Maisie leaned forward. “I believe Frederick Addens and Albert Durant belonged to a resistance group, and were being sought by the German army, given the success of their work.”
Janssens chuckled. “Oh, they were a success indeed.” He became serious. “And it wasn’t just those boys either—their sisters, mothers, and grandmothers helped. The Germans couldn’t believe old women could cause much trouble, and only looked for the boys—but in some cases the women and children still had to leave in haste, because they would have been murdered in the attempt to gain information from them.”
“The name Xavier Bertrand has come to my attention, yet he is not known to me or, I believe, to the British authorities—though I can check again when I return to England.”
“Xavier Bertrand, Frederick Addens, and Albert Durant were as thick as thieves. The Three Musketeers. Then there was another boy, from a village along the Meuse—name of Firmin. Younger, I think . . . though perhaps not. He became part of their little gang.”
“Were you here then? Or away fighting?”
“I was here for longer than I wanted—my eyesight. But then the eyesight wasn’t a problem anymore—getting men in uniform to replace those who had perished, that was the problem.”
“Did Xavier Bertrand have family? Are they still here—mother, sister, brother?”
Janssens frowned, pushed back his cap, and scratched his head. “A mother who wasn’t well—she hadn’t been well since the youngest was born—Xavier persuaded her to go with them. There was a sister who had died before the war, and the younger brother—I think he was a much younger brother.”
“Do you remember his name?”
Janssens closed his eyes. “It’s right there, on the tip of my tongue. B-B-B . . . no, no.” He opened his eyes and shook his head. “I am so sorry—I cannot remember.”
“Do you have a registry of births? Would I be able to see it in the church?”
“That is a possibility. You’ll find the church just along the road. There is a ledger held there, a record of all marriages, funerals, and baptisms. You could ask the priest, Father Bonhomme. Otherwise, to obtain that information would take longer than you have at present. There are procedures, and even I cannot make them go faster.”
Maisie came to her feet. “Yes, of course. I understand.” She took up her glass of water and drained it, then held out her hand.
“Would you like another glass?” said Janssens, shaking her hand.
“No, thank you—I have to run now. I don’t have much time.”
“Good luck, madame.”
“And good luck to you too.”
Janssens smiled. “God willing, we will never see war again here.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes. God willing.”
Lawrence looked at his watch. “My instructions were to get you straight back to the airfield.”
“I think just ‘field’ would be enough of a description, don’t you? Look, both those meetings were not as long as anticipated, so we have a little time. Please, I must go to that church, and it’s just along the road.”
Lawrence wound down his window and threw out a half-smoked cigarette. “This could lose me my job, you know.” He steered the motor car out on the road towards the church.
“Oh, come on, Lawrence—don’t let’s be dramatic, just when we’re getting along so well. Take me to that church, and then we can go. I will be five minutes. And you would not lose your job just because I might be a minute late to get onto that aeroplane.”
“We have the authority, but not exactly the permission, with regard to a given field.”
“So you’re worried a farmer with a pitchfork might come out steaming with anger and an intent to kill because you’ve plowed down his sugar beet.” She had not intended to be so curt, but did not want to be tripped up by her driver at a crucial moment.
Lawrence seemed to glare at the road ahead. “Here’s your church. Five minutes.”
Maisie ran into the church, which was still, silent, and enveloped her in chill air, a counter to the warm late-morning weather outside. Walking along the aisle, she noticed a place in the roof above the altar where repairs appeared to have taken place in recent years—and she imagined the unholy scene when a shell—for surely it had been a shell—had ripped through the building. As she approached the altar, a priest emerged from behind a rich velvet drape, beyond which Maisie suspected church records were kept.
He smiled at Maisie, and she stopped, lowered her head before a carved wood depiction of Christ on the cross, and looked up again towards the priest.
“Excuse me . . . Father Bonhomme?” Unfamiliar with the protocols of the Catholic church, Maisie hoped this man spoke her language, even a few words. “Do you speak English?”
The man smiled. “I studied theology at Cambridge, madame. Before the war. I’m a little . . . a little rusty, as you might say.”
“Oh, thank heavens! I mean—I’m glad. Father—I am in need of your help.”
He gestured towards the confessional.