Madame Barbara. Helen Forrester
afternoon, she regretted that she had not had time to bring with her a couple of old feather duvets, which she kept in the kitchen cupboard so that they did not go mouldy in this rather damp outhouse. After the heat of the day, however, the place felt blessedly cool, and she hoped the attack would not last long.
She sat down on an old bench in a corner where in a hollow above a beam, she had, long ago, stored a small parcel of family papers, her personal savings of little silver coins in a tiny canvas bag, Michel’s Post Office savings book, and, best of all, a candle and matches.
Now, she felt around in the half-dark for the candle, found it and lit it.
By the light of the candle, she began pains takingly to pick out of her thick serge skirt the small shards of glass which had caught in the hem. ‘I was lucky not to get this in my face,’ she said, and then winced as she cut her finger.
Michel had come to sit cross-legged beside her. He nodded in agreement with her remark about her face. He did not believe, however, that their luck was continuing. It seemed to him, with the racket outside growing, that they were caught in the midst of a real battle.
As the noise increased, Madame Benion asked Michel to get down the small packets hidden above her. He did so, and she stowed them in the capacious inner pockets of her skirt.
With their faces buried on their knees most of the time, their arms clasped over their heads, they remained in the cellar for thirty-six agonised hours, as the earthen floor shuddered and heavy dust was shaken down on them from the roof. Despite the water and biscuits, their hunger grew.
At first, they screamed with terror; then, nearly out of their senses, numbed by fear, they fell silent. But the noise nearly drove them mad: explosion after explosion, the roar of shells from the ships anchored on the coast, the whistle of bombs, the rattle of machine-gun fire, the terrified shrieks of the farrowing pig nearby, and, worst of all, the dreadful screams of wounded and dying men, as the battle raged backwards and forwards over their precious hectares of land.
The candle burned down and finally went out. Amid thick dust and total darkness, they clung to each other, petrified.
When they heard the unmistakable rumble and crash of heavy tanks, the screech of brakes and tyres of personnel carriers, they were sure their refuge would be crushed and that they would die beneath the outhouse’s heavy beams; and half-forgotten prayers were mechanically mumbled by both of them.
Roaring like a furious elephant, a tank ground its way through the further end of the house and sent stones rattling on to the cave’s roof. Later, something heavy exploded on the other side of the house. The pain in her ears from the blast made poor Madame Benion scream again. Michel held his mother close.
The huge handcut beams held, the thick walls shuddered again and again, but did not give.
As the hard-fought battle finally moved relentlessly on towards the River Orne and the Allies’ target, the city of Caen, the noise gradually lessened.
Limp with exhaustion, Michel and his mother, miraculously not seriously hurt, finally stood up in the darkness. Michel held his mother in his arms, while they both trembled helplessly.
They did not realise until they spoke that they were nearly deaf, that the reduced roar of the bombardment from the naval ships along the coast, and the shaking menace of heavy tanks and personnel carriers rumbling past, were still quite close. The screech of fighter planes and bombers diving over them, however, was sharp enough to make Madame Benion again scream with terror, and they crouched back into their corner.
At last, it seemed that the vibrations under them had eased. Still not realising how deaf they were, it appeared to them quieter outside. They ventured to rise again.
Michel went to the little window first and opened the shutter. Together with a rush of dust, the faint light of dawn filtered in; to him, the noise had become a confused rumbling. He turned to edge his way round the apple crusher to get to the door. He confidently turned the iron ring to open it, but the door did not budge. He turned the handle again and, at the same time, gave it a hearty shove with his good shoulder. It gave slightly.
Encouraged, he pushed as hard as he could. It scraped open a crack.
He turned to his watching mother. ‘Something’s wedged behind it,’ he said.
Madame Benion could not completely hear what he said but she saw the need for help. When he tried again, she added her small weight to his and pushed.
It gave slightly more.
Michel pressed his mother’s hand to indicate that she should keep pushing. Hoping that it would not slam shut again and smash his fingers, he braced himself against it and ran his hand along the opened space. Halfway down the outer side of the door, his fingers touched wood. Below that, there seemed no further impediment. Whatever was there had certainly wedged the door shut.
He withdrew his hand. Already nearly frantic from that which had gone before, panic rose in him.
He stood firm, however, while he tried to control himself. Beside him, his mother shifted slightly. She said something but he could not hear what it was.
Keep your head, he warned himself. You must; otherwise you may starve in this rathole.
Again, he braced himself as firmly as he could to keep the door open as far as it would go. Then he shouted into his mother’s ear, ‘Quickly, Maman, bring me some wood chips and a couple of small logs.’
Despite the loudness of his voice she had not heard him clearly. Uncertainly, she picked up some pieces of firewood.
‘That’s right,’ he shouted at her.
She rapidly collected some more wood and held it towards him in her arms. With one hand, he picked three or four chips to wedge the door as far open as it would go. Very slowly, he eased away from it. The wooden chips cracked with the door’s pressure, but held.
With a sigh of relief, he stepped back.
Gesturing to his mother, he said, ‘Put the wood down here, Maman, and bring me the big mallet we use for pounding in fenceposts.’
While she hesitantly complied, uncertain that she had heard properly, he gave the recalcitrant door another heavy shove. It refused to shift any further.
‘I’m going to give the door several blows with the mallet to see if I can loosen it. Stand back, Maman,’ he shouted.
He swung the heavy tool with all his might, hitting the door several times in quick succession. He wanted to scream with the resultant pain in his shoulder. Undeterred, he aimed several more blows.
It sounded to him as if something outside slid. He stopped and then, once more, he shoved as hard as he could. The door opened about three inches.
Full of hope, he let it swing shut again and then continued to whack it with the heavy mallet, but the best he could achieve was an opening of about three inches – no more. Finally breathless, he gave up.
Her hands hanging loosely at her side, his mother was weeping helplessly. ‘Perhaps someone will come to help us,’ she sobbed.
He doubted whether there would be anyone in the vicinity who had survived. He did not, however, tell her this. He simply grunted and ruefully rubbed his shoulder while he considered what to do next. He was, however, desperately hungry and thirsty, and his usually clear mind was refusing to think constructively.
He leaned his head against the cold stone wall, and then, when he felt steadier, he walked over to the little window with its prisonlike bar, to look out again at a June morning marred by a fearsome amount of dust. In the near distance there was the scarifying sound of continuing conflict, though it was definitely receding; even his troubled ears noted that.
Beside him, his mother sounded as if she were speaking from a vast distance away. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, her voice cracking.
He had to shout to make her hear. ‘I’m going to try the door once more.’
She