Evangeline looked at the room with its small dormer window and bare raftered ceiling, two iron bedsteads with horsehair mattresses and blankets, but no sheets. On one wall there was a sink with a single tap and a bar of soap in a dish. She thought about her parents’ house in Turckheim with its sweet-smelling pine and cedar wood walls and warm feather-filled eiderdowns; she felt the poverty of the room invade her – but it was secure and they were safe, at least for the moment. She needed to sleep and she would worry about tomorrow when the day broke.
They pushed the beds close together to share each other’s warmth. After a while Kasha moved his body up against hers and, putting an arm around her, pulled her closer to him.
At seven they were up and washing in some hot water that Régine brought to them in a large china jug. Evangeline watched as Kasha stood in front of the mirror over the sink and shaved with a razor Thibaud had loaned him. He was a strikingly handsome man, she again found herself thinking.
‘Thank you,’ she said when they finally went down to the living room where Régine was already eating a simple breakfast of barley broth and bread.
Kasha looked at her blankly. ‘What for?’
‘Not trying to take advantage of the position – not bothering me.’
‘Not a good idea,’ he replied, giving her a little smile. ‘In two or three days, maybe a week, we will go our own ways – probably never see each other again.’ He raised his eyebrows and shook his head a little, ‘In war it is best to keep things simple; uncomplicated.’
The station quai was crowded when the Dijon–Paris express arrived, the rails screeching as the driver wound on the brakes and the steel wheel rims bit and ground to a slow halt. It stood panting on the track like a jungle cat as doors opened and people struggled to put luggage aboard. Very few passengers left the train, which had come down from Colmar; most would be going all the way to Paris.
At the last minute, as the doors on the coaches were banging shut the station master brought them out of his office and they climbed up into a carriage. Evangeline felt her heart start to quicken. She looked furtively around her – if they were followed now was when they would find out. Nothing happened. They walked along the corridor until they came to an empty compartment, slid open the door and sat away from the window where they were least exposed. The passing seconds dragged into minutes as they waited for the train to move. Evangeline’s heart was now pounding, she could feel the fear and apprehension rising in her throat; her mouth had gone dry. Every minute that passed they could be discovered. Then it happened. ‘Over there,’ Kasha motioned with his eyes to where two men had appeared at the entrance and were making their way to the far end of the quai. Kasha edged closer to the window where he could just get sight of where they had now stopped. Slowly the men began to walk the length of the train, looking up at the carriage windows as they worked their way along the quai. When they were almost on them there was a shout. The men stopped and looked back; the stationmaster waved to them and they broke off their search. ‘They’re going,’ Kasha whispered as the two men hurried off in the direction of the exit. Finally, the locomotive let out a rush of steam and the stationmaster blew his whistle twice. Satisfied that the last of the wooden doors had been slammed tight shut, he waved his green flag. There was a blast of steam-driven smoke through the engine’s funnel and, with a long hoot on the whistle, the train moved slowly out of Epinal. As there carriage slid past the end of the quai the stationmaster waved to them.
The engine began to gather speed and as it did the anxiety ebbed away and Evangeline started to relax. They would stop at Chaumont but that was an hour away and then there would be another hour before they would be in Dijon – well before midday and in time to catch the Paris–Lyon express. He should easily be in Vichy France by the late afternoon if they managed the connection right. After that there would be the question of her own position but that could wait for the moment.
She looked at his face as he leaned his head back against the seat, his eyes closed, unworried like a child in a faraway dream, as if without a care – not like a man on the run, a man who had secrets in his head for which others would torture and kill him if he was caught. This war was a strange business, she thought, people have changed their values; life has become cruel.
She had no idea what his mission was or why he was going south. Neither she nor Alain were really involved with what had happened; they had just been caught up in it as patriotic citizens of France. They were not résistants or members of Pur Sang, the Alsace cell of the emerging resistance. When Cigale turned up at the bakery with the oilcloth package it was because she knew Joseph and Joseph knew Patrice, but neither she nor Alain knew more than that. She had known it was risky to keep the package and more so to deliver it because she knew Patrice was Pur Sang and that meant it was something dangerous. Now she’d had time to think about it all she began to wonder where it would end. She would leave Kasha at Dijon but after that she was not sure; it would be difficult to stay in Turckheim.
His eyes flickered then opened to see her looking at him. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘was I snoring?’ She laughed and forgot for a moment just how bad her situation was.
The angst came back as the train slowed and came to a halt at Chaumont. They both looked anxiously out of the window but the quai was almost deserted. Once again the slow hiss of steam pushed out of the cylinders marked the seconds as they passed. Then a gendarme appeared framed in their window and she barely stifled a scream. He looked in briefly then moved away. She held her breath – any moment she expected to see him in the corridor. They waited; then there was the familiar shrill blast of the station master’s whistle, the coarse sound of the gush of smoke through the stack, and the train jerked into movement. As the last of the quai slid by she caught sight of the gendarme casually talking with a station porter and breathed a sigh of relief.
*
The station at Dijon was crowded and chaotic. As they got down from the train they were immersed in a sea of people; the quai was heaving. Kasha shoved and pushed his way against the tide of those wanting to board for Paris, holding on to her hand and dragging her behind him through the press. At the end of the quai they found the gate open with the only railway worker a ticket inspector, who was struggling in vain to control the passage of those wanting to get on the Paris express.
Kasha waved his ticket at the man, who ignored them and they walked through. ‘That was lucky,’ he said as they emerged onto the main concourse. They stood for a moment under the high vaulted glass roof trying to decide what to do. Evangeline looked around her; the crowds had thinned and they were exposed.
‘We need to find somewhere less public,’ she said, and spotting a restaurant suggested they stay there until it was time for the train south. The Restaurant de la Gare was beginning to fill with lunchtime diners as a waiter in a short black waistcoat and a long apron showed them to a table. He looked suspiciously at Kasha in his workman’s clothes and sniffed at the air as if he detected a bad smell.
‘You need to find some other clothes,’ she said, ‘you need to get rid of the overalls.’ The waiter came back with a menu; again he looked suspiciously at Kasha. ‘We need to get you a ticket,’ Evangeline said in a whisper, ‘and I don’t like it in here. I don’t trust that waiter – let’s leave.’
They got up and as she passed the waiter she made their excuses. ‘We have just discovered our train is due to leave. Sorry but we have to go.’ The waiter looked churlishly at them and stood watching their departure. As the restaurant door swung closed behind them he went over to the manager and spoke to him.
They made their way to the exit and out onto the street; the air was crisp and a watery sun hung low in the sky veiled in thin wisps of cloud. Across from the station there was a café; they would look less conspicuous there. She ordered the food then went back to buy a ticket for him. ‘Try to avoid saying anything to anyone if you can. You’re dressed like a French worker but you look like a German; worse, you
speak like one as well.’
The queue for tickets was long and every traveller seemed to want to tell their life story to the ticket clerk. ‘The train for Lyon is at 14.15,’ he told her when she eventually got her turn. ‘Because it crosses the demarcation you will have to show your identity papers before you board.’ Damn! She didn’t know what papers he had or if they were any good.
‘And,’ the clerk continued, ‘you will be asked for them again at Chalon-sur-Saône where you cross into Vichy.’ He handed the ticket through to her and she left. As she crossed the road she wondered what he would do when he got to Lyon. He hadn’t said anything about his plans and she had not asked because it was better not to know. She imagined he had a contact in the city and that he or she would help him on from there to wherever he was destined.
She opened the café door and immediately her heart stopped; Kasha had gone. She looked around; there was a man standing waiting outside the toilet door at the back of the restaurant and she guessed he must be in there. She sat down and the waiter who had taken the order looked in her direction and came over to the table. At the same time she noticed that some of the customers were looking in her direction. The waiter leaned over and spoke quietly to her; there was a note of urgency in his voice.
‘The man you were with, mademoiselle – I’m sorry, he’s been arrested. Gendarmes and another, probably security police. I don’t think it is safe for you to stay.’
Fear and panic spread over her – she felt its ice-cold grip in her belly and in her brain. Without thinking she started to stand up and as she did her foot kicked something on the floor. The waiter stooped and retrieved it. ‘Is this yours, mademoiselle?’ he said with a touch of sympathy in his voice, and handed her the oilcloth package. She nodded her thanks.
‘It would be best if you went out through the side door,’ he suggested, furtively glancing around the other customers, ‘just in case someone is watching.’
The street she emerged into was busy; it made her feel safer to be in the anonymity of the crowd. She walked at a quick pace in the opposite direction, away from the station; she needed to get as far away from whoever it was had picked up Kasha. It must have been the waiter in the Restaurant de la Gare who turned him in. Nowhere was safe these days – there were informers and turncoats everywhere. She had to be careful and she had to get off the street, find somewhere to think. She turned the corner and came face to face with a group of German soldiers. As she stepped off the pavement to go round them one put out his arm and grabbed her.
‘Hey, eine schöne Mädchen,’ he shouted, holding her arm, displaying her to the others. He smelled of drink.
There were five of them. They stood there guffawing, grinning, making comments in German – suggestively crude remarks that, being an Alsatian, she fully understood. She pulled free and slapped her captor hard across the face. When she thought he was about to strike her back she winced, but one of their number shouted at him to stop. He wore the rank of captain, and when he stepped forward the others went quiet. The moment was awkward.
‘I am sorry for my men if they offended you,’ he said politely in very good French. ‘We are going home and then to the East so we have been enjoying our last day in your beautiful city. Won’t you accompany us for our farewell drink – we would be greatly honoured.’
She hesitated; all she wanted to do was get away from them but she had to stay calm, she told herself; go along with them until she could find a moment to slip away. A wrong move now could put her in real danger. She smiled at the captain and he linked his arm around hers. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘To the bahnhof, mademoiselle – to the station to catch our train home.’
When they arrived back on the station concourse she saw they were heading for the Restaurant de la Gare. As they went in through the big glass-panelled door she saw the same waiter who she was sure had betrayed Kasha. The moment they sat at the table he came over and spoke briefly to the officer, throwing her a disapproving glance as he did so. The captain laughed and winked an eye at her.
She felt the panic rising again; she waited for him to say something, to tell her she was under arrest, but he said nothing. The tension was gnawing at her; she needed to find an excuse to leave the restaurant without raising suspicion. He kept on smiling at her and in the end she just wanted to finish it. ‘What was that about?’ She looked in the direction of the waiter.
The captain laughed again. ‘He says you were here earlier with another man. He thinks you are a prostitute and not fit to be in here. Are you – a prostitute?’
‘I think he is mistaken,’ she said. ‘I have not been here before.’
‘Never mind,’ he replied briskly with a cheerful look on his face, ‘we shall eat, and drink some good wine, and then catch our train home.’
As the food came and they started eating the conversation among his men became less coarse and they talked of home and their mothers and girlfriends and how good it would be to have time with them again after so long.
It was just a thought at first but then a plan started to form in her head. Maybe this meeting was less dangerous than she had supposed, more of an opportunity than she had realised. ‘I have to catch a train,’ she told the captain, ‘so I shall have to leave you shortly. I don’t suppose you could escort me to the quai for my train – I would be most grateful.’
He smiled. ‘Of course.’
After he had paid the bill and she had again been subjected to the disapproving looks of the waiter, he walked her arm-in-arm to the gate where the guard gave her papers only a cursory look and let her through.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘You have been a gentleman.’
‘I wish we were not at war,’ was all he said and raised a hand to a half wave, half salute.
She installed herself in a compartment and waited. The train was filling up. She tried not to look nervous but her heart rate was still quick and she could hear it beating; it would be good to be out of Dijon. She felt the package in her coat pocket and wondered about Kasha. She had no idea what to do next but she thought she should phone Joseph and let him know what had happened. It would be three hours to Lyon; she would do it when she got there.
CHAPTER 3
London
It was another grey day in London: damp, cold, overcast – nothing remarkable for late November. A drizzle had set in, a dirty rain, stained with the soot oozing out of decrepit chimney pots. Cheap coal smouldering in the grates of dingy terraced houses that crowded the streets of the poorer districts – back-to-backs, huddled along the south bank of the Thames.
Across the river at the Aldwych a young man boarded a tram headed for Southampton Row. Just five stops and not very comfortable sitting on slatted wood benches, but it was better than walking, splashing in filthy puddles on cracked paving slabs and always the chance of getting drenched from the spray thrown up by passing taxis.
The tram driver stamped on the foot-operated bell, signalling with a double clang they were about to depart; then the vehicle moved off to the smooth whirr of its electric motor. Clanking over the gaps where the short pieces of rail formed joints in the tracks, squealing like a metallic pig as it slid its way noisily around the curves, the tram progressed up Kingsway, heading north. It was damn near impossible to see out of the windows what with the grime-streaking rain on the outside and the fog of condensation on the inside. ‘How I hate this bloody country in the winter,’ he said half out loud. None of the passengers paid any heed; they just sat there bundled up in coats and scarves, red noses and chapped cheeks, some already with the first colds of the winter. Two seats along a man with a barking, rasping cough spluttered and cleared his throat; he gobbed up the contents and spat it loudly onto the floor.
‘Oi!’ the conductor shouted at him, pointing to a notice that read ‘No Spitting – Penalty Five Shillings’.
‘Can’t you read!?’
The culprit grumbled something and withdre
w into the folds of the old army greatcoat that shrouded him.
Three stops after Southampton Row the young man left the tram and made for Baker Street. The rain had let up but the air was damp and smelled of sulphur. It took only a few minutes of brisk walking to get to his destination: 82 Baker Street, a major store in the Marks & Spencer chain. Inside the air was warm and dry; the perfume of textiles and women’s make-up replaced the bitter sooty smell from outside in the street. He walked through the clothing section, found the staff lift and pressed the button marked ‘Head Office’. Leaving the lift at the top floor, he walked a short distance along a thickly carpeted corridor until he came to a glass door leading into an office. Inside, a young woman sat tapping away on her typewriter. The man walked in and stood in front of her. She looked up from her work and seemed to scrutinize him. He was tall and slim with fair hair and very blue eyes set in a boyish face; he wore a pair of steel-rimmed glasses.
‘My God,’ she thought, ‘they’re picking them young.’ In fact on his next birthday he would be 30.
‘To see Sir Charles Armitage,’ he said quietly.
‘Who shall I say?’ she asked, without smiling.
‘Grainger.’
Her face carried a look of indifference. She’d seen his type before, she thought to herself; she saw them often, mission boys, they called them – though sometimes they were girls. They sent them off somewhere and that was it. Usually she only ever saw them once; very few came back a second time. She picked up a phone, waited for a moment then repeated his name into the mouthpiece. Replacing the receiver back onto its cradle she stood up and walked the few steps to another door, opened it and nodded in his direction. ‘This way,’ was all she said, holding the door open.
He stepped through and into a large comfortable room where two men were sitting at an elegant mahogany partners’ desk. One of the men stood up.
‘Dicky,’ he said, beaming, ‘good to see you, dear boy. Pull up a chair.’ He patted the desktop next to him indicating where he wanted Grainger to be seated.
The Girl in the Baker's Van Page 4
