Holding Her Head High
The hunger pains were like arrows that
pierced her stomach, but Marie held her head high. The small brim of her hat
rippled in the breeze and her grey dress fluttered about her legs. She chose
not to look at any of the German flags that hung on, or flapped above, nearly
every beautiful old stone building in Paris. And she’d grown accustomed to the
presence of the rigid, expressionless Nazis who guarded the doorways to these
familiar places.
That
didn’t mean she accepted the foreign occupation of her beloved country. To her
mind, it wasn’t an occupation, it was a plunder and rape of France. But what
pained her most of all was that this feeling was not universal. Many of her co-patriots assisted the Nazis. They
squealed on their friends, neighbours and even their families. The Vichy
Government believed that the Germans would be the victors in the war, and so
did many of her friends. They thought it was prudent to be on the winning side,
and that it was pointless to show any resistance. In fact, it would be
dangerous to do so, they pointed out, since the Germans had become more and
more brutal as the months and years passed.
Marie
had just heard, first thing that morning, that François, a fellow member of the
resistance, had been shot. She’d found that out through the underground communication network – a
complicated, crucial web of informers. François had been caught cutting
telephone lines. He was only eighteen.
Although she was devastated
by the murder of François, and her legs wobbled, Marie continued her walk,
doing her best to act as if she was a nonchalant pedestrian, so as not to attract attention. She couldn’t let any of
her feelings show.
She’d
recently made her dress out of a summer bedspread, using a small white linen
tablecloth to make the collar and cuffs. She did all that she could to look
chic. She wouldn’t allow herself to contribute in any way to the satisfaction
of the Germans. No shampoo? Stuff your hair under a hat. Clothes worn-out or
stolen? Make new ones from other things. Do not look shabby. Maintain your dignity. Don’t let them get you down.
She
swung her handbag a little as she walked past the café, which now had the
atmosphere of a morgue – cold and
lifeless. Two years ago, she’d had a glass of wine and shared a joke with her
brother as they sat at one of the ornate metal tables outside. But he had been
taken by the Nazis and was now a slave in Germany.
Her face must not
betray her. She must complete her important mission. The two forged passports
were hidden in the lining of her handbag, and the one-page news bulletin, cut
into eight pieces, had been sewn into the hem of her dress.
Two
German officers marched towards her. They laughed and pointed at her. She
averted her eyes, but one of the men grabbed her arm as she attempted to pass.
She understood little German, but deciphered enough to realize that they promised
her food in exchange for sex. She laughed, and said “non” three times. The
officers became more belligerent and the grip on her arm tightened.
A
woman pushing a pram on the other side of the street, stopped, pulled out a
MP-40 (stolen from the Nazis) from under the blankets and shot the Germans
before they had a chance to register what happened.
Marie
ran – adrenalin gave her the strength and stamina to navigate the streets to
safety. She didn’t hear what happened to the woman. Perhaps she’d been assigned
by the resistance to protect her and what she carried.
A
couple of days later, the Gestapo murdered twenty innocent French people in
reprisal. Marie’s outrage at the cruelty and brutality of the occupiers made
her even more determined to make a difference. She wanted, ached, to be more
than a courier. It was her duty to her brother, to her country and to François.
The
news bulletin that she had delivered to an underground printer, contained a
short article on a couple of acts of sabotage that had created significant
disruption in the manufacture of supplies for the Nazis. Sabotage. That’s what she
wanted to do.
Marie’s
determination and stubbornness, as well as her courage, led her to being
accepted into a small group that planned to sabotage strategic railway lines
which the Nazis used to move supplies for the war. Under cover of darkness,
Marie’s group removed the bolts which held track lengths together. Sometimes
this would disrupt trains for a few hours, but sometimes it resulted in
derailments and more serious set-backs for the enemy.
Although
her brother didn’t return from Germany, Marie survived the war. She was an
unsung hero, as many French women were. Although she didn’t receive recognition
for her work, she knew she’d done what she could. She held her head high until
her death at eighty-nine years old.
Vicky Earle Copyright 2019
PS and check out a micro-story called "The Bridge": The Bridge
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