Summoning

June 18, 1940, 3:20 p.m., London, outside the BBC building.

Lorraine stood at the doorway, watching de Gaulle walk out from inside.

The tall, thin figure walked very slowly. Each step seemed like he was wading through deep mud, needing great effort to pull himself out. When he reached the doorway, he paused, placed his hand on the doorframe, and stood there with his head down.

Lorraine didn't move. He stood there, waiting.

After a long time, de Gaulle raised his head and walked towards him.

His face was expressionless. His eyes were dry and bright, but there was a deep shadow under them. He looked at Loran, said nothing, and simply nodded.

They walked back side by side.

As Lorraine walked down the corridor, he heard de Gaulle suddenly say something. His voice was very soft, as if he were speaking to himself.

"I wonder how many people will hear this."

Lorrain remained silent. He recalled the words from that declaration: "France is not alone...she has a vast French Empire...she can form an alliance with the British Empire..."

These words will reach France. They will reach the ears of those hiding in the ruins, those who are silent under German occupation, and those who are still hesitating about whether to continue fighting.

But how many people will believe it? How many will take action?

He knew. But de Gaulle did not.

Loran looked into de Gaulle's eyes, his lips moving as if he wanted to say something but hesitated.

"It will succeed."

De Gaulle lowered his head in deep thought, seemingly not paying much attention to the statement: "I hope so."

They walked back to the three-story brick house.

As he entered, de Gaulle paused, turned, and looked at Lorraine.

"It's going to be very busy," he said. "If you're tired, you can rest now. Starting tomorrow, there won't be any more rest."

Loran shook his head.

De Gaulle looked at him and nodded. In those deep-set eyes, there was something hard to describe—not gratitude, not satisfaction, but a simpler confirmation: You stayed, good.

"Come with me," he said.

They went up to the second floor and into the room filled with maps. De Gaulle walked to the table, took a document from a drawer, and handed it to Lorraine.

"This news came from France this morning."

Lorraine took it. It was a copy of a telegram, very short:

"On the Bordeaux side: Weygand has signed the armistice. The Pétain government is scheduled to officially take effect on June 25. German troops will occupy northern France and the Atlantic coast. The south and west will be designated as 'free zones' and ruled by the Pétain government. All French troops will be disarmed, and except for 6 who are maintaining domestic order, the rest will be either deported or imprisoned."

Loran stared at those lines of text and remained silent for a long time.

One hundred thousand men. More than a million prisoners of war. And that's all that's left are these one hundred thousand men.

De Gaulle walked to the window, turned his back to him, and looked out the window.

“Pétain said,” his voice came from the other side, “that this is to preserve the flame of France.”

He paused for a moment, then turned around and looked at Loran.

"But I know what the real spark is."

He walked back to the table and took another document from the drawer. It was a list, handwritten, with messy handwriting.

"These are the people we contacted this afternoon," he said. "French officers, soldiers, and technicians in Britain. People who are willing to continue fighting."

Loran took the list. There were more than a dozen names on it, with their original unit and current location indicated next to them.

De Gaulle looked at him: "You're from Stoney. You know what real fighting is like. I need you to do something for me."

Loran raised his head.

De Gaulle pointed to the location of southern France on the map.

"Pétain's 'Free Zone' was nominally under French rule, but in reality, it was subject to the Germans. The troops there would be disarmed, but some people—officers, technicians, and those who refused to surrender—would go into hiding. They needed to know that someone was continuing the fight in London. They needed to know when to act, how to act, and who to contact."

He looked at Loran.

"I need someone to pass these messages on."

Loran was silent for a few seconds. He looked at the area marked with different colors on the map—gray to the north, the German-occupied territory; white to the south, the "free zone." How many people were hidden beneath that white? How many were willing to continue fighting?

"Am I alone?" he asked.

De Gaulle shook his head: "Not one person. But for the first batch, only one person is allowed. Too many people would be too conspicuous. And..."

He paused for a moment.

"Moreover, those who walk this road for the first time may never be able to return."

The room remained quiet for a long time.

Lorraine looked at the map. His gaze moved from Paris to Sedan, from Sedan to Stoney, from Stoney to Dunkirk, and finally settled on the English Channel.

He recalled Lefèvre's dying words: "My mother is waiting for me to come back."

He recalled Ramirez's silhouette as he walked eastward, carrying a machine gun.

He recalled the moment Boucher stuffed the explosive charge into the tank tracks.

They can never go back.

But he's still here.

He looked up at de Gaulle.

"When are you leaving?"

De Gaulle looked at him, and something flickered in his deep-set eyes. But he didn't smile, he didn't nod, he simply said:

"Three days from now. In these three days, you need to learn how to use your new identity, how to make contact, how to pass messages, and how to shake off your pursuers when you're being followed."

He walked to the table, took another folder from the drawer, and handed it to Loran.

"This is the first list. Fifteen people, spread across seven cities in the 'Free Zone.' I've met some of them, and I've only heard about others. You have to find them, confirm they're still there, confirm they're still willing to fight. Then tell them that someone is waiting for them in London."

Loran took the folder. It was light, but heavy.

He stared at the list, at the unfamiliar names and addresses. He didn't know what these people looked like, what they were doing, or if they still believed that "someone was waiting for them in London."

But de Gaulle said they were willing to continue fighting.

That's enough.

For the next three days, Loran barely slept.

During the day, he learned various skills from a man named "Rang". Rang was a man in his forties with old scars on his face. He spoke very quickly and his hands were always moving, as if they would never stop.

“Remember,” Jean said, “your new identity is that of a businessman. Your name is Pierre Durand. You’re in the textile business. You went to England many times before the war, and now you’re going back to deal with your inventory. You need to change your French; don’t have a Parisian accent, take a southern accent. Southerners speak slowly and draw out their words, like this…”

He demonstrated it once. Lorraine followed along.

"And your documents." He pulled a stack of things from his bag: passport, ID card, travel permit, business cards. "These are fake, but they're more real than the real thing. Memorize every word: date of birth, place of birth, parents' names, business partners. If someone asks you, you must recite them like you'd your own name."

Loran took the documents and looked at them one by one. Looking at his own photo, at the unfamiliar dates and names, he suddenly felt like a person who had been recreated.

"And another thing," Rang continued, "if you're stopped by the Germans, don't panic. When they check your documents, look them in the eye, don't look down. Looking down means you're guilty. Don't stare too directly either, that's provocative. You should..."

He demonstrated by bowing his head slightly while looking up at the other person.

"That way, you're both compliant and dignified."

Lorraine did it the same way he did.

"Okay." Rang nodded. "Next comes the most important part: how to shake off the tail."

For the next two days, they practiced on the streets of London. One of them followed Lorraine, playing the role of the tracker. Lorraine had to shake him off within fifteen minutes.

Lorraine failed the first time. He was caught at the corner of the third street.

The second attempt also failed.

The third time, the fourth time, and the fifth time.

On his sixth attempt, Lorraine finally succeeded. He circled the market three times, slipped out through the back door of a shop, disappeared into an alley, and emerged from the other end, blending into the crowd.

It was twenty minutes later when they finally found him.

"Not bad," Rang said, "but not enough. The Germans are more patient than I am."

Loran nodded and continued practicing.

On the evening of the third day, de Gaulle arrived.

He stood in the doorway, watching Lorraine pack her things. The documents, lists, and a small stack of banknotes were placed one by one into an old leather suitcase.

"Are you ready?" de Gaulle asked.

Loran nodded.

De Gaulle walked up to him and looked at him. In those deep-set eyes, there was an expression that Lorraine had never seen before. It wasn't worry, nor encouragement, but a very complex expression, a mixture of many things.

"I should have gone myself," de Gaulle said in a low voice, "but I couldn't. I'm here so that more people can know that France has not surrendered."

He paused.

"So, you go in my place."

Loran looked at him without saying a word.

De Gaulle reached out and shook Lorraine's hand. The hand was thin, with distinct knuckles, but he held it tightly.

"Come back alive," he said.

Loran nodded.

At four o'clock the next morning, Lorraine boarded a small boat.

The boat was small, with only a dozen or so seats. Everyone on board was silent; no one spoke, no one looked at anyone else. They simply sat there, swaying with the waves, waiting for the boat to dock.

It was dark. The sea was dark too. Only the occasional flash of light in the distance were the last lights on the British coast.

Loran leaned against the ship's railing and closed his eyes.

He thought of Stoney. He thought of those who died in the ruins. He thought of De Gaulle's voice on the radio. He thought of those unfamiliar names on that list.

The boat sailed for a long time.

As the sky began to lighten, someone gently touched his shoulder.

"arrive."

Loran opened her eyes.

Ahead, the French coastline is gradually emerging from the morning mist.

June 22, 1940, in an unknown small port in southern France.

Lorraine disembarked and set foot on French soil.

This was his first return since he left. But he didn't look back at the sea. He just kept his head down, carrying his old suitcase, and walked forward step by step into the crowd.

Behind them, the small boat was turning around, preparing to return to England.

He didn't turn around.

He knew that from now on, he could only move forward.

The port was small. Just a few streets, a few shops, and a market. The Germans hadn't come here yet—it was a "free zone," nominally still under French rule. But you could already see French gendarmes in their new uniforms on the streets; the uniforms were different from before, darker in color, and the cap badges were different too.

As Lorraine walked past the military police, he didn't stop or look up. He simply continued walking, like an ordinary businessman who had just returned from England and was in a hurry to get home.

He walked through the market, into a small alley, then stopped, leaned against a wall, and caught his breath.

Those military police officers didn't stop him. He got through.

He pulled the list out of his pocket and glanced at the first address:

"Marseille, 17 Rue Saint-Fréolle. Henri Faure, former naval captain."

He put the list away and continued walking.

Marseille is quite a distance from here. He needs to take a train first, then a bus, which might take a whole day. But he's not in a hurry. He wants to take it one step at a time, observe each step, and record everything that needs to be recorded.

When he reached the alley entrance, he suddenly stopped.

Outside the alleyway, a newspaper boy was shouting, "Extra! Extra! The armistice takes effect today! German troops have entered Paris! Marshal Pétain addresses the nation!"

Lorraine stood there, watching the boy, watching the people buying newspapers, watching the people reading their newspapers with their heads down.

Some people cried. Some remained silent. Some crumpled their newspapers into balls and threw them on the ground.

Lorraine didn't buy a newspaper. He turned and walked into another alley, continuing on his way.

He knew that from this moment on, he was Pierre Durand, a businessman who had returned from England to handle some business matters.

He didn't know if he could ever turn back into Marc Lorraine.

On June 25, 1940, the day the armistice officially took effect, Lorraine arrived in Marseille.

Number 17 Rue Saint-Frédéric was an old apartment building with peeling paint revealing gray stone beneath. Lorraine stood across the street, observing it for a long time.

There weren't many people on the street. Those who did pass by all had their heads down and walked quickly. An old woman was hanging clothes to dry on a second-floor balcony across the street, her movements slow and labored, as if she had no strength. A cat darted out from around the corner, glanced at Loran, and then disappeared back inside.

Everything was normal. As normal as an ordinary afternoon.

Loran crossed the street and entered the building.

The staircase was narrow and dark. There was only one dim light on each floor, barely enough to illuminate the stairs. He climbed the creaking wooden steps, one by one.

Third floor. The door on the left.

He knocked three times. Very lightly, but very clearly.

I waited for a while. No one answered.

He knocked three more times.

The door opened a crack. An eye peered at him through the crack.

"Who are you looking for?" The voice was wary.

"Henry Fore," Lorraine said, "someone asked me to deliver a message."

The eye stared at him for a few seconds. Then the door closed.

Lorraine stood there, waiting.

After a long while, the door opened again. This time it opened wider. A man in his forties stood in the doorway, wearing an old shirt, with a stubble beard and deep dark circles under his eyes.

He looked Loran up and down, his gaze finally settling on Loran's hand—the hand hanging at his side, unarmed, with only the old leather suitcase.

"Come in," he said.

Loran went inside.

The room was small. There was a bed, a table, and two chairs. A radio sat on the table, turned off. The walls were bare except for a few nail holes, as if something had hung there before and had been removed.

The man closed the door and stood opposite Loran.

"Who sent you?"

Loran didn't speak. He took a small, folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the man.

The person took it, opened it, and glanced at it.

His hand suddenly trembled.

The note contained only one line: The flame of French resistance should not be extinguished.

The man looked up at Loran. This time, his eyes were different. The wariness remained, but something else was added—perhaps a glimmer of light, perhaps a hint of disbelief.

"Is he in London?" the man asked. His voice was very soft, as if he was afraid something would hear him.

Loran nodded.

The man remained silent for a long time. Then he suddenly smiled. It was a very brief smile, fleeting across his tired face.

"I thought..." he said, without finishing his sentence.

Loran knew what he wanted to say. He thought no one would come. He thought everyone had forgotten. He thought he was the only one who still remembered those words.

"You are not alone," Lorraine said.

The man looked at him and nodded.

Over the next week, Lorraine visited all seven cities on the list.

In every city, he used the same method. First observe, then knock, then say those words. Each time, the other person, like Henry Faure, was first wary, then silent, and finally—a glimmer of light appeared in their eyes.

Some people cried. Others just stood there, motionless, and after a long time, said, "Is he still alive?"

Someone asked, "How many people?" Lorraine replied, "Very few now. But there will be more and more." The person nodded and didn't ask any more questions.

Someone refused. The door was ajar; after hearing Loran's words, it remained silent for a few seconds, then closed. Loran stood there, waited a while, and knocked again. It didn't open.

He didn't insist. He simply slipped the note with his contact information under the door and turned to leave.

A week later, he returned to Marseille, back to that small room.

He sat on the edge of the bed, took out the cloth bag, opened it, and looked at its contents. There was a photograph of Boucher, Ramirez's pipe, and letters from Lefèvre. There was also a list with seven names, followed by the annotations:

"Henri Fore, Marseille, yes."

"Pierre Maurice, Lille, address changed, not found."

"Jean Lefèvre, Lyon, yes."

……

He stared at those names for a long time.

Then he wrapped the cloth up, put it back in his arms, stood up, and walked out the door.

He had to go back. Back to London. Back to tell de Gaulle: There are still people. There are people willing.

But before he left, there was one more thing he needed to do.

He's going to Lille. To find Pierre Maurice, whose address has changed.

That night, Lorraine boarded a train bound for the north.

The train was slow. It stopped for a long time at each station, sometimes for an hour, and I didn't know what it was waiting for. The carriage was dark; not all the lights were on, only a few dim yellow lamps illuminated the tired faces.

Loran leaned against the window, watching the night pass by outside.

He knew that the further north he went, the closer he would get to the occupied territory. The closer he would get to danger.

But he had to go.

Because the person on the list might be waiting.

Perhaps they are having doubts.

Perhaps he thought that no one would come looking for him.

The train traveled all night.

As dawn broke, Lorraine opened his eyes. Outside the window, the French fields were gradually emerging in the morning light. Green, quiet, just as before.

But what's different is that you can occasionally see gray military vehicles in the distance, driving north along the highway.

German troops.

Loran withdrew his gaze, leaned against the window again, and closed his eyes.

The train traveled for a long time.

In the afternoon, we arrived in Lille.

Loran got off the train and stood on the platform.

This was different from the last time he came. There were many more people in gray uniforms on the platform. They stood in various corners, guns at the ready, watching everyone getting off the train. Their gazes were as if they were looking at a group of people who could be disposed of at any time.

Lorraine lowered her head and followed the crowd out.

As he walked past a German soldier, he felt that gaze sweep over him and then move away.

He continued walking.

Step out of the station and stand in the square.

The square was less crowded. The familiar shops were still closed, some with broken glass doors boarded up. Occasionally someone would walk by on the street, head down, hurrying along.

Lorraine walked toward Rue Saint-André.

After walking for a long time, he stood at the entrance of number 17.

It's still that old gray building. The old sycamore tree at the entrance is still there, its leaves blocking out half the sky.

He went inside, went upstairs, and knocked on the door.

No one answered.

He knocked again.

still none.

He pushed the door, and it opened.

The room was empty.

The bed was gone, the table was gone, the chair was gone. Only a few nail holes remained in the wall, and a pile of forgotten scraps of paper in the corner.

Loran stood there, looking at the empty room.

He remembered the name: Pierre Maurice. He remembered the note on the list: "Address changed, not found."

He squatted down and rummaged through the pile of waste paper.

A photograph slipped out from the pile of papers.

Lorraine picked it up and looked at the photograph. It showed a young woman holding a baby, smiling as she stood in front of a small house.

He stood up, put the photos away, and walked out the door.

As he went downstairs, he met an old woman. The old woman saw him, paused for a moment, and then asked, "Looking for that family?"

Loran nodded.

The old woman sighed, "She's gone. She left last month. Her husband came back from the front, and the woman ran away the next day. She took the child and all the money in the house. Her husband left later too; I don't know where he went."

Lorraine stood there, listening to the old woman speak.

After the old woman finished speaking, she shook her head, turned around, and left.

Loran stood at the doorway, looking at the empty street with a hint of bewilderment and pity in his eyes.

Some people's lives are truly full of hardships.

It was getting dark. The streets were becoming increasingly deserted. The clock tower in the distance chimed once, then fell silent again.