Free Rosie's War by Rosemary Say

time nor the inclination to go further afield. The little I knew of what was happening in the outside world came mainly from the rumours brought to the canteen. This was perhaps why I got so easily rattled by the pro-German police. They knew of my worry about my family in England and loved goading la sale petite anglaise .
    Now that I was based in the centre of Paris I saw on the walls the propaganda posters aimed against the British: John Bull the killer; Churchill as a menacing octopus, his tentacles crushing screaming victims; and one showing a drowning sailor holding a French flag with the caption ‘Remember Oran’. This last poster totally perplexed me at first, given my lack of information or news about the war, until someone explained that the British had sunk most of the French navy at Oran in North Africa, so as to prevent it from falling into German hands. It didn’t take long for some of the police at the canteen to start complaining loudly at how the Royal Navy had murdered hundreds of French sailors.
    The Place de la Concorde was bannered with bright yellow instructions and directions signed by the German Kommandant of Paris. The civilian population (unlike the police) generally found their conquerors to be courteous and correct in those early months. German soldiers were allowed to gorge themselves on chocolate and butter, take local girls out to dances and wander round the city calling out ‘Spazierengehen, Fräulein?’ in the hope of getting a date. It was all very disturbing to me, to say the least. At night, in the concierge’s little spare room, I would hear the drunken singing of songs such as ‘Wir Fliegen nach England’ from the bar below.
    One of the policemen at the canteen gave me a bicycle that had been left behind in the exodus. Naturally it had a crossbar and was so large that I could not put both my feet on the ground when I wanted to stop. As in Avignon, I became a source of great amusement to those who watched from the cafe tables as I struggled to control this massive machine. Luckily there was little traffic. Even the Champs-Elysées was often deserted, as few people had permits for private cars. I soon learnt which of the police on duty on the roads were anti-English, as they were the ones who made me wait at the empty crossroads so that I toppled off my bike!
    I had two male protectors that summer. One was Mr Edward Sutton, the Deputy British Consul who was in charge of the British Interests Section at the US Embassy. I met him when I went to the embassy after I had been at the canteen for a few days. Perhaps I am being unfair, but it seems that Mr Sutton was one of the very few British consular officials who did not pack up and run as soon as the sound of German guns approached. He was a hardworking man from Guildford, in his early forties and with his thinning hair carefully drawn across his scalp. His face seemed to have a perpetual look of worry. Maybe this resulted from his being continually shouted and screamed at by irate English people who could not believe that the brave words ‘without let or hindrance’ on their passports did not, in reality, mean much.
    As I sat in his office for the first time, he chided me gently for not having notified him immediately upon leaving the American Hospital. He also took over the responsibility of allotting me my small monthly allowance of 300 francs.
    ‘Now, what about your parents?’ he said in his quiet, measured way. He looked down at the paper on his desk. ‘Commander and Mrs Say. I don’t suppose that you’ve managed to contact them?’
    ‘I’ve written to them a couple of times but I’ve no idea if the letters have got through.’
    ‘Probably not,’ he said with a resigned smile.
    ‘I was rather hoping you could help me.’
    ‘Of course. Try and get something to me tomorrow if you can.’
    As I returned to the canteen for my evening shift, I realized that I was hiding from this mild-mannered official the desperate