Free Rosie's War by Rosemary Say Page B

was protected from the numerous hostile policemen who patronized the place.
    On a couple of occasions André took me to drink coffee with friends of his at the Paris Mosque near the Botanical Gardens. This was a wonderful treat: the total peace and quiet inside the lovely building, the beauty of the colours, the breath of an ancient civilization not yet in chaos. All this calmed and soothed me. I remember sitting with him on the steps leading to the Tuileries Gardens one hot afternoon, watching the horses of the little roundabout going quietly round with no children to ride them. I did not feel isolated or alone when André was near. He helped me to settle down to my canteen life without bothering too much about the outside world.
    Yet even in the most determined isolation the outside world has a strange way of impinging. One memorable afternoon I was finishing lunch in a deserted canteen when André came in looking very worried.
    ‘Mam’zelle Rose,’ he whispered.
    ‘What is it? There’s no one here, you can speak up.’ I immediately began to panic.
    ‘I have something to ask you. Some old friends of mine have been hiding two English soldiers in their home. They have fed them and given them French clothes to make their getaway. My friends are frightened now. The soldiers have stayed too long. They should leave before anyone notices. Could you speak to them?’
    ‘Of course’, I said. ‘Give me a few minutes to clear things away.’
    We drove in silence in his police car to the south of Paris. I was worried. Of course, I wanted to help André who had been so good to me over these past few weeks. But for the first time I was coming into contact with people on the run. If we were caught the consequences could be severe. A decree had recently gone out that anyone found harbouring British nationals without registering their names at the local police station would be en peine de mort .
    We arrived at the small house. The elderly owners ushered us silently up to the attic where the soldiers were hidden. I received a shock. In front of me were two vast Scotsmen fast asleep in their makeshift beds, with empty wine bottles, dirty plates and playing cards strewn over the floor. They were complete with sporrans and kilts. One of them had flaming red hair. It was as if they had come straight from a casting agency looking for stereotypical Scotsmen! I burst out laughing, much to the surprise and annoyance of André and his friends.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, quickly stifling my amusement. ‘But I don’t see how they could possibly pass for Frenchmen. They could hardly pass for Englishmen.’
    We woke up the two slumbering giants. Their accents were difficult even for me to decipher, so goodness knows how the elderly couple had coped. After some time I came to understand that they were prepared to make their way to the Pyrenees and over into Spain if I would accompany them.
    ‘We canna make it on our own, missie,’ said the red-headed one. ‘Ye ken the language here.’
    ‘I can’t possibly go with you,’ I replied. ‘I’m registered with the German Kommandatur as a British citizen and I have to sign in every day.’
    ‘Och, so yer’s a spy,’ he said in disgust and spat on the floor in front of me.
    André took a step forward. For a fleeting moment I had a horrible vision of him trying to tackle the two of them single-handed.
    ‘Now look here,’ I informed them haughtily. ‘You are endangering the lives of these good people who are sheltering you. If you are caught, you’ll be put in a POW camp. But they won’t be so lucky. They’ll probably be shot. The same goes for me.’
    André translated this to his friends who nodded vigorously in agreement.
    ‘Anyway,’ I continued. ‘It’s your duty as soldiers to make your way back to your regiment at all costs. You simply have to clear off.’ My prissy impersonation of a schoolmistress seemed to do the trick. They weren’t deserters, they were just biding