places I had seen. I longed to be free, to live a good life with Henri, safe and loved.

The Boches would soon take Paris. How long before they reached Britain? The thought was unthinkable. The air was foul, thick with sweat and something putrid I couldn’t place. My head felt fuzzy.

An old woman tapped my arm. ‘Hitler did not want to destroy Paris. Do you think he has changed his mind?’

Her wide eyes were watery, yet I sensed she wasn’t afraid. No, she had seen the first war; its horrors lined her face. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, unsure of what to offer. ‘But I don’t think they’ll destroy Paris.’ She nodded, leaning back on the bench and resting her head against the cool, rough stone. Meanwhile, I wondered if German bombs were raining down on England. So many people were displaced, and I wondered what would happen to those of us who were not French citizens—British, American, Australian. Henri would know what to do. A prayer slipped from my lips, simple words mumbled in desperation more than anything. ‘Please, God, keep Henri safe, and let us get out of here alive.’

Hours ticked by, and when the all-clear siren finally wailed, we filed outside, grateful for the fresh air. A silvery-blue light slipped over the cobblestone road. I raised my chin, watching tones of pink, purple, and blood orange wash into the sky. A new day. My heart soared.

***

The last of the Allied ships had set sail from Dunkirk. Some troops stayed behind, fighting to the last, while the Germans took prisoners along the way. The enemy was reportedly fifty miles from Paris, and the French Government had retreated south. My unit was instructed to head to Nimes, retreat being our only option. It suited me well enough, as the journey would take me close to home. I packed my things and stowed them in the truck. Louise decided to come with me. Though her home was in the north, she mentioned having family in the south.

As we set off, the roads proved to be worse than ever. Straggly lines of cars crammed with people and their belongings crawled along, towers of suitcases and mattresses precariously strapped to their roofs. Alongside them, columns of marchers—young and old, even the infirm—shuffled onward, all seeking refuge.

I pulled in at the roadside and stuck my head out the window. ‘If anyone wants a lift, hop in,’ I called out. As I opened the rear doors, people streamed towards us, clambering inside, packed tight like sardines. Thinking of the journey ahead, I prayed we might avoid the attention of the Luftwaffe, but soon enough, a familiar droning sliced through the summer haze, growing into a scream. I stamped on the brake. ‘Everyone out! Take cover!’ We all jumped into the roadside ditch, and I glimpsed the grey underbelly of a Stuka as it zipped overhead, spitting out a hail of shells. One of our passengers cried out. Others covered their ears and heads, ducking down low. Dust billowed all around, scratching at my eyes. ‘Bastards,’ I muttered, rubbing my face, tasting dried earth. We waited for a minute to ensure the pilot didn’t return, then continued. That episode set the tone for our journey, and every twenty minutes or so, we repeated the drill as another Stuka screamed overhead. Once we were far enough away from central France, they finally left us alone.

* * *

A woman shrieked in the corridor. I yawned, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and listened—loud banging on doors, more voices. I stretched out, then swung my legs out of bed. ‘What’s all the fuss about?’ I padded across the wooden parquet floor to the window, opened the shutters, and gazed out over the streets of Nimes below. A loud knock on my door startled me.

‘Come in.’

The maid stood in the doorway, her face pale, tears glistening in her red eyes. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Madame Fiocca, the news is terrible. Paris has fallen. The Germans are coming.’ She turned and fled down the corridor, leaving my door to swing shut.

It was June 13th. The last week had been the worst. Norway had fallen to occupation too, with their king and his family fleeing into exile in London. France’s day had finally arrived. A painful lump swelled in my throat as I choked back tears, to no avail. My vision blurred as a sob escaped my lungs. The enemy was at the gate, and like many, I was now an illegal alien.

I returned to my bed, curled up, and cried. Where was Henri? I hadn’t heard from him in weeks. Surely, if he could, he’d make his way home to Marseille. And I would be waiting. I jumped up, pulled on a pair of brown trousers and a cream blouse, then hastily stuffed my belongings into my bag. I had to get home. A German welcome party was a sobering thought, and I had no intention of being arrested. My unit had disbanded, the French returning home, and the British heading to the coast where a ship waited to take them to England.

The sun beat mercilessly down, a heat haze flickering over the road and in the air, while rich pollen filled my nose, sweet and stuffy. The road to Marseille endured a steady stream of refugees travelling by bicycle, car, and on foot. I threw my bags into the truck and climbed in. The heat was stifling; the metal tainted with the sickly stench of oil and fuel. Hungry, I dug into my holdall and found a small bar of chocolate I’d saved. I took a bite, savouring the rich cocoa as it melted in my mouth.

It struck me how peaceful it was—no guns or aircraft, only birdsong, the rumble of wheels, and the steady thrumming of the engine. Of course, it was surely peaceful in Paris too, now that the conquerors were upon them. With the government fleeing south, I learned Paris had been declared a free city. At least they had spared her.

After a couple of hours, with Marseille almost within reach, the truck lurched and jolted, and black smoke belched from beneath the bonnet. ‘What now?’ I pulled over, popped the bonnet, and lifted the hood. The smell of burning and a hiss of steam greeted me. Realising it was hopeless, I grabbed my bags and resigned myself to walking the final twenty kilometres home under the burning sun. I checked my watch. Four o’clock. Soon, I heard a rumble behind me. I put out my hand, and luckily, the driver of a car slowed to a halt and agreed to give me a lift.

I arrived home on a gentle breeze, humid yet cool for June, with faint scents of coffee and pastries wafting from a nearby café. Marseille seemed still, her pulse slow. Like in Paris, the news had been a shock. I wondered if the might of the German Army was unstoppable. As I turned the key in the door of our apartment, I stood still for a moment, sensing the emptiness.

Madame Dumont had cleaned recently—no dust on the furniture, the rooms smelling fresh. My plants thrived in moist soil. The cushions were plump on the sofas; Henri’s whisky decanter remained half full, just as we had left it. His brown leather armchair, with the seat cushion worn from his use, stood proudly by the marble fireplace. I trailed a hand over it as I strode across to the windows, taking a deep breath. Traces of sandalwood lingered in the air.

I slipped into the bathroom, checked my face in the mirror. Smudges of grime streaked my forehead, cheeks, and chin, my fingernails worn and grubby. Fresh lines furrowed my brow and framed my eyes. I no longer recognised the woman who stared back. A shadow had descended, and who knew how long it would remain? I washed and changed, then headed to my father-in-law’s home to ask if he’d received any news of Henri. He did not welcome me with open arms, but he was polite. No, he hadn’t heard from Henri, and his worn face told me he, too, was desperately worried.

‘We are bound to hear soon,’ he said. ‘I will telephone when we do.’

I could tell he wanted me to leave. ‘Yes,’ I said, forcing a smile, aware of my shaky voice as I caught sight of a photograph of Henri smiling. My heart pinched, yet I felt numb and angry. Before the war, I hadn’t thought it possible to hate anyone, but the last two months had shown me otherwise. Hate burned inside me, a dark spot like rot in an apple, the worm burrowing deeper, forcing my hand.

When I returned home, I poured a double whisky before going to bed. I missed Picon, but I’d telephone Madame Dumont the next day to bring him home. The photograph of Henri stared up at me from my bedside table as I breezed into our bedroom. I sank onto the bed and stared at it until my vision swam, then wiped the tears from my eyes. As I smoothed my hand over the gold satin bedspread, his voice whispered in my ear. ‘You are the homemaker, Nannie. I don’t care what is on my bed. I only care that you are lying beside me.’

Our home had been our haven, a place of love and safety. But without him, it was a shell, and that old familiar friend, desolation, slithered in, all the way from my childhood in Sydney. In a heartbeat, I was back there, swinging on the garden gate, waiting. But unlike Dad, Henri would return. He had to.

18 June 1940

‘I, General de Gaulle, currently in London, invite the officers and French soldiers located in British territory, with or without their weapons, I invite the engineers and specialised workers of the armament industries... to put themselves in contact with me. Whatever happens, the flame of the French Resistance must not be extinguished and will not be extinguished.’ — Charles de Gaulle, 1940.

Italy declared war on France on 10 June, and yesterday, Italian aircraft bombed Marseille. Ironically, they hit the Italian quarter, missing the main street and our home. Over a hundred people died, with many more injured. There has been no armistice, so the war persists. On 21 June, I was sitting at the bar in Basso’s when a droning noise filtered in, growing to a crescendo, followed by several mighty crumps. I leapt from the stool and dashed to the windows that looked out to sea. The glinting bodies of grey aircraft filled the sky. Smoke rose in the distance from one part of the town. Aircraft roared overhead as people fled the building, running to the shelters amidst raining bombs. I had no desire to run and so I returned to my seat and drink at the bar. ‘I think you should join me, Albert,’ I said to the barman, who nodded and poured himself a large brandy.

* * *

The next week went by in a blur, with no news of Henri. The war had brought chaos, dissolving all organisation. Refugees still clogged the roads, heading who knows where. Picon jumped onto my lap, having missed me terribly. He followed me everywhere now, afraid I might leave him again. ‘Come, Picon. Let’s listen to the news.’ I flicked on the radio just in time for the latest bulletin. France had formally surrendered to Hitler. To add insult to injury, Hitler had insisted on rubbing salt into the wound, using the exact railway carriage that was used in 1918 when Germany surrendered. It was the ultimate humiliation, as Hitler brought France to heel.

As I listened, I clenched my hands tight, nails digging into my palms. My heart ached for France, a country I loved and cherished more than my own. Tears pricked my eyes, but I sucked in a sharp breath and gently exhaled, holding them at bay.

I opened the French doors and stepped out onto the small balcony. Looking out over the Vieux Port, I saw people filling the cafes, sitting out in the morning sun. Below, many more filled the streets, going about their business. Just as thousands had fled Paris and the advancing German army, many refugees now poured into Marseille—French people from the Occupied Zone, British soldiers, Belgians, Czechs, Poles, anti-fascist Italians, anti-Nazi Germans, Spaniards fleeing Franco. So many people uprooted, displaced, many of them intellectuals, artists, and Jews. The hotels were brimming with them. What did the future hold? I needed Henri. I closed my eyes as an old, buried memory resurfaced with a sharp jab in my chest. Dad. I’d often wondered why he’d left. Was it me? What had I done that was so terrible? I never saw him again, and I doubted I’d want to. Of course, I’d learned the truth later, the truth of his affair and how he’d gone to live in New Zealand with his new love. He’d sold our house to pay for a new life and a new family. My chin trembled, and a tear snaked its way down my left cheek, cool and irritating.

I swiped it away and sniffed as I recalled the radio broadcast given by Charles de Gaulle a few days ago. Broadcast over Radio-Londres, he’d given a rousing speech, having fled France himself ahead of the invasion. He insisted that France was not beaten. There was hope, hope and fight that lay in its people. He said this was a world war, and that France was not alone. Right then, it seemed as if we were completely alone. But his words echoed his heart, strength, and determination, and every Frenchman listening to the wireless that evening must have surely felt it.

Picon raised his head and stared at me. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, tickling him under his chin. ‘Daddy will be home soon.’ I truly hoped so. The Germans had divided France into two—the Occupied Zone, with their HQ in Paris, and the Free Zone in the south. This divide was called the Demarcation Line, roughly following the path of the Loire. It was heavily patrolled, and while it was a blessing not to have German soldiers stationed in the south, friends whispered of German spies. That was wholly plausible. Most towns had seen a major influx of new people, and it was impossible to know who they were or what their purpose was.

July 1940

I poured a brandy from the crystal decanter, took a sip, and savoured the fiery tang on my tongue. I strode across to the window and looked out over the town. The night was closing in, and the waxing crescent moon glowed brightly, surrounded by a myriad of shimmering stars scattered across a sapphire sky. A commotion suddenly erupted in the hallway—Picon’s yappy bark causing a furore, followed by the shrieking voice of our housekeeper. What on earth was going on? As I dashed into the hall, the breath caught in my throat. ‘Henri!’ He was kneeling on the ground, stroking and hugging Picon as best he could while the little scamp jumped all over him, wagging his tail with such fervour.

‘Thank God,’ I whispered, the words escaping me in a rush as I ran to him. My legs gave way as I fell to my knees, collapsing into his arms, holding him as tightly as I could, afraid to let go. His lips found mine in a desperate kiss, his whiskers scratching my face, but I didn’t care—he was home. ‘Let me see you,’ I said, drawing back just enough to take him in. His pale face bore sharper, harsher features than I remembered, as if the war had carved its mark on him. His eyes, once so vibrant, now swam with a mix of relief and longing, carrying the weight of all he had seen. ‘You’re so thin,’ I murmured, the words almost catching in my throat.

‘I have not eaten properly in weeks,’ he said. His eyes were dull and heavy, eyes that had seen so much. His clothes were grubby and smelled of earth, tobacco, and sweat.

‘Nannie,’ he breathed, his voice thick with emotion as he stepped closer, eyes locked on mine. ‘I missed you… more than words can ever say.’ He lifted my chin with his hand and gazed at me for a moment before placing his mouth on mine, and I clung to him. He was safe now, in my arms, and I couldn’t bear the thought of ever losing him again.

‘How did you avoid the Boches?’ I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, still in disbelief that he was truly here.

‘It was chaos,’ he said, sinking into a chair as if the weight of it all was too much to bear. ‘People fleeing, clogging up the roads. I slipped away in the madness. An old woman gave me these clothes,’ he added, glancing down at the worn fabric. ‘She told me they had belonged to her son once, long ago. He was killed in the last war.’

He lowered his head, the memory of the old woman and her kindness pressing down on him. ‘After that, it was easy. I blended in with the crowd on the roads. I kept my promise.’

I knelt beside him, my heart aching for all he had endured. But I didn’t care how he’d made it back, only that he was here. He was home, and that was heaven enough for me.

August 1940

‘Au revoir. Je t’aime.’ I smiled as Henri stooped to pick up his tan briefcase and left for work. The door closed behind him, and Madame Dumont mumbled something about going to the market for supplies. She stomped out into the kitchen, and I found myself alone once more. I stood by the window in the living room, enjoying the view out over the town, the blue of the ocean shimmering in the distance beneath summer’s caress. Henri was getting back to normal, eating well, his face gradually regaining its fullness.

After my bath, I took a stroll into town. There were essential supplies to source from other avenues, ones that Madame Dumont stayed away from for fear of reprisals. We were better off than most, able to pay extra for certain products. Henri’s wealth maintained us, and I could still buy almost anything I desired, but more importantly, what was needed. I indulged, but it was never solely for us. I bought as much as I could, from food to other essentials like soap, which was becoming increasingly scarce. Of course, the black marketeers had plenty.

After buying the soap, I would spend hours melting it down, adding a little of my favourite perfume, then pouring it into moulds to set. In doing so, I altered the product, just in case any officials decided to check. Our larder was well-stocked, and I could give food parcels to friends in need. The Ficetoles were one such family, and I regularly visited, leaving food with them. In return, if I ever needed someone to watch over Picon, I knew they would step in. Monsieur Ficetole had also served in the war, and now that he was home, Henri had helped him start a small transport business by supplying a horse and cart.

The occupation was ever-present, from the moment you woke to the moment you fell asleep—if you slept at all. Like a shroud, it hung over every citizen, and secrets became a way of life. After all, you never knew who you could trust—not even friends and family. I trusted no one aside from Henri. The British had sunk the French fleet at Mers-el-Kébir on 3 July, and many of the French were angry and uncertain whether to trust the British. Britain, our ally, had committed a violent act, with the loss of hundreds of lives. I too was horrified by the tragedy.

‘They did not trust the Germans and the Vichy government’s agreement over the fleet,’ Henri explained.

I nodded. Hitler was not to be trusted, and if the Germans had commandeered the French fleet, Petain wouldn’t have stopped them. It was blatantly obvious that Petain and his government were puppets, bowing to the German occupiers, willing to do their bidding.

The Luftwaffe was bombing British towns and cities and had recently bombed London. Of course, Britain had immediately retaliated, sending dozens of aircraft to bomb Berlin the following night. That must have surprised the Fuhrer! Best of all, the RAF was fighting back, night after night, downing bombers and many of the Luftwaffe’s fighters. Reports of dogfights over London and the Channel filled the airwaves.

I often wondered about Henri’s experiences in this war. He hadn’t spoken much of it, but I could sense it troubled him. He must have witnessed horrific sights, but whenever I asked, he would say, ‘There was not much fighting where we were.’ However, he was drinking heavily at night, and I was worried.

* * *

One evening, not long after the Armistice, Henri and I were enjoying a quiet drink in the cocktail lounge of L’H?tel Louvre et Paix, when a Frenchman approached and introduced himself. He said his name was Commander Busch. Polite, charming even, he and Henri got on like a house on fire. Busch showed great interest in Henri’s war efforts. He was an army officer staying at the hotel and had intended to go to England with General de Gaulle.

However, as he explained, ‘My colleagues begged me to remain in France, where I may be more useful.’

I immediately recalled de Gaulle’s speech and the ‘flame of Resistance’ he’d spoken of, and my heart quickened.

‘So, what is it you do?’ I looked around. We were quite alone, aside from Antoine, the bar manager.

‘I run a small organisation, Madame. We print leaflets, propaganda, and more besides. France is on her knees, and there is much to be done.’

An insurmountable task, I thought. Britain was fighting back, while some of our French soldiers were still hiding, having escaped the Germans at Dunkirk. The Germans were storming through multiple countries, rounding up Jews, Romani, and others they objected to. They wouldn’t take kindly to anyone opposing them, either. Resistance was dangerous, but I felt strongly about doing what I could for my country. If I could help just one person, it would be worthwhile.

‘We are always looking for good people to help us,’ Commander Busch said, looking directly at me.

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I wanted to volunteer, but something held me back. Dark thoughts. How could we be certain this man was who he said he was? I glanced at Henri.

‘Anything we can do to help, please, ask.’ With that, Henri reached into his breast pocket, took out a business card, and placed it on the table. ‘But not next weekend, as we shall be in Cannes.’

Busch downed the last of his whisky, looked around to ensure no one could hear, and said, ‘It just happens that I have something to deliver in Cannes. Would you be willing to take it?’

‘Oui,’ Henri said without hesitation.

When we returned home, Henri poured himself a generous brandy and sat in his armchair.

‘I presume you trust this Busch fellow,’ I said, sinking to the floor at his feet, resting my head on his knee.

‘Of course. Nancy, we talked at length about the war and our regiments. Besides, I know of his organisation already. A clerk at the factory brought in a stack of leaflets.’

Many people wandered around in a haze of disbelief after France’s defeat. Some flippantly dismissed the problem of the German occupation, saying, ‘It is a problem for the north of France.’ Foolish words. I wondered how long it would be before the Germans occupied the south. For now, we had some breathing space. How joyous that some of our citizens had heeded de Gaulle’s call, igniting the flame of Resistance. All I hoped was that we could trust Busch. Times were changing quickly, and people had a natural survival instinct—they would do whatever they felt they must.