The Forests of the Night

A few seconds passed, as I progressively tightened my grip. He said through gritted teeth, "A canal barge, we take you up the river from near Poissy. The Germans do not inspect the barges yet."

In some ways it was ingenious. Conflans-Saint-Honorine was the barge capitol of France and the lower Seine waterway was perhaps the safest route to travel north.

The canal barges were everywhere, and you could haul cattle in the bigger ones. They weren't efficient ways to move military equipment. But, they WERE essential to provisioning Paris and its civilians. So, the RAF wasn't shooting them up.

Because they carried vital supplies, the gas ration was liberal. Their little engines didn't use much fuel anyhow, and if worse came to worse, they could be towed by horses, like they were in the prior century.

I said, "What happens when we get to Honfleur?"

He said, "That is the easiest part Monsieur. The boats still go out to fish. Both the Germans and the English inspect them. But there are so many that it is impossible to keep track of all of them, especially when they don't want to be found."

Then he winked and added conspiratorially, "Sometimes, they accidently land in Cornwall." I believed him. This might work.

At that point a heavy wagon pulled up. A lot of Paris was still horse drawn in that era. So, this was not an oddity caused by the war. The wagon was the kind that hauled supplies back and forth from the Quais. It was enclosed. The wagon itself had "Arles Transport" on the side. The horse looked like a Percheron, very big and burly.

Robert gestured toward the wagon and said, "Your ride awaits. Pierre will see to you once you are on the barge."

It was all very well organized and systematic. Perhaps this shadow network was what it seemed to be. But the skeptic in me doubted it.

Bernadette was ecstatic. She said, "Aurore must have done the same thing. We will see her soon."

I was not so certain. Everything about this smelled like a trap. It would be particularly inhuman to prey on your own countrymen in a time of war and occupation. But the fact was, once we got in the wagon we were at the mercy of whoever was running that network. Rich people traveling alone, with nothing but their most valuable possessions, are tempting targets.

It's an almost 15-mile journey from Pig Alley to the barge docks in Poissy. The trip would take all day in normal Paris traffic. But since the only vehicles on the streets were military, we arrived at the barge by 1:00 in the afternoon. We had brought along a jug of wine, some bread and a little sausage, and we kissed a lot. So, the trip was bumpy but not arduous.

The driver looked to be a common travailleur, not a criminal mastermind. Actually, he looked stupider than the horse. He was dressed in the old-fashioned heavy denim chemise with farmer's wooden clogs. I tried talking to him. But, he ignored me. Maybe he was deaf. He never said a word to us.

We stopped at a canal boat, which was moored along the bank of the Seine. It was across from the tip of the Ilot Blanc.

A coquin walked up from the boat to meet us. He was a huge bear of a man. But his voice was surprisingly high pitched, almost feminine. He said, "Greetings mes-amis my name is Pierre and I will be your host for the next several days. This is my boat, "Benedictions." It will be a blessing for you and a few of your friends."

I looked at him surprised. He chuckled and said, "You will have traveling companions Monsieur et Madame, another family seeks our assistance. They are already on-board. We were only waiting for you, to begin our journey"

We stepped aboard the boat. It was an odd-looking craft. The boat was very long and narrow. That was the reason why the Brits called them, "narrowboats."

It was perhaps 70 feet in length and no more than 7 feet in width, the better to navigate the crowded French canals. Those disproportionate dimensions allowed the barge to fit into the narrow locks that regulate the Seine's meandering course.

Before the war, canal boats served the same general function as house trailers back in the States. You could pack the whole family into one of them and explore Europe, through its widespread canal system; or even live on one. It was the extensive lock system that made it all possible.

The locks were installed throughout the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. They were designed to make rivers more navigable for deeper draft boats.

The cabin was comparatively high sided, with a flat top that people could easily walk around on. There were two very short decks fore and aft. The after-deck housed the motor and propulsion gear. So, it was the longer of the two. There was a small hatch covering the engine and a big old-fashioned tiller, which was used to do the steering.

During the voyage, I tried my hand at steering. It wasn't like using a wheel. The tiler WAS the rudder. So, you had to use some muscle. At the same time, whatever movements you made were exaggerated by the fact that there was a direct connection between you and the water. So, steering a narrowboat required a considerable degree of "delicacy".

The inside had the look and feel of a bowling alley, rather than a cabin. The back two-thirds of the habitable space was taken up by berths. Those were nothing more than tiny cubicles, formed by throwing up curtains, around a bed to provide a modicum of privacy

There was a two-foot passageway on the port side. It was difficult for a person who was built like me to squeeze through. There was a wood-fired cooking facility, and a space for people to sit. There was a little toilet, which I was certain emptied directly into the Seine.

The boat seemed to be in decent shape. I didn't know anything about canal barges. I had spent my entire time in France either in Paris, or in a trench outside Soissons. But I didn't need to. All I needed was for somebody to play a card. That came almost immediately.

Bernadette had been happy and eager all the way to over to Poissy. She was even more excited when she saw how livable the boat was. I think that the poor dear thing expected to travel in misery. But, she was willing to endure it for her friend. So, she was relieved when she discovered that we would journey in relative comfort on our quest. I continued to smell a trap.

The Jewish family was making the trip for the same reason as Aurore's. Their last name was Meier. The Meiers knew that the future held nothing good for a Jew in German occupied France.

Their family group comprised an older man, who was obviously the grandfather, an attractive forty-something woman, who must have been his daughter, and her four kids.

The oldest kid was a boy of perhaps twenty-two and they went down in three-year increments from there. The next oldest was a stunning nineteen-year-old girl with a glorious body; voluptuous, just like Aurore. I was beginning to see a pattern.

I watched Pierre. He was looking at the young woman, whose name was Lorelei. He wasn't even trying to disguise his lust. Then he shifted his gaze to Bernadette. It appeared that Monsieur Pierre was trying to make up his mind.

I sidled up to where he was holding the old-fashioned tiller. I took ahold of his arm and said under my breath, "She's mine and you aren't man enough to take her away from me."

He might have been big, but he wasn't near as muscular as I am. I gave his arm a painful squeeze. He got the message.

The first part of the journey was idyllic. Spring in France is like no place else in the world. The sun is honey yellow and the breezes are mild and fragrant. The land around us was waking from its winter slumber. And, the world smelled like life and freshly turned earth; as the thousand-year-old rituals of the growing season began.

We were moving slowly and almost silently through all that bucolic splendor. That is, if you discounted the putt-putting of the narrowboat's small two-cylinder diesel. There are five locks along the lower Seine river. We encountered our first one at Notre Dame de la Garenne.

There were two green lanterns lit as we approached. That meant the lock was empty and we could enter. The lock gates swung open. As Pierre eased the boat into the lock, the lock gate ground slowly closed behind us.

We would have tied-up to a bollard if we had been going upbound. But the boat was going to drop several feet. So, Pierre had me and the boy jump off and hold the bow and aft lines. We stood there keeping the big canal-boat steady between the sides of the lock as the water rushed out.

Meanwhile, Pierre walked down the towpath at the side of the lock and sauntered away toward the town. He gave his regards to the lock-keeper, who happened to be a woman. I got the impression that Pierre had made her intimate acquaintance in the past.

As the boat continued to settle, Pierre casually wandered over to a local boite, which was situated about 50 yards from the lock-keeper's little house. It looked like he was stopping off for a quick glass of wine.

He greeted four rough looking men who had been sitting there enjoying a bottle of cheap red. They talked for a short while. Then a fifth man approached. The new man was slightly better dressed, and he looked like he was in charge of the other four.

There was a lot of friendly back-and-forth between all six men. Then, just as the downstream lock opened, Pierre shook hands all-around and strolled back to the narrow-boat.

There was nothing sinister in what I'd seen. It looked like Pierre was just joshing with a group of his acquaintances. I imagine you meet a lot of people going up and down the river. Perhaps they got together every time he made the run to Honfleur.

But, there was something in the interchange that raised my suspicion. It almost looked like they were comparing notes. I'm a bartender. I'm used to seeing skullduggery. And, I could smell a big, fat, garlic eating rat. I raised my defenses.

We cruised under power and with the current. The narrow-boat was moving downstream, so we could make a blazing 4 knots on its little diesel engine. We'd tie up for the night. In the morning we'd continued downriver toward Rouen, which was still two nights and three days away.

Besides the odd interchange at Garenne, there was nothing in Pierre's behavior to raise red flags. He seemed to be your average working-class French riverman; crude and not particularly bright, but with a certain feral cunning. The only disturbing part about him was his obvious appetites. He was visibly lusting after both Lorelei AND her mother.

At one point he had looked longingly at Bernadette. I rose and walked back to where he was holding the steering tiller. I just stood next to him for a minute, or two. He said under his breath, frustrated, "I heard you the first time Monsieur. But, she is very beautiful."

We pushed it hard. It was almost like Pierre had a schedule to keep. The rest of the denizens of the boat just thought that he was hurrying to get them to safety. I didn't believe that for a second. It had something to do with the meeting in Garenne.

We watched the river bank pass as we ate, talked and slept. Everybody kept to themselves, which was fine with me. I was waiting for the next card to be laid down.

It had been comfortable, almost too peaceful so far. The boat moved at a walking pace. So, we could get off anywhere on the old tow-path and run into the local towns to buy essentials, like gallons of the local red. Even the cheap stuff was excellent, and the farmer's cheeses were to-die-for.

The canal-boat life appealed to me. You had an endless panorama of French countryside passing outside the big windows. Those windows allowed us to watch the world slide serenely by, while we sat in relative comfort.

The people on shore could see you too. We even waved to famers leading their animals along the tow-path. Waving just seemed like the friendly thing to do. Since, only a few yards of water separated us from those people.

The kids played on the long flat roof of the boat. Bernadette and I sat up there, feet hanging over the side basking in the spring sunshine. In that happy respect, we drank the red, ate the farmer's cheeses and enjoyed the peace and serenity of the Seine.

I learned a lot more about my beautiful companion, as we made our way down the tranquil river. The things I learned helped me to better understand the changes that were happening in me.

I told Bernadette about my upbringing; how stark and brutal my childhood had been. I said that, "I was thirteen years old and shoveling taconite ore all day. It taught me one thing; never expect anything from anybody."

I added, "I might sound cynical. But, I've had plenty of proof to reinforce that mindset. Most of the people I know are shits; every one of them wants a piece of you. So, I've learned to keep to myself."

I looked at her affectionately and added, "Then I met you. You're a rich lady and Aurore is just a friend. I know you're a feisty little bitch." That got me socked. I continued with, "But what in the world is a well-bred woman like you doing in the middle of this mess? Your motivation is something that I am desperately trying to understand."

Bernadette got the melting look that comes over her when her feelings are riled, and her eyes turned almost violet. She put a hand behind my head and gave me a deep kiss. Then she drew back and looked at me tenderly.

She said, "It's elementary. I do what I think is right. People construct elaborate justifications for doing the WRONG thing. But deep down we all know we're lying to ourselves and that causes us pain. If I know that I am doing the right thing, then my conscience is clear and my outlook is happy."

She added, "Aurore gave me a lifetime of her love. It would be wrong for me to turn my back on her now; just because it inconvenienced me or put me in danger. So, I am bound to do what I can to help her. I would do the same for you. I pledged my devotion and my love doesn't come with conditions."

So, there it was. Bernadette was just saying what we all know is true. If you want to be a happy person, you need to do good things, no matter the cost. It isn't a matter of religion. All major religions have some version of the golden rule. Instead, it's a matter of moral courage, integrity, and personal honor.

Up to that point my version of the golden rule was, "He who has the gold - rules." Now, this virtuous and strong-minded little woman had opened my eyes to the real truth. All, I wanted was to be as forthright and honorable as she was.

*****

Our voyage would have been beautiful and romantic if it weren't for the inconvenient truth that there was a war going on, and we were in the clutches of a fellow who was obviously up to something.

The seventh night, we tied up in the bend in the river past Rouen. We were in the middle of the Roumare forest. We were a lot nearer the Channel. So, there were more signs of the War, planes flying overhead in formation and military traffic.

Roumare is a vast forested plateau embraced by a lazy loop of the meandering River Seine. It was traditionally part of the ancient estates of the Dukes of Normandy and it hadn't changed much since William the Conqueror hunted in it. The umbrella of branches hid us from marauding British fighters and the solidly packed array of tree trunks kept the panzers at bay.

Everybody on the boat was getting nervous. Honfleur was perhaps a day away and we were all anticipating the next part of the journey, the English Channel would not be as hospitable as this peaceful place. I was convinced that if anything was going to happen - it would happen now.

So, I raised my guard to the last notch.

The journey up to that point had been like something out of time. I mean, really; here we were in the middle of a forest that was like it was imagined by Shakespeare. At the same time, the Germans were tightening their grip on all of France.

The sleeping quarters were constrained to say the least. The beds were, in effect, lined up against one bulkhead and then encased in a series of heavy curtains. You got some privacy because of the curtains. But, I could hear people snoring two cabins down. So, there was no fooling around with my beautiful companion.

Bernadette was in her usual sleeping position, an arm and a leg thrown over me. head resting entirely on my chest. She tends to drool and talk in her sleep which is an endearing foible for a French aristocrat. I shifted her slightly, so that she would drool someplace else. She was mumbling something about ducks.

Then, I heard a thump and whispered voices. Since, it was the middle of the night, that could only mean trouble.

I needed to reconnoiter. I gently slipped Bernadette off me. She murmured a complaint. Then I silently worked my way through the slit in the curtain and into the passageway, slipping on my shirt as I went.

I always slept in my pants just in case. So, it was only a matter of putting on my boots. That is, after I'd gotten my two knuckledusters out of the fake soles.

The intruders were coming from the foredeck. I counted six individuals. They were stealthily making their way through the common area up front, obviously headed for the berths.

Fortunately, the passageway was restrictive, it was pitch black and Bernadette and I were in the far cabin.

I hastily gathered Bernadette's clothes and shoes and bundled them under my free arm. Then I abruptly hoisted her over my shoulder.

She gave a startled squawk. But, her little sound was masked by the clatter of all hell breaking loose forward, as the curtains of the first cabins were thrown wide and flashlights were shone on the startled occupants.

In the meantime, I was hustling down the narrow passage in the opposite direction. I ran out onto the afterdeck, carrying Bernadette like a sack of potatoes. It was an easy jump to the bank and thence into the foliage, which grew right to the edge of the water.

There were shouts and screams from inside the barge as I put an extremely muddled Bernadette behind a tree. At that point the intruders had not yet discovered we were missing.

Bernadette said justifiably confused, "What??!!" I handed her the clothes and boots and said, "Dress quickly my love. We have to get somewhere to hide and it has to be fast."

Most people would want to stop for an explanation, which I didn't have time to give. But, Bernadette was as dauntless as she was brave. Without another word she slipped into her walking pants, shoes and heavy shirt. She DID stop to tie a jaunty little scarf around her neck; just to defy whoever had boarded the boat.

I could hear the shouts of the intruders as they discovered that we were missing. Two of them immediately jumped off and headed into the forest. One of them was coming through the trees, following the path we had taken. The darkness of the forest hid us.

He was searching the area with his flashlight. The huge trees made his little beam insignificant.

I waited until he had gotten right next to me. Then I stepped forward and hit him with one short powerful jab. I am very strong, and the metal knuckles I was wearing are designed to concentrate the full force of a punch into a single tiny area. So, the impact was catastrophic.

He didn't make a sound, as he fell lifelessly to the ground. From the crack I could tell that the blow, which had hit him on his left temple, was fatal. I retrieved his flashlight and shut it off. It was going to come in handy.

Then I grabbed Bernadette and we disappeared into a tangle of vegetation and rocks.

My courageous little friend had been yanked out of a sound sleep, manhandled into a forest and seen me kill somebody with my bare hands. Most women would be in hysterics. I looked at my steadfast pal and she was staring back with cold, anger.