Children of the Siege Read online

  Hélène thought that at the slow pace they had been travelling so far it was unlikely that they would run into anything and was about to say so when Clarice said, ‘He’s keeping guard in case we’re attacked. They say the people are still starving in Paris, and no traveller is safe. They’ll kill you for a slice of bread.’

  ‘Clarice, don’t be ridiculous,’ said her mother sharply with an anxious glance at Louise who was settling herself in the corner.

  ‘It’s true, Maman,’ protested Clarice. ‘I heard the patron in the inn tell Papa to beware of the citizens. They’ve even been eating cats and rats because they were so hungry. Ugh! Rats! I couldn’t eat a rat even if I were dying!’

  ‘That will do, Clarice,’ snapped Rosalie. ‘I want to hear no more about it.’

  Clarice lapsed into silence, but she caught Hélène’s eye and mouthing the word ‘rats’, pulled a face.

  ‘Shall we have to eat rats, Maman?’ enquired Louise. ‘When we get home?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said her mother.

  ‘Oh, good.’ And Louise snuggled back into the rugs.

  ‘They might try to steal our horses,’ whispered Clarice to Hélène. ‘They could eat those…’ but the frown on her mother’s face stopped her from elaborating.

  Emile looked in through the window. ‘All right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, quite ready,’ replied his wife, and at his word of command the carriage rattled slowly out of the inn yard and once more took the road for Paris.

  Rosalie closed the window and they all sat back to endure the last few uncomfortable miles. Hélène, this time sitting beside Marie-Jeanne, thought over what Clarice had said. She knew Paris might be very different from the place she had known before, and she was a little frightened. One of the housemaids at St Etienne, Anne-Marie, had told her about the siege, giving all the lurid detail her fertile imagination could conjure up. ‘And all as true as I’m standing here, Miss Hélène. Robert, my brother, he’s been there. Walking skeletons them people are now, walking skeletons. And some of them Prussian soldiers, well, do you know they eats children? Boils them up and eats them.’ Hélène’s eyes had started from her head at this and well aware of the impression she was creating, Anne-Marie had lowered her voice to a chilling whisper and continued, ‘They do say that some of them soldiers has got two heads, ’cos Prussians is different, see, not like us French, and of course no decent girl is safe within a mile of them. Robert says…’ But Hélène had not discovered the latest saying of this fount of information, for Marie-Jeanne had come into the room at that moment and immediately summing up the situation from the gleam in Anne-Marie’s eyes and the fear on Hélène’s face, she sent the housemaid about her business and did her best to undo the harm that had been done.

  In some measure she succeeded even though Hélène would not specify all her fears, but she laid to rest the myths of the two heads and the boiled children, and Hélène’s terror at what she had been told receded a little, though she still puzzled over how a girl could be in danger from the Prussians a mile away from them. Had they got strangely long sight? And why girls only? Did Prussians hate girls more than boys? Afraid of the answer, Hélène did not dare ask the question.

  The carriage rumbled its way forward and Hélène watched the country creeping past. It was not at all as she remembered it, but quite strange and rather frightening. In the outlying villages the houses and farms had been deserted, their owners fleeing to the safety of Paris as the Germans approached, and their homes had been taken over by the enemy to be used as billets. Peering white-faced from the window Hélène could see dugouts and ramparts with long trenches linking one place to another, turning the villages into one huge ribbon of fortifications.

  ‘Maman,’ she whispered, somehow not daring to raise her voice, ‘why are the villages full of soldiers, are they Prussians?’

  Tight-lipped her mother nodded, and Clarice gave a little cry. ‘Oh, we shall all be killed.’

  ‘Be quiet, Clarice,’ Rosalie said sharply. ‘The war is over. We have nothing to fear from the soldiers. Your father has a permit to travel in his pocket.’ Her own fear was not stifled however, as they drew nearer to the walls of the city and saw the devastation caused by the war. Trees and houses had vanished, destroyed to ease the defence of Paris, to give the huge guns mounted on the city walls a wide field of fire, and all that was left were ugly stumps and pieces of rubble; indeed in many places the road on which they were travelling disappeared altogether and the carriage had to proceed at a snail’s pace over rough and stony ground, in extreme danger of losing a wheel or even overturning.

  Hélène clung to Marie-Jeanne’s hand as they bumped and swayed along the frozen track and stared fearfully out at the desolation, its starkness increased by the mantle of snow which robbed the countryside of colour and left it etched in black and white against the slate grey sky.

  No one else travelled the road that day, the eerie silence which surrounded them was broken only by the sound of their own progress, and so when he did see a troop of horses coming towards them Emile St Clair signalled to Pierre, the coachman, to stop and let them pass.

  For a blessed moment the bumping, swaying motion of the carriage ceased and peering once more from the window, Hélène saw the troop approaching, heard the hooves of their horses clattering on the frozen road.

  The officer leading the troop called a halt and rode forward to speak to her father. Everyone within the coach waited in silent fear after Hélène had whispered, ‘It’s soldiers. One’s talking to Papa.’

  Emile produced the permission to travel he had obtained from Major Schaffer and after a few moments’ conversation the German officer shrugged his shoulders and waved his men forward. They trotted by on either side of the coach and the girls watched them pass the windows. Louise, wide-eyed with wonder, waved her hand and to their astonishment one of the German soldiers smiled and waved back.

  ‘Louise,’ cried Clarice in horror, ‘those are the enemy!’

  ‘That one was nice,’ remarked Louise, unconcerned. ‘He wasn’t an enemy, was he, Maman?’

  ‘He was a German, Louise,’ replied Rosalie, ‘but he may have been a kind man. Perhaps he has a little girl like you.’

  ‘Do Germans have little girls?’ asked Louise, much interested.

  ‘Of course they do,’ said Hélène scornfully, but despite her assertion, the idea that the Germans had families was an entirely new one to her and something which she found difficult to accept fully. Germans or Prussians to her meant rampaging armies, invading France and taking her brothers away.

  Emile St Clair came back to the window, Rosalie lowered it a little and he said, ‘Everyone all right? We’re not far from the gates now.’ His wife replied that all was well and so he called to Pierre to drive on and the carriage began its lumbering progress once more.

  Hélène continued to watch from the window half fascinated, half terrified to see the walking skeletons Anne-Marie had described, but she saw none. At length the carriage rolled to a halt and for a long moment Hélène was only glad that the jolting had ceased. She looked out of the window to see why they had stopped and saw that they had reached the walls of Paris and were waiting outside the gate. Then raised voices from outside the carriage brought the attention of all five occupants to an argument that had arisen. They could hear Papa speaking angrily and another man shouting in reply. Both Hélène and Clarice craned their necks to see what was the cause of the dispute, but were pulled up by their mother.

  ‘Sit back, please, girls, and wait until your father has finished speaking to the gatekeeper. If there is anything you should know I have no doubt he will tell you.’ Afraid, she spoke more sharply than she had intended, fear sharpening her tongue as she too strained her ears to discern the cause of the trouble.

  They were not long left in ignorance, however, as Emile St Clair appeared beside the carriage and opened the door. His face was white with barely suppressed fury and he spoke in the low, tight voic
e that always betokened his rage.

  ‘My dear, I must ask you and the children to step down from the carriage for one moment, please.’

  He stood aside and handed his wife down the steps, then with unusual care lifted each of his daughters down and set her on her feet beside her mother.

  ‘You too, Marie-Jeanne,’ he said, glancing back into the carriage, and even gave his hand to the old nurse as she clambered awkwardly to the ground. Then he turned back to the soldier who lounged at the gate and said angrily, ‘There. Now I hope you will be satisfied. You have our permission to travel in your hand, you see the complete party standing before you and now, if you please, we would like to enter the city and go peacefully to our home.’

  The soldier stepped forward, the St Clairs’ permit to travel still in his hand. Remembering Anne-Marie’s tales, Hélène edged closer to her mother and clutched hold of her cloak. Instinctively Rosalie drew the children towards her and stared at the approaching soldier, her head raised proudly and her pale face brave and calm. Hélène stared at the soldier. He must be a Prussian, she thought, he looked fierce enough, his face dark with unshaven stubble, his uniform filthy and needing some repair. Hélène shrank away from him as he approached and stretched out his hand towards her. He did not touch her but as she recoiled he dropped his hand and spoke to her mother.

  ‘Ah, madame. Your children? Please tell me their names.’

  Rosalie spoke the names and the man made a show of consulting the permit.

  ‘Thank you, madame. Be so good as to wait for one moment.’ He called another man and together they made a leisurely search of the coach. The family stood in the cold, waiting. Suddenly the cumulative fatigue of the past few days overcame Louise who began to cry, and even a sharp call to silence from her father could not quieten her. Rosalie gathered her into her arms and hushed her like a baby, ignoring the studied insolence of the scruffy soldiers as they rifled through the travelling rugs to discover anything or anyone that they might conceal. Not content with looking inside the coach, they made Pierre, the coachman, come down off the box and then unloaded the two travelling trunks which were strapped to the back of the carriage. These they opened and searched thoroughly, making much of the search, tumbling the St Clairs’ possessions into the dirt or tossing them into untidy heaps until the trunks were empty. Emile St Clair stood motionless in icy fury as he and his family, shivering with cold and humiliation, watched their most intimate garments and private possessions discarded carelessly onto the road. At length, the soldier turned back to them and growled, ‘You may proceed.’

  ‘Put the children into the carriage, Rosalie,’ said Emile very softly as he struggled to hold his temper, ‘then you and I and Marie-Jeanne will repack the trunks.’

  Rosalie turned back to the carriage, only to be halted again by the guard who had not yet finished with them.

  ‘But your horses are requisitioned. We need those. You may proceed on foot.’

  The curb on Emile’s temper finally snapped at the cool contempt with which the man spoke and he exploded with rage.

  ‘How dare you steal my horses? What right do you think you have? You interrupt our journey, despite the written permission we have to make it, which, no doubt, you can’t read, you search our carriage, ransack our possessions and now you think you can steal our horses. We need these horses to continue our journey.’ As he spoke he moved forward and laid a hand on the bridle of his own mount which was standing patiently beside the carriage. From nowhere five more guards appeared and Emile found himself in the centre of a ring of rifles. For a moment there was an absolute silence, for all the world, thought Hélène viewing in a strangely detached way the unreal scene of her father degraded and held at gunpoint, like a photograph; then slowly her father dropped his hand from the horse’s head and stepped back.

  ‘What about the carriage?’ he asked in a low voice, his temper once more under control; raging could only bring his family into more danger. The soldier shrugged. ‘We have no interest in that,’ he said, and ordering his men to unharness the horses which drew the carriage, he turned away, leaving the little family group standing forlorn, outside the gate.

  Emile, still fighting to control the anger his humiliation had caused, turned to his wife.

  ‘I’m afraid we must walk,’ he said shortly.

  ‘What about the luggage?’ Rosalie glanced at the two trunks standing empty, their contents disgorged on to the cobblestones.

  Emile answered with controlled calm. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, I will arrange something. Now, come along, children, sit back in the coach and keep warm until we are ready to leave.’

  As if in a dream the three girls moved back to the stranded carriage and climbed in out of the coldness of the street. A handful of people had gathered and were watching the strange group speculatively, eyeing up the strewn luggage. One braver than the rest, a skinny girl, darted out and snatching up a shawl of Rosalie’s which lay on top of one of the piles of clothes, made a dash through the little crowd and disappeared in through the city gate. With a bellow, Emile discharged his pistol in the vague direction of the thief, which did nothing to hinder her, but had the effect of dispersing the others and causing cries of alarm from the carriage. But the scavengers would not stay away for long. Emile knew there was no time to be lost if they were to salvage anything from this disastrous episode. He turned abruptly to the coachman who was standing at a loss beside the now horseless vehicle and called out, ‘Pierre.’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’ Pierre crossed over to join them.

  ‘Go quickly into the city and find someone with a handcart. Bring him here and we’ll load the trunks on to the cart. We’ll take them to the Avenue Ste Anne that way. Give him this,’ Emile handed the man a gold coin, ‘and tell him he can have as much again when he delivers the trunks unopened to the house. Stay with him all the way.’ He gave the coachman a push towards the city gate. ‘Go quickly. We will clear up here while we wait for your return. Hurry or I have no doubt everything else will disappear as the horses have done.’ Pierre went unwillingly towards the gate and crossed without hindrance into the city.

  ‘Try and keep warm until Pierre gets back,’ said Emile, turning his attention to his daughters shivering in the carriage. ‘Wrap up warmly, he may be some time.’

  If he comes back at all, thought Rosalie to herself as she tucked the girls into the travelling rugs once more, and Marie-Jeanne and Emile began stuffing the clothes back into the trunks.

  Hélène, feeling less frightened now that they were back in the illusory safety of the carriage, said, ‘Why did the Prussians want our horses, Maman? Have they no horses of their own?’

  ‘Prussians?’ Rosalie looked across at her daughter and laughed bitterly. ‘Those men weren’t Prussians, those men were French. They were from the National Guard.’ The expression on her face halted the flow of Hélène’s questions and the girls sat in silence watching their parents and Marie-Jeanne at their task and awaiting the return of Pierre.

  Return he did in a comparatively short time. Emile, who had mounted guard on the reassembled luggage, his pistol conspicuously in his hand, arose from the trunks as the coachman appeared with a scruffy urchin wheeling a ramshackle handcart.

  ‘Says he’ll do it, but wants double,’ said Pierre, jerking his head towards the boy.

  Emile looked at the youngster and said solemnly, ‘You shall have double, providing nothing is missing or damaged when we get there.’

  The boy grinned and his grin revealed that he had several teeth missing. Despite the bitter weather, his bare legs, thin as sticks and bowed outwards, protruded from ragged cut-off trousers, over which he wore a much-patched jacket. Perched on his thick matted hair was a filthy cap. It was clear to Emile that this child had been inside the walls of Paris throughout the siege, but he spoke up perkily enough.

  ‘All right, m’sieur. We’ll make it, you’ll see.’ He had survived the bombardment and the starvation of the siege, and the offer of s
o much money for such an easy job made him throb with excitement. The food that money could buy! Food and warmth too!

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’ demanded Emile, hating to trust their possessions to this boy, but knowing they had little alternative.

  ‘Jeannot, m’sieur.’

  ‘Well, Jeannot. How do you propose to get the luggage to the Avenue Ste Anne without losing it to some marauding thieves?’

  ‘I will show you, m’sieur, and if you all walk with me, none of you will be touched. But first we load the trunks, hein?’ He spoke with such confidence that Emile nodded and between them he, Jeannot and Pierre lifted the trunks and manhandled them on to the rickety cart.

  ‘Now blankets, m’sieur,’ and unquestioning, Emile fetched them from the carriage, telling Rosalie and Marie-Jeanne to get the girls out now.

  Jeannot took the blankets and covered the trunks with them; they lay side by side, two long rectangular shapes discreetly draped, completely concealed. Then he turned to Rosalie. ‘Keep the young ladies at your side, madame, and follow behind me. You walk behind them,’ he continued, turning to Emile, ‘and you,’ he said to Pierre, ‘help me push. I can’t manage on my own.’ This last was all too obvious – his strength was in his character, not in his emaciated body, and it was Pierre who would do most of the pushing, but the coachman did not question the command.

  Without argument they all took up the positions he had indicated, the adults suddenly aware of the urchin’s superior knowledge, aware that they were about to enter an alien city, no longer the Paris they had left so cheerfully eight months earlier, and the girls too frightened and numb with cold to do anything but obey dumbly and wait for it all to be over.

  Ignored now by the National Guardsmen, the little procession passed through the gate, leaving the carriage standing deserted outside the walls at the mercy of the scavengers who were already creeping back.