only time ever? – let his lips brush Alain’s.
Alain stepped back, then forward again, put his hands on Léon’s shoulders, hugged him to himself, and kissed him on each cheek.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘They’re waiting for me. Best be off. Aux armes, citoyens! Vive la France!’
‘Vive la France!’
He watched the rear lights of the car till the fog swallowed them up. Alain had tried, for his sake, to disguise his excitement, his exhilaration even, but when he had put his hands on Léon’s shoulders, it had felt like an electric charge. He turned back into the Nissen hut and lay down on his bed, his face pressed into the pillow. He remembered how he had left Bordeaux without a word to his mother. Had she sat in her chair weeping when she learnt of his departure and feared for him? And how seldom he had given her a thought since! This too was something of which he had to be ashamed. Not of course that he was ashamed of what he felt for Alain, which he had acknowledged only to Jérôme and the nature of which he believed Alain didn’t suspect.
Two nights previously they had listened to Jérôme’s first broadcast to the Youth of France. He had spoken well, even movingly, they had agreed on that, though Léon thought the script he had been given to read was poor stuff.
He kept that opinion to himself, like so much else.
Alain said, ‘You see, they’ve found the right role for Jérôme. They’ll do the same for you. You’re not to worry about that. They assess us pretty carefully, you know, and not without insight.’
But what if their assessment of him was negative?
Then Alain surprised him.
‘We’re not d’Artagnan and Athos, really. I know that it’s not like the Musketeers, not really. My father brought me up on Dumas and still reads him whenever he feels low, which is quite often, poor man. But there’s no colour in our world today and no romantic exploits either. I’m well aware of that, and I realise I may be killed any day after I am parachuted into France. We may neither of us survive this war. There’s no glory in it either and if we are killed it will most probably be like a rat caught in a trap. I don’t even know if I’ll die bravely or if, at the moment of death, it will be a matter for consolation or pride that one has done the right thing. But there it is: we’d be ashamed of ourselves if we had made any other choice. So if I don’t survive and you do, I would like you when you’re back in Bordeaux to tell my father – and my mother – that I did what I thought I must do and was happy. Don’t say that I died for France, because that would make my father look sceptical – he detests the big words and high-flown rhetoric – and my mother would dissolve in floods. And I’ll do the same for you of course, tell your mother and your Aunt Miriam, and old Henri too – if things should turn out the other way. I think that’s all.’
‘Don’t be morbid.’ Léon forced himself to smile. ‘It’s natural what you say when you’re about to go into action, but I’m convinced we’ll both come through. We’ll meet in Paris, as we’ve agreed, at the Liberation, on the Champs-Élysées or under the Arc de Triomphe. I’ve never been to Paris, you know, and I’ve no intention of dying without seeing Paris.’
‘All right then,’ Alain said, ‘that’s a deal. And in any case I too am determined to see Paris before I die.’
That evening was the only time Alain had ever spoken of death as a real possibility, though the idea of it was never far from Léon’s mind.
There came a cheer and a babble of conversation from the far end of the hut where people were gathered round the wireless.
‘What is it?’
‘Wonderful news!’
‘It’s the turning point of the war!’
‘What news? What’s happened?’
‘American forces have landed in North Africa, near Algiers.’
‘You call that wonderful? It’s outrageous, an invasion of French territory, an act of
Alain stepped back, then forward again, put his hands on Léon’s shoulders, hugged him to himself, and kissed him on each cheek.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘They’re waiting for me. Best be off. Aux armes, citoyens! Vive la France!’
‘Vive la France!’
He watched the rear lights of the car till the fog swallowed them up. Alain had tried, for his sake, to disguise his excitement, his exhilaration even, but when he had put his hands on Léon’s shoulders, it had felt like an electric charge. He turned back into the Nissen hut and lay down on his bed, his face pressed into the pillow. He remembered how he had left Bordeaux without a word to his mother. Had she sat in her chair weeping when she learnt of his departure and feared for him? And how seldom he had given her a thought since! This too was something of which he had to be ashamed. Not of course that he was ashamed of what he felt for Alain, which he had acknowledged only to Jérôme and the nature of which he believed Alain didn’t suspect.
Two nights previously they had listened to Jérôme’s first broadcast to the Youth of France. He had spoken well, even movingly, they had agreed on that, though Léon thought the script he had been given to read was poor stuff.
He kept that opinion to himself, like so much else.
Alain said, ‘You see, they’ve found the right role for Jérôme. They’ll do the same for you. You’re not to worry about that. They assess us pretty carefully, you know, and not without insight.’
But what if their assessment of him was negative?
Then Alain surprised him.
‘We’re not d’Artagnan and Athos, really. I know that it’s not like the Musketeers, not really. My father brought me up on Dumas and still reads him whenever he feels low, which is quite often, poor man. But there’s no colour in our world today and no romantic exploits either. I’m well aware of that, and I realise I may be killed any day after I am parachuted into France. We may neither of us survive this war. There’s no glory in it either and if we are killed it will most probably be like a rat caught in a trap. I don’t even know if I’ll die bravely or if, at the moment of death, it will be a matter for consolation or pride that one has done the right thing. But there it is: we’d be ashamed of ourselves if we had made any other choice. So if I don’t survive and you do, I would like you when you’re back in Bordeaux to tell my father – and my mother – that I did what I thought I must do and was happy. Don’t say that I died for France, because that would make my father look sceptical – he detests the big words and high-flown rhetoric – and my mother would dissolve in floods. And I’ll do the same for you of course, tell your mother and your Aunt Miriam, and old Henri too – if things should turn out the other way. I think that’s all.’
‘Don’t be morbid.’ Léon forced himself to smile. ‘It’s natural what you say when you’re about to go into action, but I’m convinced we’ll both come through. We’ll meet in Paris, as we’ve agreed, at the Liberation, on the Champs-Élysées or under the Arc de Triomphe. I’ve never been to Paris, you know, and I’ve no intention of dying without seeing Paris.’
‘All right then,’ Alain said, ‘that’s a deal. And in any case I too am determined to see Paris before I die.’
That evening was the only time Alain had ever spoken of death as a real possibility, though the idea of it was never far from Léon’s mind.
There came a cheer and a babble of conversation from the far end of the hut where people were gathered round the wireless.
‘What is it?’
‘Wonderful news!’
‘It’s the turning point of the war!’
‘What news? What’s happened?’
‘American forces have landed in North Africa, near Algiers.’
‘You call that wonderful? It’s outrageous, an invasion of French territory, an act of
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