Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Walking from the station to the Place Victor Hugo, she struggled to put her finger on what was different about Grenoble.
The city was perfectly located at the foot of the Alps on the bank of the river Isère, its wide streets bordered by elegant buildings.
Above all, she felt a sense of calm – and looking around, realised she hadn’t seen a single German.
A few French gendarmes were in evidence and a couple of Italian soldiers in greatcoats strolled past, but there were no Nazis, and not a single swastika. Her shoulders dropped a fraction.
Les Deux Copains was a small place, tucked away down a side street off the main square.
When Mathilde and Stefan arrived in the early afternoon, there were only a couple of other customers: two old men nursing glasses of pastis.
A woman in a black frock with dyed red hair stood behind the bar, polishing glasses.
Impassively, she watched them walk towards her.
‘Bonjour,’ Mathilde began. ‘Are you Hortense?’
‘Hortense isn’t here at the moment,’ the woman said, betraying no emotion. ‘What do you want with her?’
‘I was told to ask for her by a friend.’ Mathilde felt suddenly exhausted, and faint with hunger. ‘May we sit for a while and wait till she comes back?’
‘Buy a drink and you can do what you like,’ the woman said, so Mathilde ordered two bowls of soup with some bread, and they settled themselves at the counter.
Leaving the haversacks with Stefan, she went to find the toilette and was emerging, drying her hands on her skirt, when a bearded, broad-shouldered man laid a hand on her arm.
‘I hear you were asking after Hortense,’ he said. ‘Who gave you that name?’
‘The Patron,’ Mathilde replied, startled.
‘Which patron?’ he demanded.
Not sure what to reply, she took a risk. ‘I’m trying to find Sanglier. Do you know where he is?’
His expression changed. ‘Are you crazy? Don’t ever repeat that name!’ He glanced over his shoulder before adding, ‘He’ll be here tonight. Come back at eight and you can talk to him then.’
Mathilde and Stefan ate their soup in silence, aware they were being scrutinised.
When they’d finished and spun out their time in the warmth for as long as reasonably possible, they shouldered their haversacks and walked to a church Mathilde had spotted at the end of the road.
It was quiet, and they could sit in a pew to doze undisturbed for a few hours.
One day at a time, Mathilde reminded herself, but what would she do if Sanglier refused to help? Or if they were walking into a trap?
She and Stefan were greeted with just as much suspicion when they returned to the café that evening.
The place was busier, with a hum of conversation that didn’t let up when they appeared.
The bearded man was serving behind the bar, alongside a pretty, dark-haired girl. Mathilde approached him cautiously.
He nodded, taking a glass from under the bar and filling it with lemonade. ‘This is for the boy. He stays here,’ he said quietly. ‘Go to the toilette and I’ll meet you outside. And leave that haversack behind.’
Mathilde did as she was told, and minutes later was being propelled along the corridor and into a small, stuffy parlour, the door closing behind her.
Sanglier sat at a table, eating a plate of fried eggs.
He stared at Mathilde without any sign of recognition, as suspicious as the first time they’d met.
‘It’s me!’ she said, taking off her wig and glasses. ‘Lionne!’
‘Good God, so it is!’ He swallowed quickly and jumped up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
He clapped her on the back, laughing, and now the bearded man was smiling too.
Sanglier turned to him. ‘Chapuy, this is my copine, Lionne. I’d trust her with my life.
In fact, I already have.’ He pulled out a chair for Mathilde.
‘Sit, and tell me what brings you here. Chapuy says you have a boy with you.’
Mathilde explained the situation as briefly as she could. ‘And now I want to help however I can,’ she ended up. ‘Guy, too. We’re both ready to fight.’
‘Then you’ve come to the right place,’ Sanglier replied.
‘There are more people joining us every day and things are easier here with the Italians in charge. The plateau is a perfect place to hide out – hard to reach and protected by the cliffs behind. We’re getting ready, Lionne.
France will be liberated and you can play a part in it. ’
At last! It seemed to Mathilde that everything that had happened to her since Pierre’s death had been leading to this point. ‘It’s a tough life,’ Sanglier warned. ‘There’ll be no concessions made for you.’
Mathilde didn’t expect any. She would fight as hard as any man; the sooner the Nazis were kicked out of France, the sooner she could get back to the chateau and reclaim her daughter.
Chapuy fetched Stefan and the dark-haired girl brought them plates of eggs and glasses of beer while they talked about the immediate future.
Sanglier was leaving Grenoble to return to the plateau early the next morning, and would take Stefan and Mathilde with him.
They’d spend a few weeks with the Maquis, training in weaponry and survival skills, and then decisions could be taken about where best to place them.
And for the moment, Stefan could speak freely, since there were other Jews taking refuge in the area and some of them were German. Grenoble was a sanctuary, of sorts.
‘By the way,’ Sanglier added, ‘I heard about you smuggling the Patron out of the chateau in a wine barrel. That was ingenious.’
‘Has there been any news of him?’ Mathilde asked casually, and was relieved to learn that Yves had eventually made it safely to London.
‘But he’ll be back here soon enough,’ Sanglier told her with a smile. She pretended not to care.
They would have to leave at first light the next morning, so the pair of them settled down for an early night in the parlour: Stefan on the floor and Mathilde on the couch.
Although she was exhausted, Mathilde found it hard to fall asleep.
Her thoughts went round in circles, always returning to Esmé.
Had she cut a tooth? Was she still feverish?
Would Odile be able to comfort her when she cried?
Yet the next thing she knew, Sanglier was shaking her awake and they were preparing to leave.
Chapuy had found her a pair of trousers and some stout boots, and she tucked the wig in her rucksack, replacing it with a woollen hat.
They made their way through the silent streets, Sanglier wheeling a bicycle in front with Stefan and Mathilde following a short distance behind.
After an hour or so, he stopped outside what looked like a warehouse, opened a concealed door and beckoned them through.
They found themselves in a workshop very similar to Pierre’s old place, with various motor cars being repaired and bicycles propped along the wall.
Although it was early, a couple of men were already at work.
‘We don’t have much money,’ Mathilde said, but Sanglier told her not to worry: the Maquis had funds and their needs would be taken care of.
He disappeared into a side office to arrange payment while a mechanic in overalls helped them choose bicycles of the right size, which didn’t need more than their tyres pumping, and by eight that morning, they were cycling along a clear, straight road that led into the mountains.
So begins the next stage of my life, Mathilde thought, and wondered what it would bring.
Sanglier’s Maquis was larger than they’d been expecting, with around fifty members living in a wooded area of the vast plateau, not far from a village – mostly men, but with a couple of women among the group.
Mathilde didn’t try to make friends; she wanted to stay anonymous.
She slept a little way apart from the others and only saw Stefan now and then.
Conditions were tough, mainly because of the cold, but the camp was well organised and the locals were sympathetic; farmers provided food, which the Maquis augmented from raids on depots supplying the troops in Grenoble.
There were separate areas for refuse dumps and latrines, and they all took turns on cooking duty, firewood gathering and night watch.
Training sessions took place every day. Soon Mathilde could take apart and reassemble a Sten gun in seconds, shoot a tin can off a log at thirty paces, dig out a snow tree shelter and turn a parachute into a tent, disarm a man from behind or overpower him from in front, operate a crossbow, prime and throw a hand grenade.
She learned how to immobilise a vehicle by slashing its tyres or putting sugar in the petrol tank, how to send messages in Morse code, and how much of which type of explosive was required to sabotage railway tracks.
She was only missing a chance to put these skills into practice, but Sanglier assured her the time would come.
They celebrated Christmas with a deer that had been shot and hung for a fortnight before being cooked all day in an underground fire pit.
And then as the new year dawned, Sanglier came to Mathilde with a proposal.
He wanted her to begin work as a courier, lodging with a widow sympathetic to the Resistance who had a smallholding on the outskirts of Grenoble, where she kept goats and chickens.
She made soap from goat’s milk, olive oil and lavender, selling it to her neighbours for a little extra money and incidentally supplying the perfect cover story: Mathilde would cycle around the countryside on the pretext of selling soap while delivering and collecting messages, supplies, weapons and anything else the Maquis might need.
It was a dangerous role, certainly, but a vital one.
By then, Mathilde was chilled to the bone and aching all over from sleeping on the ground. She agreed immediately.