She could feel herself colouring up. She had to find a way to stop this but her brain was not coming up with anything. Desperate to do something, she stood up and announced she had to find a toilet. She looked up and down the carriage. The woman who had panicked her pointed to the left, indicating they were in that direction.
‘Thank you,’ she said politely and started down the corridor.
Further along the train, ahead of her, right at the end of the carriage, a door opened. For a moment the noise of the rails outside and the rushing of the air ripped by the train’s progress drowned out all possible conversation. A ticket inspector stepped across the connecting threshold from the next carriage and, with a slam, cut off the intruding sound. It was too late to change direction; she could not avoid him so she stumbled along, hanging onto the poles stretching up from the backs of the seats to where they were anchored in the ceiling.
‘Tickets, show your tickets,’ the inspector grunted without enthusiasm as he moved methodically along the centre aisle, clearly bored by the monotony of the task. As he looked at and then clipped the pieces of paper offered to him the connecting door opened again and a Wehrmacht officer came into the carriage; behind him a private soldier with a rifle slung over one shoulder looked furtively from right to left seeking out the unusual, traces of paranoia, nervous twitches.
‘Merde! They’re checking papers.’ She hadn’t expected it so soon; she was not psychologically ready. Her heart rate went off the scale. She couldn’t turn back, she was trapped. Thoughts of Kasha and her brother flashed through her mind. Prisoners – she knew what that meant for a woman. She had heard from others what they would do. If she was very, very lucky they would send her to work in a labour camp, but she was young and quite pretty; more likely she would be sent to a military brothel on the eastern front to be used by common soldiers. She held out her ticket; the inspector punched a notch in it then pulled in his belly to let her squeeze past. She felt the ice cold needles of fear prickling her body as she came face to face with the officer. He looked at her. ‘Papers.’ He held out a hand. The private looked at her and grinned; deep in her gut something churned. She would be at the mercy of some cretin like him if things went wrong. She waited for the inevitable.
The officer examined her identity card, then her ration book. He paused and looked thoughtful. ‘He’s onto me,’ a voice yelled inside her head. Maybe the news was out that she was on the run. Maybe Alain had talked – no, not Alain; he wouldn’t know where she was. It had to be Kasha – poor Kasha, they would have tortured him. The weight of despair now hung over her, obliterating the fear she had felt. She was coming to terms with the fragility of her position; she realised it was hopeless. She would be caught sooner or later – the odds were just not on her side.
‘And where are you going, mademoiselle?’ The officer tapped the ID card and the ration book on his open palm as he said it. There was a hint of suspicion in his voice.
‘To Lyon.’
‘Yes, yes, I know you are going to Lyon; that is what it says on your ticket. I mean where are you going now – this moment?’ He half smiled and raised his eyebrows, a sign she thought that indicated he would not believe her answer.
‘I was looking for the toilet,’ she said, and for some reason, without knowing why but probably because of his German accent, she said it to him in German – Alsatian German.
He looked again at the ID card. ‘Pfeiffer,’ he said nodding. ‘A good German name; my father is from Breisach – I was born there – and my mother came from Wintzenheim. That almost makes us neighbours.’ He slapped the papers against his palm then, to her surprise, he handed them back. ‘The toilets are two carriages down. I’m sorry I made you wait.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, again in her home dialect, and moved quickly past the previously leering private who was now looking respectful.
Inside the toilet she pulled down her cotton knickers and sat on the pedestal. Relieved, she just sat there. She couldn’t believe her luck; at last something had gone right. The water coming through the tap to the small hand basin was steaming hot, straight from the engine boiler. She stood in front of it, took off the rest of her clothes and, using a handkerchief, made an attempt to wash herself all over. When she got back to her seat the woman greeted her with the news that two German soldiers had been through checking papers.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘I met them on my way to the toilets.’
The train did not stop at Chalon and it dawned on her that was why they had been checking papers on board. Half an hour later the train crossed the imaginary line into Vichy. She arrived at Lyon-Perrache station as the sun was setting across the Roman-tiled roofs. There was snow in the mountains around the city but the weather had been fine and the streets of Lyon carried a warm feel as the last of the winter sunlight glowed on the terracotta and imparted a richness to the ochre walls of the buildings. Vichy fared better than the north. Germans were a rarity on the streets and there was plenty of contraband coming over the Pyrenees from Spain. She found a café where the smell wafting onto the street told her they had real coffee. Sitting at a table with a pastry she had bought from the patisserie next door, she drank her coffee. For the first time in two days she felt safe; she resolved she would find a church tomorrow and offer up thanks for God’s deliverance.
After she had finished the coffee she came back to the job in hand. She pulled the oilcloth package from her coat pocket and examined it. She thought about opening it but the tape around it was wax sealed and at first the idea of breaking it seemed like breaking a trust. But what could she do? Kasha had not told her what his mission was, just that he needed to get to Lyon; she was in Lyon but there her trail ended. There was nothing to do so she would have to open the package. She hesitated for a moment; the seal was clearly meant to keep the contents private, but there was nothing else for it, she would have to break it and open the package – at least that might yield up some clue. What she found inside didn’t help. There was a brown envelope containing 4,900 Swiss francs, 20 French francs and 100 Reich marks. To say it didn’t help was not quite true because she had nearly exhausted the money in her purse and now what she had in front of her was more money than she had ever seen in one place. But the rest of it didn’t make sense. There was a key and there were some sketches and a hand-drawn map, but no clues as to where they might be delivered. She sat staring at it, trying to work out what to do next. Eventually she took out the 20 francs and the 100 Reich marks; they would see her through for the moment. The Swiss francs might present difficulties because she would have to take them to a bank and questions might be asked. She wrapped them, together with the key and the sketches, back in the oilcloth and retied the tape. Coming out of Perrache she had noticed a left luggage bureau; she would leave the package there for the time being.
Now she needed to find a hotel where she could get a bath and a night’s sleep; and she needed to telephone Joseph and tell him what had happened – and get news of Alain. Leaving Perrache, she crossed over the river Rhône to the east bank where she found a small hotel and took a room; it was cheap and inconspicuous and it would do. She then went out and in the Cours Gambetta found a ladies’ clothing shop where she bought some underwear, a blouse, a warm sweater and a pair of thick woollen slacks suitable for country rambling. Further down the street she found another shop where she bought a hiker’s knapsack and some strong walking shoes.
She had no idea where she was going next but at the back of her mind was the thought that she probably could not return to Turckheim without being arrested. So she made herself ready to head south where she would try to join up with a group of Maquis – résistants and the évadeurs, those escaping the new law sending young men to work in Germany: slave labour. She had heard rumours that they were forming groups in the rough country of the Catalan hills. Tomorrow she would call Joseph and let him know what had happened and find out if he had news of Alain.
*
Joseph was not in a moo
d to speak with her. When the phone rang in the bakery and he answered it he sounded angry and did not want to discuss anything, least of all did he want to talk about Alain. ‘I’ve had a visit from the Gestapo,’ he said accusatorily. ‘Your brother has gone – they’ve taken him to Schirmeck. You know what that means!’ There was silence and for a second or two she thought he had hung up on her.
‘Where is my van? What have you done with it? The SD has been all over the farm. Did you take it? Where are you anyway, is it still with you? That van cost a lot of money. I need it back.’
‘The van is safe. You’ll get it back.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know.’
There was another silence. ‘So where are you?’
She hesitated for a moment. What if his line was being tapped? The SD did that kind of thing. She decided to lie. ‘Paris.’
‘Paris!? What are you doing there for Christ’s sake? Is the van there too?’
‘No. What did the Gestapo want?’
‘What do you think they wanted? You, of course – and some man called Kasha. Is he with you?’
‘No, I’m on my own. I have to go – the money in this phone is running out. Let my parents know I am safe.’ She hung up. It had been a mistake to make the call. Joseph had not been helpful; all he cared about was his bloody van. Worse, she had been on the line far too long. If the SD or the Gestapo had been listening in they would be able to trace the call. She needed to move to another hotel.
That night she slept fully clothed with the knapsack close by the door. If she had to leave in a hurry she was ready. She had checked on her exit options; there was a back staircase leading down to a courtyard behind the kitchens. Her room was at the front and if they came in the night she would hear them. They would have to bang loudly to wake the patron and his wife. She had been asked to pay for her room in advance; she would leave early, before it was light.
In the still dark of the morning she went down the steps and into the courtyard. There was a light on in the kitchen and she could smell baking; it made her feel hungry. She let herself out into the street – not much more than an alley; it was deserted. At the end of it she came into a small side street from where she could see the hotel entrance. The coast was clear. She looked cautiously up and down it, expecting at any moment to see someone step from out of the shadows and challenge her. Nothing happened; like the alley the street was empty. It wasn’t until she was two more streets away that she saw any signs of life. She was approaching a church, the Eglise du Saint-Sacrement, when she became aware of two men walking quickly behind her. The familiar prickly sensation of fear returned. Should she run? Before she had made the decision they were already on her. They came level either side of her and she flinched, like a rabbit cornered by a stoat – paralysed, waiting for the coup de grâce. Out of the corners of her eyes she could see they were both young men, dark-haired with olive complexions. They were wearing soft cloth newsboy caps she associated with Parisian gangsters and it flashed through her mind they might be Carlingue. She felt both her arms being grasped. They stopped walking and held her. The one on her right looked at her briefly and jerked his head towards the church door. He opened the wicket gate and stepped inside, pulling her in with him as the other one pushed behind her. It was a modest church and they had stepped straight into the nave. Neither man spoke as they bundled her along through to the apse. There they stopped at the altar and one of them called out, ‘Father, Father.’ It was the first time either had spoken. A door opened and a priest stepped out from the sacristy.
‘I think we’ve found her – here she is.’ At the same moment they both let go of her arms.
The priest looked at her critically. She was not sure what was happening but she felt calmer and it started to register in her mind. These were not Gestapo, they were not SD and now she doubted they were even Carlingue.
‘What is your name, my child?’
He is a priest, she thought, I can’t lie to him. ‘Evangeline,’ she replied, carefully watching his face. Did he know about her?
He looked at the two young men with approval. ‘Paul, Mathieu, you have done well.’ Then he turned to Evangeline and smiled benignly. ‘You owe a debt to these young men, mademoiselle; they found you before the others. Gendarmes all over the city have been looking for you – worse, some Carlingue have come down from Paris. What have you done that makes you so interesting?’
‘How did you know I was here? How did you know where to look for me?’
The priest shrugged as if the question was irrelevant. ‘The Lyon resistance, the city is full of patriots.’
‘I am Paul, mademoiselle,’ one of the men said. ‘We were tipped off yesterday that the man with you was arrested.’
‘Kasha?’
‘He has friends in the city.’
‘Cigale?’
The priest nodded.
‘What has happened to him?’
‘They have taken him to Fresnes Prison just outside Paris. It is where they take all spies and résistants for questioning. Very few come out alive, I’m afraid. If he is lucky they will just shoot him – quickly.’
The news that he would die left her with a sense of profound sadness, but she had known from their first encounter he was not a man she should get too close to. This war was such a waste of beautiful young men – all being cheated of their natural birthright. ‘Is there nothing that can be done?’ she asked, and as she said it she knew the question was naïve. The priest shook his head. ‘We have to get you out of the city. That at least is within our power, but you will have to stay here for a few days. There is a private chapel. We use it for secret guests. There is a bed there – and there are facilities in the sacristy.’ He pointed to a door leading off the side of the apse and led her into a long room which served as the sacristy. On the opposite side of the room as she entered there was a door which let onto the street outside. To her left at the far end was another door.
‘This leads up to the bell tower,’ the priest said pulling it open. ‘The chapel is up here – come along, I will show you.’ He led the way up a steep, narrow, spiral flight of stone steps. Evangeline followed, clutching onto a rope attached with iron rings to the wall, which provided the only handhold. Halfway up, the steps opened onto a single stone slab, which created a small landing where there was a low door set into the wall. Opening it the priest ducked down and led her into a confined room with a bed set up close to a small altar. There was a gilded statue of the Virgin set on an embroidered cloth. There were no windows except for an arrow loop that had been glazed against the weather.
‘You should stay in here while we see what arrangements can be made.’ He was standing on the slab closing the door when he hesitated and stuck his head back into the room.
‘Did your friend give you anything to bring to Lyon – a package perhaps?’
‘No, Father,’ she said, ‘nothing.’ She felt a pang of guilt pierce her conscience as she prevaricated; this was the house of God and he was a Vicar of Christ, but she was uncertain in her mind how much she could safely divulge. They might be informers trying to trick her.
‘But he had one with him?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know what happened to it.’ Another lie of expedience, but it couldn’t be helped.
The priest lingered for a moment. ‘How long is it since you went to confession, my child? I could take your confession if you wish. Even in these times we must care for our souls.’ He raised his eyebrows and looked benevolently at her.
‘Thank you, Father,’ Evangeline replied contritely, ‘but I am not a Catholic. I am a Lutheran and my family would not approve of such a thing.’
The benevolence disappeared from his face. ‘I understand,’ was all he said, but she had seen his look darken at her reply and she was no longer as sure of her position as she had been; and she had lied to a priest – although this was a Catholic priest and they didn’t really count. Nevertheless it made her feel uncomfortable and she
resolved to pray for her peccadillo that night. She would pray for Kasha and Alain as well. They were all going to need God’s help.
At midday the bell in the church, which had rung the hour and the half hour throughout the morning, started to peal the Angelus. As it did so Mathieu, the other résistant, knocked on the door and, not waiting for a reply, came in with a tray.
‘Soup,’ he announced proudly, ‘with Cervelas saucisson and potatoes. We still eat well in Lyon.’ Then he continued, less enthusiastically, ‘no bread though – there is a flour shortage. Almost the whole harvest was sent north to the Germans; tribute for leaving us alone. Pétain’s Dane geld – isn’t that what the British called it when they paid the Danes to stay away? Not that it did them any good in the end – they just came back and demanded more.’
‘Do you think the Germans will win this war?’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘If I believed that I wouldn’t still be fighting them.’
‘What about the British?’
‘The British will fight, but not for France. They’ll fight to keep their empire, and in the end if the Americans join them they will eventually defeat Hitler. Invading Russia was a mistake and it will cost them dear. I don’t see how they can win.’
‘Do many people believe that?’
He looked uncomfortable and she saw in his eyes there was doubt. ‘Good patriots, yes,’ he shrugged. ‘There are those – criminals, profiteers, those who think that they will gain positions in the administration – there are plenty of them too, but their day for payment will come.’
He looked around the sparsely furnished room and down at the bed with its thin cover. ‘It will get cold in here tonight. I’ll bring you a shepherd’s fleece. We have several at my home, my friend’s father is a shepherd; and I’ll bring you a kerosene lamp. It will give you some light and take the chill off the air.’
The Girl in the Baker's Van Page 8
