In our writing class of 14, we had to follow the previous person’s page, and I was almost the last. These will all be put together to make the final story called The Hat. This is my page and I will post the whole story when all finished.

Looking through the file and as his fingers trimmed the tops of the papers, forcing gold coloured paperclips to spin out, Giles just could not find the name of Maurice Lefevre.

He knew it was there somewhere. After all the story was one of mystery, maybe his filing had moved it. He stopped. Of course, the spelling was wrong and his dates.

Oh yes, L E F E B V R E, that was it and then he found the chilling tab of notes on the entertainer who had vanished in 1942. He had been taken from his last show to his death in Poland by the SS.


“Give me the hat, Daphne,” he said, stretching out from his chair.

“Yes, I thought so,” he said fingering the band and looking and where the writing had been it was worn, and yes there was a B, very faint but there. He looked carefully at the rest of the felt, pinched it and he seemed to find his eyes closing. The room swam around him.

He smelt the thick Gitanes tobacco, heard gruff and throat sore voices jostling to be heard and then the scraping of chairs. He was pushed, almost losing his balance as a waitress groped past him in the dim light.

“Monsieur, vite, vite.” Of course, he had to stand up, this was the moment.

The chairs were wobbly, he was too from the thick brandy and wine, but he found himself standing on the seat, his heavy boots started to tap out along with the clapping and thumping of the others in the basement bar.

And then, the curtain parted. There he was, Maurice Lefebvre, the hero of the La Resistance in this suburb. There was no way Maurice could silence them now, but he tried, conducting the rabble choir of red-faced, blue-veined nose men swaying with tearful girls bright-faced, clutching and waving their Tricolour scarves.

“Allons les enfants de la Patrie, le jour de glorie est arrive!” they shouted, tunefully as Maurice punched the air, sweat pouring from the brim of his hat.

He raised it up and screamed out, “Encore mes enfants” and at that, the crowd surged towards him.

Suddenly shots rang out as a troop of soldiers swept into the room, they formed a phalanx like an icebreaker pounding through rough seas. The crowd stunned, dropped, screaming as Maurice was man-handled out.

The jostling and fighting were met with fist blows and whipped heads.

“Rien” but it was no use, Maurice was being dragged out, still shouting his words of defiance. He wrestled an arm free and threw his hat into the boiling crowd, who as in a wedding leapt to catch it, to be the next witness or bride.

Giles woke, felt a bruise on his face and wiping away grime that was over his brow, put the hat carefully on the coffee table and smiled at his wife.

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