Chapter 20

The Pyrenees, May 1943

I stumbled as I traipsed up the hill, every step driving searing pain through my thighs and calves, while my stomach clenched and growled in protest. One moment, my heart leapt with joy at the prospect of safety drawing nearer; the next, it ached for all I had left behind. After so many failed attempts and months of uncertainty, England felt closer with each step. The old man in front of me tripped and fell onto the grass, puffing and panting. ‘Come on, up you get.’ I grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. There was no time for delays, not after waiting this long. He staggered, so I placed my hand on his back and gave him a light shove to propel him up the hill. ‘I’ll push you all the way if I have to.’ My voice was harsh, but we had to keep going. If any of them fell behind now, it wouldn’t end well. Sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind.

The moon vanished behind a thick cover of clouds, plunging the night into deeper darkness. The man stumbled again. ‘Come on, not much longer now, and you can rest when the truck comes.’

After what felt like an eternity, the guide leading our party finally stopped up ahead. ‘We rest here until dawn,’ he announced.

‘Thank Christ for that,’ I muttered, glancing at my watch as I sank onto a dip in the hillside. It was just past three. The chilled night air bit at my skin, so I pulled my coat tighter and wrapped my arms around myself. A half-smile crept onto my face as I recalled my boldness when I’d tracked down the man who arranged the passeurs. When he’d opened his door in Perpignan, I’d blurted out, ‘I’m Nancy Wake. We both work for O’Leary, and I need to get to Spain. I’ve had one hell of a journey getting here, so don’t give me any crap.’ Fortunately, he’d laughed and invited me inside. Job done.

I lay there, listening to the sounds of the night—the rustles of men sprawled on the ground around me, the screech of an owl, the whispering pines standing sentinel over our little band. All too soon, the guides were shaking us awake. I squinted in the early morning light, mist clinging to the ground and rising to shroud the mountain peaks. We trudged up a track through the woods and emerged onto a road. My heart soared as I spotted the waiting coal truck. The driver, clad in a black coat and beret, puffing on a cigarette, glanced at us briefly before turning away.

‘Come,’ the guide urged, motioning us toward the truck. ‘Lie on the coal.’

Like lambs to the slaughter, we followed orders, clambering onto the back of the truck and hauling ourselves over the rough, uneven lumps of coal. It was no mean feat. And lying on it? That was even worse.

Our guide dragged hessian covers over us and the cargo. Coal dust lined my nose, and I made the mistake of licking my lips, the tangy grit making me wince. The truck lurched forward, trundling along winding roads, climbing steadily and braking harshly on sharp hairpin bends. We were in the military zone— no one was allowed there unless they lived there, and even they needed a residential permit. I lay frozen among the coal, heart drumming. Lumpy nuggets of rock jabbed my head and prodded my back.

We passed through several German checkpoints, and each time, soldiers searched the truck but not the cargo. And each time we lurched away, I heaved a breath of relief, despite the punches from the coal beneath my body. Everything ached and throbbed. My backside was numb, and I thought if the Boches found us now, at least it would be a relief to climb off this damn coal heap.

Finally, the truck stopped, and the driver hauled off the covers, momentarily dazzling me with honeyed light. ‘We have crossed the military zone,’ he said, his voice gruff. He gestured toward the woods. ‘Wait in there for the passeur.’ He nodded, and as he climbed back into the lorry and drove away, I prayed our guide would arrive soon.

I dusted myself off, noticing thick smears of black on my trousers, shoes, coat, and skin. Coal wasn’t just dusty; it was damp too. I shivered as icy tingles prickled my back. No doubt my face was as sooty as a chimney sweep, but we were safe, and that was all that mattered. I had a small amount of food, like everyone else, and had to make it last, so I nibbled on half a slice of bread and reached for my bottle of water. ‘I could murder a real drink.’

‘Here.’ The New Zealander offered his silver hip flask. ‘Brandy.’

I smiled and savoured a mouthful of the fiery liquor. ‘Thanks.’

At sunset, the passeurs arrived: a Spaniard named Jean, and a younger girl called Pilar, accompanied by her terrier. My heart leapt at the sight of the little dog, who greeted me with a wagging tail. Thoughts of Picon howling for me and of Henri flashed through my mind with such force that it tugged at my soul. I gritted my teeth, determined to remain focused.

‘Now, everyone must do as we say. These routes are notorious, and people have died. Change your shoes and put on the espadrilles. They make no sound. The Germans patrol the mountains with dogs, but they dislike the higher peaks. That is where we will be. The tracks are uneven, very rocky and you must watch your step.’

Jean’s voice was gravelly, his face shadowed by a few days’ worth of stubble. I’d heard stories of the guides—passeurs—rough men, smugglers, and black marketeers, but they knew the terrain and were indispensable.

The Canigou Massif began with lower slopes of scenic forests, rising steadily into higher peaks of rock, scree and cliff, where the air grew thin at around nine thousand feet. The rope-soled espadrilles gave some grip, but one still had to tread with care.

‘From here, the crossing will take us maybe forty-eight hours. We walk for two hours and then rest for ten minutes. We walk by night, rest by day. When we rest, change your socks if they are wet. There is snow higher up. When we move, put the wet socks back on, or you will get frostbite.’

One of the American airmen grumbled about what lay ahead.

Jean shot him a stern look, raising his voice above the murmurs. ‘No talking, coughing, or smoking allowed. If you have to cough, do whatever it takes to muffle it—use your coat or your fist. You must not make any noise. Up here, sound travels, and we must not alert any patrols.’

Jean led the way, with Pilar forming the rear. We set off just as the last vestiges of sunlight faded, leaving a strawberry candy wash beneath clouds of slate grey. Some tracks coiled tightly around the highest peaks, forcing us to scramble on hands and knees, hauling ourselves up. Climbing was the hardest part, and the grumbling American made it worse, breaking Jean’s no- talking rule to complain about the cold, the wet, and his aching feet. As we climbed, snow began to fall, and soon we were trudging through six inches of it. My legs and feet throbbed, my eyes grew heavy, and, as the air thinned, I gasped for breath.

Behind me, someone muttered about being starving. We were all hungry, thirsty, and exhausted, but I ignored my rumbling stomach and grabbed handfuls of snow, stuffing it into my mouth. It quenched my thirst a little, despite the icy pain zipping through my teeth. It was better than nothing. As dawn broke, we stopped to rest at a wooden hut. The relief of getting into the dry and collapsing on the floor was immense. I took out my food and ate some bread and jam, my stomach gurgling as I chewed. Outside, pine trees flecked the valley below, and above, the highest snowy peaks poked into the heavens. Now that we’d stopped, my body felt so heavy, my legs like jelly. As I chewed, my eyelids grew heavier, and I laid my head on my bag, allowing sleep to take me away.

Twelve hours later, after nightfall, we staggered into a raging blizzard. Snow swirled around us in a frenzy, whipping my face, with my cheeks and ears stinging. Jean, barely visible by then, showed no sign of slowing, and we pressed on. The American grumbled louder and slumped to the ground in front of me.

‘Get up. If you stay there, you’ll die.’ We were all drenched.

‘I can’t go on. This is crazy. I say we go back.’

He can’t be serious. We’ve come so far. ‘Get up, or we’ll leave you behind for the Germans, and you know what they’ll do to you.’ I tugged at his arm and half-dragged him to his feet. ‘Come on, or I’ll push you into a gorge!’ With a grip on his arm, I dragged him along amidst a torrent of swearing and protests.

He walked just ahead of me, slowing my pace, so I pushed him along, aware of his grumbling as he plodded and stumbled through the snow, his words swallowed by the biting blizzard. Jean had certainly chosen the rockiest route. There was no way the Germans would venture up here with their dogs. Only a fool would attempt this crossing. We clambered up slopes of varying gradients, slipping, clawing our way up in places, clinging to rocks as we climbed. My hands stung. They were so frozen, fingers almost numb, and my gloves were soaked through. Meanwhile, Jean had stopped and was waiting up ahead.

‘How much further?’ My lungs felt as if they might burst as icy snowflakes nipped at my lips and nose.

‘One more mountain. You are all doing well,’ he said, his Catalan accent thick. ‘We rest here for ten minutes. Change your socks.’ Snow frosted his eyebrows, and he dusted it off.

Never had I felt so bad. Well, maybe when I was locked in that cell, but this was still preferable to that. At least I was free, I thought, as I perched on a low rock, grabbing my dry wool socks from my bag. I peeled off the wet socks, my feet pale with red blotches, toes numb, blanched white. As I pulled on the dry socks and rubbed my feet, trying to restore some feeling, I couldn’t help but think of all the others who had trudged this path before me—fleeing civil war in Spain, escaping the Germans more recently. So much suffering, and yet it continued.

All too soon, Jean was on his feet. ‘Time to go.’

I groaned, wincing as I dragged on the wet socks. ‘Come on, Nancy, you can do this,’ I muttered, determined not to freeze to death on a mountain peak. On we tramped, climbed, plodded, and stumbled, following in Jean’s tracks. The climb grew steeper, and I clawed at freezing, jagged rocks, hauling myself up, feet slipping in the snow. Eventually, we reached a plateau where the ground levelled out, and Jean was waiting. Puffing and panting, I snatched at the air, admiring the view. There were no more peaks, and my heart lifted.

‘It is all downhill from here.’ Jean flashed a brief smile.

I felt as if I were at the top of the world. Thousands of feet below, in one direction, lay Spain, her arms wide open, waiting, and behind us, France, hidden by a sea of wavy mountain peaks—a once beautiful tapestry now ruined by a jackboot army and a tyrant Führer. The sky, lighter with the approach of dawn, was thick with grey clouds, while the snow had eased to a flutter. ‘Hard to believe we’ve crossed over that lot, and here we are, on the last leg.’

‘Sí. Come, we must carry on. It is a steep descent, so watch your footing.’ Jean strode on ahead.

I glanced toward France one last time, glimpsed her through misty eyes, wondering how long it would be before I could return. Pain clenched my throat, and my stomach churned as I prayed Henri had left Marseille.

The descent was steep at first and a little treacherous, and we all slipped and slid at certain points, but the further down we came, the weather cleared, and soon we trod on drier, snow-free ground, trekking through a dense forest, pine trees stretching skyward. A small building lay below us. As we grew nearer, I saw it was a small wooden hut, and Jean was waiting by the door.

‘Rest here for a while,’ he said gruffly, gesturing us inside where it was warm and dry. ‘I will light a small fire, and you can dry your clothes. The river is further down, and once we cross it, we will be in Spain, free of the military zone.’

Once the fire was going, I warmed my hands, rubbing them together as my fingers tingled and throbbed from the severe cold. The others were slipping off their wet things, and the grumbling American removed his trousers and now sat on an upturned wooden box by the fire, holding his pants, as he called them, up in front of him as he tried to dry them off. I wasn’t one to be prudish, but there were limits, so I slipped off my coat, if only to feel the benefit of its warmth when we ventured outside later. My trousers were damp, the bottoms drenched, so I sat with my dry socks on, legs outstretched by the fire, staring into the flames, savouring peace as fatigue weighed heavy. The fire crackled and spat ruby sparks into the air, the tranquillity of the moment prodding me while adrenaline ebbed away, leaving me flat, morose, desperately missing my two loves, Henri and Picon.

All too soon, we were moving again. The river was shallow, not fast-flowing, and I caught my breath as I waded in, icy water soaking through my espadrilles, freezing my feet. I glimpsed a bed of smooth grey and salmon pebbles in the crystal-clear water.

Jean reached the riverbank first and stepped out. ‘Welcome to Spain,’ he said, his bearded face breaking into a wide smile, blue eyes twinkling in the sunlight.

‘We made it. Thank you, Jean.’ I looked him in the eye. He merely nodded as my thoughts turned to Henri. ‘I hope your journey is as straightforward and blessed as mine has been. Be safe, mon amour,’ I muttered into the faint breeze huffing at my back.

Jean strode off ahead as Pilar gestured to us and led the way through a wooded area. ‘This way, please,’ she said.

Before long, we emerged from the forest where the land stretched out before us, fields and rolling hills with a speckle of whitewashed farmhouses. Pilar led us to a farm and ushered us into a barn. ‘We stay here tonight and tomorrow too. The people here are expecting us. They will bring food and drink.’ I sank onto a hay bale, my feet throbbing. Pilar disappeared for a short while, returning with the owners of the farm, bearing trays of food and jugs of water and wine.

The farmer’s wife, a woman in her fifties, stretched a linen tablecloth over two hay bales and laid out the food. My stomach grumbled non-stop, and I suddenly realised how hungry I was.

Later that evening, I bedded down in the hay, alongside the others. Jean had gone on ahead to Barcelona to inform the British Consulate. In the meantime, we had to wait for a car to be sent to collect us. As I settled down, the hay scratchy beneath my legs, the sweet smell in my nose, a rush of thoughts streaked through my mind in a river of adrenaline. We’d made it. I swallowed, tears pricking my eyes. Henri. Please, God, keep him safe. My heavy eyes closed, and I allowed myself to drift.

***

A door slammed. Voices. I opened my eyes to golden sunlight streaming in through the cracks in the barn door. I held my breath, listening to men’s voices—rough Spanish tones. ‘Come out,’ a man shouted. ‘You are surrounded. It is the police.’

The others stirred. From the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of clothing leap up—Pilar. The young girl peered out of the window at the back of the barn and then, obviously satisfied that the coast was clear, took her leave, throwing herself out. Damn. I huffed out a breath. ‘Wake up,’ I said to the Americans lying on either side of me. There was nowhere to run. Besides, I’d heard about the Spanish police. They’d take us away for questioning, lock us in a cell perhaps, until the British Consulate sent an official. My body was lead-heavy, limbs and muscles aching and throbbing. The thought of shelter, any shelter, with food and drink was tempting, even if it was in captivity. It was, at least, not German captivity.