Марк Леви – The Children of Freedom (страница 13)

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.’

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