Her voice was frail.
‘Oui,’ Madame said. ‘He went to meet his wife. They were going to Ostend, for the ferry, to England. I said I thought he’d be lucky, the transport’s not what it was. Can’t get the fuel, see? But he insisted.’
‘No,’ Ada said. ‘There’s some mistake.’
‘No,’ the woman sounded almost cheery. ‘He was adamant. Said he had to get back to England.’
Stanislaus had left? To meet his wife? England, where he’d face jail? It made no sense.
‘But what about me?’ Ada said.
‘He said you had other plans. You would know what to do.’
The strength left her body, flesh slumped and numb. This had to be some other person Madame was talking about. In the morning, when it was light, she’d go and look for him. He was out there, lost. Perhaps he was hurt. She’d find him. The German guns were still far away, although they sounded near enough.
*
The road ran above the cellar. She could hear cars rolling by, footsteps clipping the cobbles, the squeak of a barrow and the brisk bell of a bicycle. There was a wooden trap door to the street through which the delivery men lowered the barrels. Ada could see daylight through the joins.
‘You must not go out,’ Madame said. ‘The last war … the Germans. Such horrors.’ She held her down, gnarled hand on Ada’s arm, corrugated fingers round her wrist.
Ada shook her off. ‘He may be waiting,’ she said. ‘Outside. We have to let him in.’
‘He has gone.’ Madame was shaking her head. She doesn’t know Stanislaus, Ada thought. Or she misunderstood him. He spoke terrible French.
She could hear voices, muffled, urgent speech which she couldn’t quite catch. The town was awake and alive and Stanislaus was part of it.
She freed herself from Madame’s hold, grabbed her handbag, climbed the stepladder and pushed open the trap from the cellar into the café. The morning light flooded in, motes of dust dancing in the sunlight. Ada glanced back at Madame standing by the chair, holding a cloth napkin across her lap.
‘Vous êtes folle!’ Madame said, shaking her head.
Ada pulled the bolts on the street door and slipped outside. The light was fresh and the sun glowed low and warm. On this side of the house the street was silent and empty, as if an army of ghouls had passed through and cleared the souls away. There was a smell in the air, a sweet balsam from a tree which overhung the road with newborn foliage. She thought of Stanislaus, so long ago, the smell of trees making love. Her blister still hurt, and she plucked some leaves and shoved them into the heel of her shoe, clip-clopped round the corner with a limp.
The buildings were tall, redbrick walls with roofs that soared and curled. Ada turned and walked down another street. Empty. There was no sign of the Germans anywhere. A man on a bicycle was coming towards her and for a moment Ada was sure it was Stanislaus. He cycled by, a fair-haired man with a leer, turning round as he passed to stare. Ada clutched at her collar. She had buttoned it askew in her rush last night, the top gaped open, her slip showed. Dressed in a hurry. Woman of the night. She waited until the man had passed, re-organized her dress, began to run in case he returned, her blister rubbing raw as her shoe jolted on the cobblestones.
The street opened into a large square filled with hundreds of people. Ada stopped, drew her hands to her face, covered her nose. The smell of fear she first learned in Paris filled this square too, its dread tasted sour on her tongue, its keening echoed round her ears. Faces cast with determination, eyes fixed ahead, elbows out, dragging suitcases and children. They shouted and cried, pushed bicycles or prams laden with possessions. There was an old lady in a wheelbarrow, her hair straight and white, her face gaunt and drawn, tears draining down her hollow cheeks, bony knuckles clutching the sides as her son struggled to keep the barrow steady. Cars honked in irritation as they tried to push through the crowds. A dray horse breathed in the terror, straining on the creaking shafts of the cart. Tempers were short all round. She’d seen it before, in London, in Paris. Only now it was real. The Germans were coming. Belgium should have been safe.
She’d never find Stanislaus in this crowd. Perhaps he did get away or perhaps he had been caught, shot, his body already festering behind enemy lines. She shut her eyes and tried to rid herself of the thought, tried to make sense of everything, of him. How could he have a wife? They had spent every day together since they left London. He always came home, however late it was. Ada would have known. Madame was wrong. But why else leave Paris so fast? Why come to Belgium, why Namur? Why here?
The crowd pushed against her. She recognized where they were, close to the train station. The people must be heading there. She wanted to be free of them, to think. She tried to turn and stand against the force. No one noticed her, no one cared. She was alone in the middle of a thousand frightened, fleeing people. There was no Stanislaus. She had no idea where to go, or what to do. She had no one to turn to. She let the crowd carry her with them. Perhaps they knew where they were going. Perhaps they knew where it was safe.
Paris. She could go back to Paris. Monsieur Lafitte, Madame Breton. They would take care of her. She’d explain why she left without warning. Bit of bother that Stanislaus got himself into. They thought he was a German.
And then a truth smacked her hard across the face. What if Stanislaus was German? What if Mrs B. had been right all along? He was a spy, and she his alibi. She tried to turn again but the pressure of the crowd was too strong. Move to the side, she thought, to the side, forward and to the side. The crowds were thinner there.
A man trod on her toe and she yelped.
‘Excusez moi, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Excusez moi.’ He didn’t linger, his eyes hard focused on the space ahead.
Ada reached the edge of the square and stood beneath an arcade away from the crowd. What had he been doing in London? She never asked. Took her to Paris. Said there’d be no war, said he couldn’t go back to England. She promised him she’d stay. They were a nice young couple and she was his cover. Where did he get his money from? What sort of business was he in? Did he love her?
She had been a fool. Taken in. And then Belgium, Namur. No more. Of course. He knew the Germans were coming, he must have. That was who he went to join, not his wife, he had no wife. That was a codeword. Spies used them. Of course she’d never seen his passport, he couldn’t show it to her. He’d give himself away. You do the talking, Ada, when we get to the border. Left her here, discarded her, after he was done with her. Purpose served, mission complete.
An aircraft overhead emitted a steady rhythmic drone, like a giant wasp. It flew low enough that Ada could make out a swastika on its tail, the cross on its side, and the ghostly shape of its pilot in the cockpit. Moments later there was an explosion, close enough to make the ground shudder. The crowd screamed and scattered. She heard the frightened whinnies of the horses, the cries of children, could see people falling, trampled on the ground. She stood at the edge of the square, frozen. Another aircraft came into view and Ada realized that it had spotted the crowds, was lining up to attack them. She pushed her way through the arcade, into a side street. Ran and ran as another bomb hurtled down, closer this time, its force rocking the ground so she tripped and fell. Get up, get up. She knew she had to run, get out of the open streets and find protection. She heard a heavy rumble. Ahead of her a building was crumbling down, a giant with shattered knees, falling in a thick fog of grit. She must go back to Madame, to the cellar, shelter.
She
