Chapter One
It was a fraught and tiring journey, that train ride south from Paris in the dead of winter.
Madame Scott-Jones (or Madame SJ, as Mathilde and Jacques had taken to calling her) looked so obviously out of place, despite their efforts to Frenchify her with a velvet beret and a fur-collared coat belonging to Jacques’ mother; it was her teeth, perhaps, or maybe her embarrassed, apologetic attitude.
She also wore a long woollen scarf wound several times around her neck and sucked menthol lozenges because she was pretending to have lost her voice; despite having lived in France for years, she still spoke the language with a resolutely English accent that would have betrayed her immediately.
Mathilde was sitting in the same compartment as SJ so she was on hand in case of trouble, though they had taken their seats at different times and were pretending to be strangers.
The train was busy, not helped by the fact that a whole carriage was locked, with a note on the door announcing it had been reserved for the Wehrmacht.
Mathilde threw a surreptitious glance at her fellow passengers.
A young priest sat opposite, dozing with his hands crossed over his black soutane, and opposite was a mother with two pale, fretful children.
A countrywoman in a shawl and clogs held a covered basket on her lap, while the man in a suit and tie beside her took a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase and looked through them with an air of importance.
No cause for alarm here, but she sensed Madame SJ stiffen as a beefy policeman slid open the door and sat himself down with a great deal of huffing and puffing – which caused the countrywoman to shift her basket, whereupon an indignant chicken put out its head with a squawk.
The children laughed, the priest woke up and the policeman threatened to arrest the chicken for insubordination, which made everyone smile.
The atmosphere lightened, and soon they were talking about the weather, and when the train would finally leave, and whether there would be more food in the south than there was in Paris.
Still the train waited, letting out the occasional disconsolate puff of steam.
And now a stream of German troops in field-grey uniform barged their way down the corridor outside, calling to each other in guttural voices and laughing.
Mathilde stared after them, caught the eye of the mother opposite and dropped her gaze.
More shouting followed, before the compartment door opened again and two young soldiers squeezed inside.
The mother hoisted her younger child, a girl, on to her lap and everyone shuffled up to make room.
The soldiers, who couldn’t have been more than twenty or so, nodded at their fellow passengers as they swung their kitbags into the luggage rack and settled into their seats.
Mathilde couldn’t contain herself. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, leaning forward and speaking slowly, ‘but there’s a carriage for German troops further along the train.’
‘I know,’ replied the taller of the pair in halting French, ‘but it is locked and no one finds the . . . Schlüssel.’
‘The key,’ said the businessman helpfully. ‘Typical, eh?’
‘Cigarette, Fraülein?’ the other soldier asked Mathilde, taking a pack from his pocket and offering it to her. His cheeks were pockmarked with acne but his eyes were very blue, with thick, dark lashes. He would probably be handsome in a few years’ time, if he lived that long.
‘No thank you,’ she replied coldly, looking away.
The others in the compartment – apart from SJ, the priest and the children – accepted cigarettes and the air was soon thick with smoke.
Several interminable minutes later, the train finally pulled out of the station.
Mathilde rubbed the grimy window with her handkerchief to catch a last glimpse of Paris, wondering when – and if – she would ever return.
Not until the city was free of the occupying forces; that was for sure.
She had to believe the country would be liberated one day or life wouldn’t have been worth living.
Jacques was prepared to compromise, to accept the inevitable and make the best of a bad situation, but Mathilde would fight the Nazis until her last breath.
Now the journey was under way, she couldn’t help a frisson of excitement at the thought of setting out on an adventure, responsible for no one but herself – and Madame SJ, for the next few hours, until the Englishwoman was safely handed over on the next stage of her journey at Avignon.
Jacques worried constantly about Mathilde – she knew that – and there had already been so much she couldn’t share with him.
If he’d known what she and her colleagues at the Musée de l’Homme had been planning in their meetings after work, he would have forbidden her from attending them.
He was her husband and she had to accept his authority, so she’d kept her activities secret and he’d never asked what she and her colleagues had been discussing.
The train limped along until they had at last left the apartment blocks, factories and warehouses of the city behind, and were entering the suburbs.
The policeman read a newspaper and the businessman abandoned his papers and fell asleep, snoring gently.
The little girl dozed on her mother’s lap while her brother fidgeted, drumming his heels on the floor, until the priest shifted so the child could sit by the window and spot particular things to earn a toffee: a dog, someone riding a bicycle, a woman with a pram.
The chicken had retreated into its basket, the countrywoman took out her knitting and Madame SJ read a book – although she hardly ever turned its pages.
Their closely packed bodies had warmed the air but the Englishwoman still sat in her coat and scarf, occasionally giving a hollow cough and avoiding everyone’s eye.
The soldiers stretched out their legs, their leather boots shining like glossy black beetles, smoking and chatting between themselves.
Mathilde was aware of the glances they kept shooting in her direction, though she was careful never to look at them herself.
She’d been receiving unwanted attention from men since the age of thirteen and was used to discouraging it.
She tucked her feet under the seat, conscious of her shabby canvas lace-ups.
Clothes and shoes had been rationed since the summer, along with food, and those available in the shops had wooden soles and cloth uppers.
One of the young men let out a bark of laughter at one point and the book jumped out of Madame SJ’s hands, clattering to the floor.
Mathilde returned it to her with a smile that said (she hoped): there’s no need to panic; just keep calm.
The taller soldier caught her eye. ‘Going all the way to Marseille?’
‘No,’ she replied, taking a book out of her bag.
A couple of hours later, the train ground to a halt and the corridor was crowded with German soldiers again.
One of them banged on the window of their compartment, shouting to the pair inside, who laughed as they gathered their possessions and left, the pockmarked youth giving Mathilde a last lingering look.
‘And now, Madame, we shall have a little more room,’ she said to SJ, who had huddled into the depths of her scarf like a broody hen.
‘Ach, they’re only boys,’ said the policeman, yawning. ‘They don’t mean any harm.’
‘Boys with guns,’ Mathilde replied, unable to restrain herself. ‘Boys who think they have the right to humiliate grown men and women, to strut about like lords in a country that isn’t theirs.’
The priest peered out of the window. ‘We’re approaching the demarcation line, I believe, so soon we shall be in Vichy, under the tender care of Marshal Pétain.’
‘For all the difference that’ll make,’ said the mother, settling her daughter on the seat beside her. ‘Pétain just does what Hitler tells him to.’
The policeman sighed. ‘You may be right, but there’s precious little we can do about it. Stay out of trouble and keep your head down; that’s my advice.’ He reached into his breast pocket. ‘Papers at the ready.’
For now a border guard was at their compartment door: a short, fussy Frenchman who made Mathilde’s heart sink.
A German wouldn’t have recognised Madame SJ’s accent, but it would make this man immediately suspicious.
She gave him one of her most brilliant smiles as she handed over her identity card, ticket and pass, receiving only a wary glance in return.
SJ fumbled with her handbag when her turn came and her hand shook as she passed her documents over.
She looked like an amateur actress playing the part of a guilty woman.
Mathilde watched out of the corner of one eye, her heart thumping.
The guard frowned as he perused the papers, making the most of what power he had, before fixing SJ with a beady stare.
‘And what business do you have in Avignon?’ he demanded.
‘My cousin,’ she croaked, holding a hand to her throat with a wince.
The guard held her identity card up to the light, scrutinising its photograph. ‘Show me your face, Madame,’ he demanded.
Madame SJ pushed back her hat and fumbled to unwind the scarf. Without them, her naked, bristly face looked unbearably vulnerable – and overwhelmingly foreign.
‘Is this really necessary?’ the priest asked mildly. ‘As you can see, the lady is clearly unwell, and she’s—’
‘Mon Dieu!’ cried Mathilde, leaping to her feet and pointing out of the window. ‘Look!’
‘What?’ asked the guard, one hand reaching for his baton.
Mathilde clutched the cross around her throat. ‘A man, running down the platform. There, by the steps.’
The guard thrust Madame SJ’s papers back at her without another glance and pushed his way forward. ‘I can’t see anything,’ he declared, peering out.