The arrest

July 10th 1944, the Allies were progressing down country slowly, liberating the population from the grip of the German occupation. They were still to reach my parents’ village in this part of Normandy. Times of terror as the oppressed fell victim in the last throes of a losing army, a most dangerous and unpredictable period.

Movement in the school yard. Footsteps on the gravel. DEAD OF NIGHT. Light wrapping on the door. Mother pulls the blackout screen slightly to look through a tiny gap. Three shadows cowering against the wall. Father was out scouting with the dog, on another Resistance errand. In the dark, she makes out two of the faces, friend! She rushes downstairs to let them in.

Over the last two or three years, the school house where they lived had become a “safe house” where my parents could hide fugitives and Allied personnel till it was safe to process them on their way, mostly to the coast of Cornwall. BBC coded radio messages secretly received on my parents’ “illegal” set would confirm later that the escape had been successful.

Two of the men were part of the silent army dedicated to the war effort, the third a rather battered and bloodied young man in great pain. Shot through the ankle, a severe wound. Michel, a French pilot (strangely enough called by the same name as my brother), was shot down the day before and rescued up country by the two farmers. Dodging prying eyes, they walked him and carried him 10 miles across fields to bring him to what they knew was a safe haven.

By the time Father came home from his errand, the farmers had been dispatched and Michel was heaved upstairs to bed in the spare room, undressed and washed. The wound was too extensive and the pain too obvious for my parents to apply general first aid. Medical attention was urgently needed and Father hopped on his bicycle to fetch a doctor in the next village, known to be sympathetic to the Resistance.

In the next few days, Mother learnt a lot of nursing skills and at last, the pilot began to show signs of improvement. He revealed that he had been involved in a dog fight. He was pursuing an enemy fighter plane through the clouds and got him (his 8th kill). As he came out of the cloud, he was downed by a USA AF Thunderbolt expecting the Messerschmitt to emerge first. “Friendly Fire”!

By now, it was nigh impossible to go outside without the great risk of being arrested, captured or shot and the population stayed in hiding in their homes, such was the panic on all sides. Needless to say that there was no question of Michel moving on to a safer place, even though my parents felt they were being watched. Soon, the first sounds of the approaching Allied forces could be heard in the distance, increasing the sense of immediate danger.

Lunch time, August 2nd, a car outside. The gate was flung open and two Gestapo officers marched to the front door, accompanied by an ex-gendarme who had joined their ranks. As they entered the room where the family was having lunch, they announced that they were going to search the house as they suspected some fishy goings on. They soon found Michel upstairs, brought him down and started questioning Father, Mother and the wounded man. Getting no cooperation from their quarry, some degree of violence was applied, to no avail. Finally, Father and Michel were whisked away in the German car.

Mother closed the door, pressed her forehead against it for a moment, taking stock of what had just happened. When she turned round, her face hardened and white with the shock, she asked the maid to carry on with her duties, nothing was to change, the Allies were on their way.

A week later, Father’s bundle of clothes were returned. Mother refused to think the worst and rather took it as a ploy to weaken her strength. She also knew she was being watched… but only at night! She stayed committed to her duties as a Resistant and took on what she could of Father’s work.

Another two weeks and the village was liberated.

The Pram

Normandy, Spring 1943 – 45

Baby Michel was born, in the middle of an increasing turmoil that would end in disaster for the family. What a start in life!

Mother and father were both doing their utmost to resist the overwhelming presence of the occupying forces. The Resistance movement was, by 1942, better organised thanks to the dedication of its members and the leadership from London. The Maquis, fighting for the same cause, were hiding in the woods up the road, its members being on the wanted lists of the Gestapo. Although very resourceful and resilient, these poor displaced men and women needed the help of the population who often risked their lives to keep them supplied with food, medication and clothing through all weathers.

With the birth of baby nº3, the pram came down from the attic and was promptly put back in circulation. Of course, my brother Jacques and I fought to push baby around, not a mean feat as the vehicle towered above us. We loved to rock it as the suspension responded so very well. A huge body, hanging low on sturdy rubber wheels, with a surprisingly small canopy. Baby Michel, just as we had before him, sat quite high in the contraption, like a prince in his carriage. One third down the bodywork of the pram, you could imagine a Plimsoll line corresponding on the inside to the level of the shelf supporting the baby’s mattress. Below the shelf was a great void which you could access through a little trap door under the mattress. This void was extremely useful to store potty, nappies, baby’s milk bottles and a change of clothes……sten guns, revolvers, medical supplies, false papers, emergency clothing and provisions to help the army in hiding.

Mother often used to take Michel in the pram up the hill, to the woods, especially when we, Jacques and I, had our afternoon nap in the house. She’d take ages to get ready, and then, all of a sudden, she and baby were gone, leaving us in the care of our nanny.

On her way up the hill, she would frequently meet the German patrols who were used to see her walking the baby in all weathers. They would invariably stop her and try to chat with her, congratulating her on having such a healthy looking infant. Soon, they were showing her photographs of their own children back in Germany, expressing how they missed home and how they wanted war to stop. Mother humoured them for a while, fighting to keep her composure, worried about the safety of her precious cargo and wary of the dangers posed by appearing to sympathise or fraternise with the enemy.

Once she’d reached the small wood, she’d meet up with the Maquis leader and distribute what she had brought, also exchanging information that would be of great use to those directly involved in the war effort.

However, Father soon put a stop to this highly risky enterprise and baby Michel was quite content to be pushed around the school playground by his older siblings. Then, Michel graduated to the pushchair, an “Art Deco” all metal, squeaky and very uncomfortable vehicle which was in the habit of ejecting the occupier when on bumpy ground. The pram was relinquished once more to the attic.

On August 2nd 1944, Father disappeared at the hands of the Gestapo. For the next twenty days, the Gestapo agents were watching Mother closely, hoping she would lead them to other members of the resistance in the area. Baby nº4 was due to be born in February. Mother, determined to continue the war effort,------- brought the pram down, ostensively in anticipation of the birth of the next infant. She started to use its cavity to hide all sorts, from false papers to allied uniforms ditched by those she was helping in their escape from the enemy.

The village was liberated on August 22nd. Mother had no news of my father and was facing “the most difficult time in her life”, she says. She immediately became heavily involved in the welfare of the community in the aftermath of the Occupation, as well as resuming her teaching post and raising three young children without a father. Baby François was born on February 27th, Father’s birthday. She never gave up the hope of seeing him again…………..but that is another story!

The pram, a little worse for wear, eventually found a new home in the village. How I wish we could have kept it!