The Children of Freedom

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‘Too bad for the fishing,’ the man replied.

Claude didn’t contradict him on this point and immediately delivered the second half of his message.

‘The Gestapo are on their way, the weapons must be moved!’

‘My God, that’s terrible,’ exclaimed the farmer.

They looked at our bikes and added, ‘Where’s your lorry?’ Claude didn’t understand the question, and to be honest nor did I and I think it was the same for our comrades behind. But he’d lost none of his talent for repartee, and immediately replied, ‘It’s following us, we’re here to start organising the transfer.’ The farmer took us to his barn. There, behind bales of hay piled several metres high, we discovered what would later give this mission its codename: ‘Ali Baba’s Cave’. On the ground were rows of stacked-up boxes, stuffed with grenades, mortars, Sten guns, entire sacks of bullets, fuses, dynamite, machine guns and more that I can’t remember.

At that precise moment, I became aware of two things of equal importance. First, my political appreciation regarding the point of preparing for the Allied landings had to be revised. My point of view had just changed, even more so when I realised that this cache was probably only one arms-dump among others that were being built up in the country. The second was that we were in the process of looting weapons that the Maquis would probably miss sooner or later.

I was careful not to share these considerations with comrade Robert, the leader of our mission; not through fear of being judged badly by my superior, but rather because, after further thought, I agreed with my conscience: with our six little bicycle trailers, we weren’t going to deprive the Maquis of much.

In order to understand what I was feeling as I looked at those weapons, knowing better now how much a single pistol meant within our brigade and at the same time comprehending the meaning of the farmer’s well-meaning question, ‘But where’s your lorry?’, all you have to do is imagine my little brother finding himself, by magic, standing in front of a table covered with all kinds of goodies when he was unable to eat.

Robert put an end to our general excitement and ordered that, while we waited for the famous lorry, we should begin loading what we could into the trailers. It was at that moment that the farmer asked a second question that was going to leave us all stunned.

‘What do we do with the Russians?’

‘What Russians?’ asked Robert.

‘Didn’t Louis tell you?’

‘That depends on what it’s about,’ cut in Claude, who was visibly gaining confidence.

‘We’re hiding two Russian prisoners who escaped from a prison camp on the Atlantic wall. We have to do something. We can’t take the risk of the Gestapo finding them, they’d shoot them on the spot.’

There were two disturbing things about what the farmer had just told us. The first was that, without intending to, we were going to cause a nightmare for these two poor guys who must already have had enough on their plate; but even more disturbing was the fact that not for a single moment had the farmer in question thought about his own life. I shall have to think about adding farmers to my list of magnificent people during that inglorious period.

Robert suggested that the Russians should go and hide in the undergrowth overnight. The peasant asked if one of us was capable of explaining this to them, as his attempts at their language had proved less than brilliant since he took in these two poor devils. After closely observing us, he concluded that he would rather do it himself. ‘It’s safer’, he added. And while he rejoined them, we loaded up the trailers to bursting point. Emile even took two boxes of ammunition that we couldn’t use, since we didn’t have a revolver of the corresponding calibre, but we didn’t know that until Charles told us on our return.

We left our farmer with his two Russian refugees, not without certain feelings of guilt, and we pedalled for all we were worth, dragging our little trailers along the road to the workshop.

As we entered the outskirts of town, Alonso couldn’t avoid a pothole, and one of the bags of bullets he was transporting was jolted over the edge. Passers-by stopped, surprised by the nature of the load that had just emptied itself all over the roadway. Two workmen came over to Alonso and helped him to pick up the bullets, replacing them in the little cart without asking any questions.

Charles made an inventory of our booty and found a good place to put it. He returned to us in the dining room, offering us one of his magnificent toothless smiles, and he announced in his own very special language: ‘Sa del tris bon trabara. Nous avir à moins de quoi fire sount actions.’ Which we instantly translated as: ‘Very good work. We have enough there to carry out at least a hundred operations.’

6 (#ulink_0ef58256-3a5c-5ff6-99c5-77720b36dfe3)

June was progressively fading away with every operation we carried out, and the month was almost at its end. Cranes whose foundations had been uprooted by our explosive charges had bowed down into the canals and would never be able to raise their heads again. Trains had been derailed as they travelled along the rails we had moved. The roads that German convoys used were barred by electricity pylons that we had brought down. Around the middle of the month, Jacques and Robert succeeded in placing three bombs in the Feldgendarmerie; the damage there was considerable. The regional Prefect had once again made an appeal to the population; a pitiful message, inviting everyone to denounce any who might belong to a terrorist organisation. In his communiqué, the chief of the French police in the Toulouse region launched a scathing attack on those who claimed to represent a so-called Resistance, those troublemakers who harmed public order and the comfortable lives of French people. Well, the troublemakers in question were us, and we didn’t give a damn what the Prefect thought.

Today, with Emile, we collected some grenades from Charles’s place; our mission was to hurl them inside a Wehrmacht telephone exchange.

We walked along the street, Emile showed me the windows we must aim at, and on his signal we catapulted our projectiles. I saw them rise up, forming an almost perfect curve. Time seemed to stand still. Next came the sound of breaking glass, and I even thought I could hear the grenades rolling across the wooden floor and the footsteps of the Germans, who were probably rushing towards the first door they could find. It’s best if there are two of you when you’re doing this kind of thing; alone, success seems improbable.

At this time of day, I doubt that German communications will be re-established for quite some time. But none of this makes me happy, because my little brother has to move out.

Claude has now been integrated into the team. Jan decided that our cohabitation was too dangerous, not in accordance with the rules of security. Each friend must live alone, to avoid compromising a fellow tenant if he happened to be arrested. How I miss the presence of my little brother, and it’s now impossible for me to go to bed at night without thinking of him. If he’s taking part in an operation, I’m no longer informed. So, stretched out on my bed with my hands behind my head, I search for sleep but can never find it completely. Loneliness and hunger are rotten company. The rumbling of my stomach sometimes disturbs the silence that surrounds me. To think about something else, I gaze at the light bulb on the ceiling of my room and soon, it becomes a flash of light on the canopy of my English fighter plane. I’m piloting a Royal Air Force Spitfire. I fly over the English Channel. All I have to do is tilt the plane and at the ends of the wings I can see the crests of the waves that are running away, like me, to England. A scant few metres away, my brother’s plane is purring; I glance at his engine to check that no smoke is going to compromise his return, but already we can see the outline of the coast and its white cliffs. I can feel the wind entering the cockpit, whistling between my legs. Once we’ve landed, we’ll enjoy a delicious meal around a well-laden table in the officers’ mess…A convoy of German lorries passes by my windows, and the grating of their clutches brings me back to my room and my loneliness.

As I hear the convoy of German lorries fading into the darkness, despite this confounded hunger that gnaws away at me, I finally succeed in finding the courage to switch off the light on my bedroom ceiling. I tell myself that I haven’t given up. I’m probably going to die but I won’t have given up, in any event I thought I was going to die a lot sooner and I’m still alive, so who knows? Perhaps in the final analysis it’s Jacques who’s right. Spring will return one day.

In the small hours I receive a visit from Boris; another mission awaits us. While we’re pedalling towards the old railway station at Loubers to go and fetch our weapons, Maître Arnal is arriving in Vichy to plead Langer’s cause. He’s received by the director of criminal affairs and pardons. This man’s power is immense and he knows it. He listens to the lawyer distractedly; his thoughts are elsewhere. The end of the week is approaching and he’s anxious to know how he’ll occupy it, if his mistress will welcome him into the warmth of her thighs after the fine supper he has in store for her at a restaurant in town. The director of criminal affairs swiftly skims the dossier that Arnal begs him to consider. The facts are there in black and white, and they are grave. The sentence is not severe, he says, it is just. The judges cannot be criticised in any way, they did their duty by applying the law. He has already made up his mind, but Arnal continues to persist, so – since the affair is a delicate one – he agrees to call a meeting of the Pardons Committee.

Later, before its members, he will continue to pronounce Marcel’s name in such a way as to make it understood that he is a foreigner. And as Arnal, the old lawyer, leaves Vichy, the Committee rejects the pardon. And as Arnal, the old lawyer, steps aboard the train taking him back to Toulouse, an administrative document also follows his little train; it heads for the Keeper of the Seals, who has it sent immediately to the office of Marshal Pétain. The Marshal signs the report, and Marcel’s fate is now sealed: he is to be guillotined.

Today, 15 July 1943, with my friend Boris, we attacked the office of the leader of the ‘Collaboration’ group in the Place des Carmes. The day after tomorrow, Boris will attack a man called Rouget, a zealous collaborator and one of the Gestapo’s top informants.

As he leaves the courthouse to go and have lunch, Deputy Prosecutor Lespinasse is in an extremely good mood. The slow train of bureaucracy finally reached its destination this morning. The document rejecting Marcel’s request for a pardon is on his desk, and it bears the Marshal’s signature. The order of execution accompanies it. Lespinasse has spent the morning contemplating this little piece of paper, only a few square centimetres in size. This rectangular sheet is like a reward to him, a prize for excellence granted to him by the State’s highest authorities. It’s not the first Lespinasse has hooked. As early as primary school, he brought back a merit point to his father each year, gained thanks to his assiduous work, thanks to the esteem in which his teachers held him…Thanks…Yes, thanks to him Marcel would never obtain a pardon. Lespinasse sighs and picks up the little china ornament that has pride of place on his desk, in front of his leather desk blotter. He slides over the sheet of paper and replaces the ornament on top of it. It must not distract him; he must finish writing the speech for his next lecture, but his mind wanders to his little notebook. He opens it and turns its pages: one day, two, three, four, there – that’s the one. He hesitates to write the words ‘Langer execution’ beneath ‘lunch with Armande’, as the sheet is already covered with meetings. So he contents himself with putting a cross. He closes the diary again and resumes writing his speech. A few lines and here he is again, leaning towards that document, which sticks out from underneath the ornament. He opens the diary again and, in front of the cross, writes the number 5. That’s the time he has to arrive at the gate of the Saint-Michel prison. Finally Lespinasse puts away the diary in his pocket, pushes away the gold paper knife on the desk, and lines it up, parallel with his fountain pen. It is noon and the deputy prosecutor is now feeling hungry. Lespinasse stands up, adjusts the folds of his trousers and walks out into the corridor of the courthouse.

On the other side of town, Maître Arnal sets down the same sheet of paper on his desk; the sheet he received this morning. His cleaning lady enters the room. Arnal gazes fixedly at her, but no sound emerges from his throat.

‘Are you weeping, Maître?’ murmurs the cleaning lady.

Arnal bends over the waste paper basket and vomits bile. The spasms shake him. Old Marthe hesitates, not knowing what to do. Then her good sense takes the upper hand. She has three children and two grand-children, does old Marthe, so she’s seen quite a bit of vomiting in her time. She approaches and lays her hand on the old lawyer’s forehead. Each time he bends towards the basket, she accompanies his movement. She hands him a white cotton handkerchief, and while her employer is wiping his mouth, her gaze lights on the sheet of paper, and this time it is old Marthe’s eyes that fill with tears.

This evening, we’re at Charles’s house. Sitting on the floor are Jan, Catherine, Boris, Emile, Claude, Alonso, Stefan, Jacques and Robert; we all form a circle. A letter passes from hand to hand; everyone searches for words but cannot find them. What can you write to a friend who is going to die? ‘We will not forget you,’ murmurs Catherine. That’s what everyone here is thinking. If our fight leads us to recover freedom, if a single one of us survives, he will not forget Marcel, and one day he will say your name. Jan listens to us, he takes the pen and writes in Yiddish the few phrases we have just said to you. This way, the guards who lead you to the scaffold cannot understand. Jan folds up the letter, Catherine takes it and slides it inside her blouse. Tomorrow, she will go and give it to the rabbi.

Not sure that our letter will reach the condemned man. Marcel doesn’t believe in God and he’ll probably refuse to have the almoner present, as well as the rabbi. But after all, who knows? A little shred of luck in all of this misery wouldn’t be too much. May it ensure that you read these few words written to tell you that, if one day we are free again, your life will have counted for a great deal.

7 (#ulink_ad260839-5dfa-5916-a6d4-1a46b5d3a7b6)

It is five o’clock on this sad morning of 23 July 1943. In an office within the Saint-Michel prison, Lespinasse is slaking his thirst along with the judges, the director and the two executioners. Coffee for the men in black, a glass of dry white wine to quench the thirst of those who have worked up a sweat putting up the guillotine. Lespinasse keeps looking at his watch. He’s waiting for the hand to finish travelling around the face. ‘It’s time,’ he says, ‘go and tell Arnal.’ The old lawyer didn’t want to mix with them; he’s waiting alone in the courtyard. Someone goes to fetch him, and he joins the procession, signals to the warder and walks a long way in front.

The morning alarm bell hasn’t rung yet but all the prisoners are already up. They know when one of their own is about to be executed. A murmur builds up; the voices of the Spaniards melt into those of the French, and are soon joined by the Italians, then the Hungarians, the Poles, the Czechs and the Romanians. The murmur has become a song that rises, loud and strong. All the accents mingle and are proclaiming the same words. It is the ‘Marseillaise’ that echoes within the cell walls of the Saint-Michel prison.

Arnal enters the cell; Marcel wakes up, looks at the pink sky through the skylight and instantly realises. Arnal takes him in his arms. Over his shoulder, Marcel looks at the sky again and smiles. He whispers in the old lawyer’s ear: ‘I loved life so much.’

Then it’s the barber’s turn to enter; he has to bare the condemned man’s neck. The scissors click and the locks of hair slip to the beaten-earth floor. The procession moves forward; in the corridor the ‘Song of the Partisans’ replaces the ‘Marseillaise’. Marcel stops at the top of the stairs, turns around, slowly raises his fist and shouts: ‘Farewell, comrades.’ The entire prison falls silent for one short moment. ‘Farewell, comrade, and long live France,’ the prisoners answer in unison. And the ‘Marseillaise’ fills the space once more, but Marcel’s silhouette has already disappeared.

Shoulder to shoulder, Arnal in a cape, Marcel in a white shirt, they walk towards the inevitable. Looking at them from behind, you can’t work out which one is supporting the other. The chief warder takes a packet of Gauloises from his pocket. Marcel takes the cigarette he offers, a match crackles and its flame lights up the lower part of his face. A few curls of smoke escape from his mouth, and they continue walking. On the threshold of the door that leads to the courtyard, the prison governor asks him if he wants a glass of rum. Marcel glances at Lespinasse and nods.

‘Give it to that man instead,’ he says. ‘He needs it more than I do.’

The cigarette falls to the ground and rolls away. Marcel signals that he is ready.

The rabbi approaches, but Marcel smiles, indicating to him that he has no need of him.

‘Thank you, rabbi, but my only belief is in a better world for men, and perhaps one day men alone will decide to invent that world. For themselves and their children.’

The rabbi knows very well that Marcel does not want his help, but he has a mission to fulfil and time is pressing. So, without further ado, the man of God jostles Lespinasse aside and hands Marcel the book he is holding. He mutters to him in Yiddish: ‘There is something for you inside.’

Marcel hesitates, attempts to open it and flicks through it. Between the pages, he finds the note hastily written by Jan. Marcel skims the lines, from right to left; he closes his eyes and hands it back to the rabbi.

‘Tell them that I thank them and above all, that I have confidence in their victory.’

It is a quarter past five. The door opens on one of the small, dark courtyards of Saint-Michel prison. The guillotine stands to the right. Out of consideration, the executioners put it up here, so that the condemned man would see it only at the final moment. From the tops of the watchtowers, the German sentries are entertained by the unusual spectacle that is playing out before their eyes. ‘Funny people, the French. In principle we’re the enemy, aren’t we?’ one says with irony. His compatriot is content to shrug his shoulders and leans forward to get a better view. Marcel climbs the steps of the scaffold, and turns one last time towards Lespinasse: ‘My blood will fall on your head,’ he smiles, and adds: ‘I am dying for France and for a better humanity.’

Without any help, Marcel lies down on the plank and the blade swishes down. Arnal has held his breath, his gaze is fixed on the sky woven with light clouds, for all the world like silk. At his feet, the paving stones of the courtyard are reddened with blood. And while Marcel’s remains are placed in a coffin, the executioners are already setting about cleaning their machine. A little sawdust is thrown on the ground.

Arnal will accompany his friend to his last resting place. He climbs up to ride at the front of the hearse, the prison gates open and the team of horses sets off. At the corner of the street, he passes the silhouette of Catherine but doesn’t even recognise her.

Hidden in a doorway, Catherine and Marianne were waiting for the cortège. The echo of the horses’ hooves is lost in the distance. On the door of the prison, a warder sticks up the notice confirming the execution. There is nothing more to do. White-faced, they leave their hiding place and walk back up the street. Marianne is holding a handkerchief in front of her mouth, a paltry remedy against nausea and pain. It is scarcely seven o’clock when they join us at Charles’s house. Jacques says nothing, just clenches his fists. Boris draws a circle on the wooden table with his fingertip. Claude is sitting with his back to a wall; he’s looking at me.

‘We must kill an enemy today,’ says Jan.

‘Without any preparation?’ Catherine asks.

‘I’m in agreement,’ says Boris.

At eight o’clock on a summer evening, it’s still full daylight. People are walking about, taking advantage of the opportunity now that the temperature has dropped. The café terraces are bustling with people, a few lovers are kissing on street corners. In the midst of this crowd, Boris seems to be a young man like all the others, inoffensive. But in his pocket he is gripping the butt of his pistol. For the last hour he’s been searching for prey. Not any prey though: he wants an officer to avenge Marcel, some gold braid, a uniform jacket with stars on it. But so far he’s only encountered two German ship’s boys out for a good time, young guys who aren’t malicious enough to deserve to die. Boris crosses Lafayette Square, walks up rue d’Alsace, paces up and down the pavements of Place Esquirol. In the distance he can hear the brass section of an orchestra. So Boris allows the music to guide him.

On a bandstand a German orchestra is playing. Boris finds a chair and sits down. He closes his eyes and tries to calm his racing heart. No question of returning empty-handed, no question of letting down the friends. Of course, it isn’t this kind of vengeance that Marcel deserves, but the decision has been taken. He opens his eyes again, and Providence smiles at him. A handsome officer has sat down in the front row. Boris looks at the cap the soldier is using to fan himself. On the sleeve of the jacket, he sees the red ribbon of the Russian campaign. This officer must have killed men, to have the right to rest in Toulouse. He must have led soldiers to their deaths, to take such a peaceful advantage of a gentle summer’s evening in the south-west of France.

The concert ends, the officer stands up, and Boris follows him. A few steps away from there, right in the middle of the street, five shots ring out, and flames shoot from the barrel of our friend’s weapon. The crowd rushes forward. Boris leaves.

In a Toulouse street, the blood of a German officer flows towards the gutter. A few kilometres away, beneath the earth of a Toulouse cemetery, Marcel’s blood is already dry.

La Dépêche reports Boris’s operation; in the same edition, it announces Marcel’s execution. The townsfolk will quickly make the link between the two matters. Those who are compromised will learn that the blood of a partisan does not flow with impunity, while the others will know that, very close to them, some people are fighting.

The regional Prefect made haste to issue a communiqué to reassure the occupiers of the goodwill felt towards them by his departments. ‘As soon as I learned of the killing,’ he announced, ‘I made myself the mouthpiece of the population’s indignation to the general chief of staff and the German Head of Security.’ The regional police chief also added his hand to the collaborationist prose: ‘A very substantial cash reward will be paid by the authorities to any person making it possible to identify the author or authors of the odious murder committed by firearm on the evening of 23 July against a German soldier in rue Bayard, Toulouse.’ Unquote! It has to be said that he had only just been appointed to his post, had Police Chief Barthenet. A few years of zeal with the Vichy departments had hewn his reputation as a man who was as efficient as he was formidable and had offered him this promotion that he had dreamed of. The chronicler of La Dépêche had greeted his appointment by welcoming him on the front page of the daily. We too, in our own way, had just given him ‘our’ welcome. And so as to welcome him even better, we distributed a tract all over town. In a few lines, we announced that we had killed a German officer as a reprisal for the death of Marcel.

We won’t wait for an order from anyone. The rabbi told Catherine what Marcel said to Lespinasse before dying on the scaffold. ‘My blood will fall upon your head.’ The message had hit us full in the face, like a will left by our comrade, and we had all decoded his last wish. We would have the deputy prosecutor’s hide. The enterprise would demand long preparation. You couldn’t kill a prosecutor like that in the middle of the street. The lawyer was certainly protected. He didn’t move about unless driven by his chauffeur and our brigade considered it out of the question that an operation should cause the population to run any risk, however small. Unlike those who collaborated openly with the Nazis, those who denounced, arrested, tortured, deported; those who sentenced to death, executed; those who, free from all constraints and with their consciences draped in the togas of pretended duty, assuaged their racist hatred; unlike all of these, we might be ready to soil our hands, but they would remain clean.

Several weeks before, at Jan’s request, Catherine had established an information cell. This means that, along with a few of her friends, Damira, Marianne, Sophie, Rosine, Osna, all those we were forbidden to love but whom we loved all the same, she was going to glean the information necessary for preparing our mission.

During the months to come, the girls of the brigade would specialise in tailing people, taking photographs on the sly, noting down itineraries, observing how time was spent, and making neighbourhood enquiries. Thanks to them, we would know everything – or almost – about our targets’ actions. No, we wouldn’t wait for orders from anyone.

Deputy Prosecutor Lespinasse now headed their list.

8 (#ulink_4ae6831f-d135-5d74-8896-de73e023af11)

Jacques had asked me to meet Damira in town; I was to pass on an order regarding the mission. The meeting had been fixed in that café where the friends met up a little too often, until Jan forbade us to set foot in it, as ever for security reasons.

What a shock, the first time I saw her. Now, I had red hair, and white skin dotted with red freckles, so much so that people asked me if I’d been looking at the sun through a sieve, and I was a four-eyes to boot. Damira was Italian and, more important than anything to my short-sighted eyes, she was a redhead too. I figured that this would inevitably create special bonds between us. But well, I’d already been wrong in my appreciation of the importance of the stocks of weapons the Gaullist Maquis were building up, so suffice to say that when it came to Damira, I wasn’t sure of anything.

Sitting at a table with our plates of vetch, we must have looked like two young lovers, except that Damira wasn’t in love with me, whereas I was already a bit besotted with her. I gazed at her as if, after eighteen years of life spent in the skin of a guy who’d been born with a bunch of carrots on his head, I’d discovered a kindred being, and one of the opposite sex at that; a kind of opposition that for once was bloody good news.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Damira asked.

‘No reason!’

‘Is somebody watching us?’

‘No, no, absolutely not!’

‘Are you certain? Because the way you were staring at me, I thought you were signalling a danger to me.’

‘Damira, I promise you we are safe!’

‘Then why is there sweat breaking out on your forehead?’

‘It’s incredibly hot in this café.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re Italian and I’m from Paris, so you must be more used to it than I am.’

‘Shall we go for a walk?’

Damira could have suggested I should go for a swim in the canal; I’d still have said yes immediately. Before she’d finished her sentence I was already on my feet, pulling out her chair to help her get up.

‘A chivalrous man, that’s nice,’ she said with a smile.

The temperature inside my body had just climbed even higher and, for the first time since the start of the war, my cheeks must have been so colourful that you might have thought I looked really well.

The two of us walked towards the canal, where I imagined myself frolicking with my splendid Italian redhead in affectionate, loving water games. Which would have been totally ridiculous, since swimming between two cranes and three barges loaded with hydrocarbons has never had anything really romantic about it. That being said, at that moment nothing in the world could have stopped me dreaming. Moreover, as we were crossing Place Esquirol, I landed my Spitfire (whose engine had given out on me while I was looping the loop) in a field beside the delightful little cottage where Damira and I had been living, in England, since she became pregnant with our second child (which would probably be as red-headed as its elder sister). And, just to make my happiness complete, it was tea-time. Damira came out to meet me, hiding a few hot biscuits straight from the oven in the pockets of her green and red checked apron. Unfortunately, I would have to set to work repairing my plane after afternoon tea; Damira’s cakes were exquisite; she must have had a terrible job preparing them just for me. For once, I could forget my duty as an officer for a moment and pay her homage. Sitting in front of our house, Damira laid her head on my shoulder and sighed, overjoyed by this moment of simple happiness.

‘Jeannot, I think you fell asleep.’

‘What!’ I said, with a start.

‘Your head is on my shoulder!’

I sat up, my face crimson. Spitfire, cottage, tea and cakes had vanished, leaving only the dark reflections of the canal, and the bench where we were sitting.

Searching desperately for some semblance of composure, I gave a little cough and, although I didn’t dare look at the girl sitting next to me, I did try to get to know her better.

‘How did you come to join the brigade?’

‘Weren’t you supposed to pass on a mission order to me?’ Damira answered rather sharply.

‘Yes, yes, but we have time, don’t we?’

‘You may have, but I don’t.’

‘Answer me and afterwards, I promise, we’ll talk about work.’

Damira hesitated for a moment, then smiled and agreed to answer me. She must certainly have known that I was a bit taken with her, girls always know that, often even before we know it ourselves. There was nothing indelicate in her behaviour, she knew how heavily solitude was weighing on everyone, perhaps on her too, so she just agreed to please me and talk a little. Evening was already upon us, but night would still take a long time to arrive, so we had a few hours ahead of us before curfew. Two kids sitting on a bench, beside a canal, in the middle of the Occupation; there was no harm in taking advantage of the passing time. Who could say how much each of us had left?

‘I didn’t think the war would reach us,’ said Damira. ‘It came one evening via the path in front of the house: a gentleman was walking along, dressed like my father, like a workman. Papa went out to meet him and they talked for quite a while. And then the man went away. Papa went back into the kitchen and talked with my mother. I could see perfectly well that she was crying. She said to him, “Haven’t we had enough already?” She said that because her brother was tortured in Italy by Mussolini’s Blackshirts, like the Militia here.’

I hadn’t been able to take my end of school exams, for reasons you know already, but I was well aware of who the Blackshirts were. Nevertheless, I decided not to take the risk of interrupting Damira.

‘I realised why that man was talking to my father in the garden; and with his sense of honour, Papa had been expecting it. I knew he had said yes, for himself and for his brothers too. Mother was weeping because we were going to enter the struggle. I was proud and happy, but I was sent to my room. Where I come from, girls don’t have the same rights as boys. Back home, there’s Papa, my cretinous brothers and then, and only then, there’s Mother and me. Suffice to say that when it comes to boys, I know it all by heart – I’ve got four back home.’