Page 29 of Resistance
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The day she met Vincent, Tante Helene had drawn a map that Yvette studied carefully, memorising the route to the camp hidden deep in the forest. There had been a late visitor the previous evening; the little boy named Polo had passed a note to Yvette, his voice a shy mutter as he told her she was to take it to the Maquis and make contact with Radio Londres. Then he bounded off like a whippet after a rabbit.
The co-ordinates, written on a folded piece of paper concealed within her bra, giving the location of a fuel dump in Angers, scratched her skin as she cycled along the dusty lanes on that February morning. It was to be her first encounter with the local Maquis, made up of men from the surrounding villages who had fled rather than work for the Germans. If she was stopped, the food was for her grandfather who was chopping wood in the forest and she had a fifty–fifty chance of being believed.
It was cold on the roads, the biting Atlantic wind whipped across the fields and stung her face but once she took the first lane that seemed to go on for kilometres and kilometres, the sparse hedges that lined the route afforded her some respite. Focusing on the forest up ahead that was so vast that its border to the left and right seemed endless, she imagined the scrawled map that Tante Helene had eventually thrown on to the fire and destroyed.
Soon, Yvette found herself cycling under a canopy of green as the scent of pine invaded her nostrils and the tyres crunched as she rode. She tried not to feel nervous, but she was worried that she’d go the wrong way and be lost forever in an ever darkening, rather eerie setting. After a further ten minutes she reached the clearing, and Yvette disembarked and waited, like Tante Helene had told her.
There was a huge stump and other smaller ones, fresh wood chippings scattered all around which told her that someone had been there recently, signs of life. It was so quiet, and even the birdsong was unnerving her, imagining they were sending secret signals to one another, tweeting about her.
It felt like an age had passed, but after checking her watch it had only been five minutes when movement to her right made her start. She didn’t see him at first, the face amongst the trees, but when he stepped forward and beckoned, Yvette did as she was told, heart pounding.
Pushing her bicycle, Yvette followed the man in silence, while part of her screamed danger, the other told her to trust. Hearing strange whistles, perhaps bird calls, Yvette swallowed down her unease, after all, Tante Helene had been there many times before and she had come to no harm. Deeper they went into the darkening forest where the pine trees seemed to squash closer to one another, their deep emerald branches vying for room and when Yvette thought they would go on forever she spotted movement up ahead. Before she had time to prepare or feel self-conscious, they emerged from the trees into another clearing where a group of men, their voices a low murmur, ceased talking and their heads turned, focusing on her.
A man rose from the fallen log he was seated upon and Yvette turned her attention to him as he strode towards her. He was tall and wearing the cloth cap favoured by men of the region, a leather jacket, military style, fastened tight against the cold, a woollen scarf tucked inside and pulled high around his chin and ears. All Yvette saw of him were grey eyes, not steel, but softer. His nose was long but slightly off-set towards the right, his high cheekbones were covered with smooth pale skin, protected around the jaw from the cold by a day or two of stubble. When he reached out his hand to shake it in a very British way, for a moment Yvette though he might be the SOE radio operator, until he spoke.
‘I am Vincent, pleased to meet you. Would you like some wine or coffee? I suggest you take the wine.’
Breaking contact with his hand, Yvette replied. ‘Yvette and yes please, wine.’
Vincent motioned that she should follow, and she watched as he took the cup from the log where he sat and poured white wine from a dirty green bottle. Yvette wondered if she should have chosen coffee which she presumed was in the steel jug that was resting on the embers of the fire.
Vincent passed the cup of wine and she nodded towards the flames. ‘Is it not dangerous, lighting a fire? The smoke will be seen from the road.’ Yvette was curious, taking in the makeshift wooden shelters that were scattered around the camp and what looked like straw bedding covered with blankets underneath. ‘How many of you stay here?’
‘Nine of us here but throughout the forest which stretches to the other side of the valley there are more, but it is safer in small pockets. These men are from my village. The Boche know that there are foresters at work, if they see smoke, they presume it’s the old men, and if they did venture inside, we have lookouts, they will warn us.’
Yvette sipped her wine, still self-conscious and feeling the curious eyes of the others on her. ‘I didn’t see anyone.’
‘You were not meant to. Now, do you have something for me?’
Remembering why she was there, Yvette flushed, wondering how the hell she was going to retrieve the note from her bra in full view of everyone. Instead she turned and took the parcel of food from the pannier on her bike. It was bound in one of Tante Helene’s tablecloths which she carried over to the group of men seated on the ground. ‘I must take this back but please, help yourselves to the food.’
The men fell upon the bundle and while they were eating, she turned her back, undid the top button of her coat and desperately rummaged inside her clothing, pulling out the note which she handed to Vincent, praying that she wasn’t blushing, ignoring too the slight smile on his lips.
‘Come, we will go now. The operator is with another group, you can wait while the message is sent then I will escort you home.’
‘No, there is no need, I will remember the way. It’s dangerous and you should stay hidden, and you should eat, look, it will be all gone.’
Vincent appeared to ignore her and began to walk. ‘It is fine, I am going to see my family, they live close to Helene so I will accompany you. My mother will be glad to feed me.’
Once they were on their way, they chatted easily as they followed a well-worn narrow footpath, the winter sun lighting the way when it managed to slip through the branches overhead.
Vincent told her he was the son of a dairy farmer, but he was a blacksmith and had learned the craft from his grandfather. His skills had been destined for the Nazi machine, which was why he’d fled and joined the Maquis. Yvette was curious to know how they managed to live out in the forest at this time of year.
‘It is hard, but those who sympathise keep us fed. The winter is worse but when I am cold at night, I tell myself that I would be colder in the prison camps, because that is where I would be now. I will never work for them, the Boche, I would rather die.’
There were thousands like Vincent, spread across France, but they were becoming more organised, supplied with the tools of war by the Allies, aided by agents like Yvette. Vincent seemed glad of her involvement, saying that women could travel freely and whilst still under suspicion were more likely to pass through checkpoints and operate clandestinely and unhindered.
‘From now on you will take any orders directly from me, is that understood? We will work as a team, I need your skills and it is a pleasant change to see a pretty face, you have cheered me up today. Do you smoke?’
Taken aback slightly by his statement, Yvette answered the question. ‘Yes, I do, and yes I understand.’
Vincent passed her a cigarette and they smoked as they walked, Yvette enjoying his company and trying hard not to take furtive glances at his profile or acknowledge how odd she felt inside.
‘Is it not dangerous, visiting your family?’
Vincent took a drag of his cigarette then shrugged. ‘Everything has its risks but I know this area better than the Boche, so they will have to be smart to catch me, but still, I am careful and I have a place in the woods. I stay there sometimes because I like to keep an eye on my family and my terrible sister.’
