The tall thin man, Kittredge, that was his name, reached Eleanor first. “What’s wrong? Are we lost?”
She shook her head, waited until they all had gathered round her. She whispered. “I need your help. This man,” and she nodded at Jonathan, “is very ill. He can’t make it any farther. I want—”
The chunky blond, Jamison, interrupted. “Leave him. Let’s leave him here. The bloody Germans are going to catch all of us if we stand around on the street having a bloody meeting.”
“Hold on, Jamison,” the third man said quietly. “We can’t go about dumping people. Tell us, now, ma’am, what do you want us to do.”
Jamison shook his head. “Don’t be such a bloody hero, Miller. We don’t know this man. Why should we stick our necks out for him?”
“Jamison’s right,” Kittredge chimed in.
“Hush, all of you.” Eleanor glanced up and down the street. “We can’t afford to stand here and quarrel.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Jamison said, his voice rising. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said crisply. “Let’s get on with it. Mr. Miller, you and Mr. Kittredge put Mr. Harris between you, his arms over your shoulders. That way you can carry him. If a patrol comes around the corner, we will sing.”
“Sing!” Jamison exploded. “You crazy old . . .”
“Mr. Jamison.” She grabbed his arm, pulled him along beside her. “You will walk with me. All of you, listen,” and she began, very softly, to sing the bawdy lighthearted lyrics to the can-can.
Jamison tried to shake off her hand. “We don’t have to do this. You can’t make us.”
She stopped. Once again the whole group stopped. “It’s five more blocks to our destination, Mr. Jamison. I’m the only one who knows the way.”
They crossed the Seine into deep shadows by Notre Dame, walking several blocks out of their way to avoid the German-occupied Palais de Justice and the Prefecture de Police. They reached the Boulevard Saint-Germain, coming up behind the Hotel de Cluny, only a block from their goal.
A car came around the corner.
Eleanor tightened her grip on Jamison’s arm, lifted her head, and began to sing. One by one, they joined in, the words blurred but the tune distinct.
The car slowed, stopped beside them. A spotlight beam circled them.
“Keep singing. Keep singing.” Eleanor laughed, waved one hand in the air, kicked out her legs in a mock can-can.
“Mademoiselle! Messieurs!”
Still laughing, Eleanor swung around. “Yes!”
“Can you tell us,” the French was labored and slow, “how to find the Café Rotonde? In Montparnasse?”
For an instant, Eleanor had trouble drawing breath into her lungs, then, dropping Jamison’s arm, she stepped nearer the curb.
“Why, of course. Go back to the Boul’ Mich’. Do you know it? Yes, turn to your left. When you reach the Boulevard Montparnasse, turn right.”
“Merci. Danke.” As the car began to make its U-turn, the German soldier called back, “A good night for a party, isn’t it, Mademoiselle.”
“Oh yes, yes indeed.”
Even Jamison helped carry Jonathan the final block.
“Phew. He stinks,” Jamison muttered, but he grabbed Jonathan’s legs.
“He’s out cold,” Miller said. “What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know.” Eleanor almost ran as she led the way the last long block. They struggled up the four flights, breathing heavily by the time they reached the top floor.
Linda was holding the door for them. “What’s taken so long? Oh Eleanor, I was so afraid you’d been stopped. What’s wrong with that one?”
“Put him in the bedroom,” Eleanor directed.
As the men half-carried, half dragged Jonathan across the room, Linda ran to open the bedroom door.
Eleanor pulled down the spread, eased a pillow behind Jonathan’s head.
“My God, if that doesn’t take the cake.” Linda exploded. “Here we are taking a chance on a ticket to a firing squad and you come dragging in with a red-faced drunk. Eleanor, we’ll have to tell Father Laurent, we just won’t be involved with someone like this.”
“Shh, Linda. He’s not drunk. He’s sick. Awfully sick.”
In the afternoon, after it had been decided that they would take Father Laurent’s group, Eleanor and Linda and Robert had worked hard, making several trips between their apartment and the empty one in the student quarter, outfitting it for its coming occupants. They brought in bedding, what food they could muster, and even a few books.
Now Eleanor stood tensely by the bed. “Linda, there isn’t any medicine, is there?”
Linda shook her head. She couldn’t take her eyes off the flushed beard-stubbled face. “He looks awful.”
Eleanor leaned close to him, touched one cheek. “His fever is too high. We must get a doctor.”
“We don’t dare,” Linda whispered. “How can we take a chance like that?”
“I think I can trust Dr. Gailland.”
“Think? Eleanor, we can’t take the chance.”
“We must.”
“But Eleanor. . .” Her voice was rising. Linda heard it herself. She clapped her hands over her mouth and turned and rushed from the room.
The other men looked up as she burst into the room.
Miller, the slow-voiced Scot, bent solicitously toward her. “What is it, young lady? Has the young man…Is there anything I can do?”
Get out, Linda thought hysterically, if you would all just get out of here, leave us alone. The three of them stood looking at her and she could see the weariness of weeks of danger and privation, the slump of Kittredge’s shoulders, the desperate light in Jamison’s eyes, the droop of Miller’s mouth.
Wordlessly, she shook her head.
Jamison tried to help. “It’s the smell, Miss,” he said awkwardly. “I smelled them like that in the hospital.” He held up his left hand. Three fingers were missing, sheared off at the knuckle. “I was lucky enough. Gangrene didn’t set in. When it does it’s pretty bad. Anyway, Miss, it’s enough to turn a man’s stomach.”
“Yes,” she said quickly, “that was it.”
Eleanor came out of the bedroom, shut the door softly behind her.
Linda rushed ahead, “The rest of you must be very hungry. We don’t have much but I’ll get it ready. Some potato soup. There aren’t many potatoes actually, a few for flavor, but we have bread and applesauce.”
When they were seated and had begun to eat, Eleanor came to stand by the table. “Gentlemen, as you eat, let me explain what we all must do to avoid capture. Walk around the room as little as possible and do not wear your shoes. Keep away from the windows when the curtains are open in the daytime. Speak softly. We want at all costs to avoid attracting any attention. Any attention. In line with this, we must ask you not to leave the apartment. We know it is very confining, very boring.” She looked at each of them in turn. “But it is much more comfortable than a prisoner-of-war camp.”
“We understand, ma’am. We’ll cooperate.” Miller looked at Kittredge and Jamison.
They nodded.
“Hopefully, you won’t be here too long. A week at the most and then you should be on your way.”
It didn’t take them long to eat. The men very carefully did not look toward the kitchen as they finished. Each bowl was absolutely empty. Not even a crumb of bread remained on the platter.
“I’m sorry we don’t have more,” Eleanor said quietly.
“That’s plenty, ma’am,” Miller replied quickly. “That’s more food and better than we’ve had in a while. It was wonderful.”
“Thank you. I’ll see if I can’t bring back more tomorrow. It’s hard to get food now in Paris.”
Eleanor and Linda helped the men arrange their beds, the couch and two pallets in the living room. Then Eleanor took Linda with her into the tiny kitchen. As they washed up the dinner dishes, Eleanor said abruptly, “Linda, what upset you?
In the bedroom?”
Linda rubbed the tea towel around the lip of the blue pottery soup bowl. She didn’t look up though she could feel Eleanor watching her. Why was it so hard to be honest with Eleanor? Why couldn’t she just tell her? I’m afraid. I’m afraid of the Gestapo. I’m afraid and I don’t want to—her mind shied away from putting her thoughts into words. To think about what might happen would make the possibility more real, more threatening.
“Linda?”
The bowl was dry now but still Linda rubbed the dish towel against the smooth pottery. “It’s just that—” She broke off and put down the bowl, picked up a glass, began to dry it, to hide the sudden trembling in her hands.
“Linda, is it the sickness? Does it upset you, to be close to someone who is very ill?”
Linda did look up, finally. Eleanor was looking at her with such kindness, such concern. Why couldn’t she be brave like her sister? It was so much more of a gamble for Eleanor. She had her son to lose. Linda felt the hot rush of tears behind her eyes. Why did she have to be such a coward? She widened her eyes, making the tears stay back. “I’m sorry, Eleanor, I’m sorry to be such a fool. It will be all right. I promise you. I’ll help you take care of him. I won’t act like such a baby again.”
“Oh, Lindy,” and the old childhood familiar slipped out so easily, “don’t be hard on yourself. It’s no crime to be squeamish. And if I could figure out any other way, I would, but Robert is back at the apartment, waiting for us. I told him to stay home and not to worry if we were a little late. Anyway, I don’t think I should send him to ask Dr. Gailland to come. It’s a job for an adult. I couldn’t blame the doctor if he wouldn’t listen to a child. It’s too serious for him and for us to take any chances on how we contact him. I can’t send you because he doesn’t know you and even with a note he might be suspicious that it was a trap. I must go myself.”
Linda nodded, not quite seeing where the rush of words was heading. At least she wouldn’t have to cross dark Parisian streets to ask help of a man she had never met.
“But someone has to be here to let Dr. Gailland in and hear what he wants us to do—”
The other Englishmen, Linda thought.
“—and it obviously has to be you because none of the Englishmen speak French.” Eleanor tipped over the dishpan, let the water trickle down into the sink. “Dr. Gailland may not need you to help him so maybe it won’t be difficult at all.”
Linda nodded again and hung up the dishcloth, shielding her face for a moment, for long enough. Oh no, it shouldn’t be difficult, just waiting for a knock on the door and not knowing, not really knowing, whether it would be a doctor willing to treat a fugitive or the Gestapo. Nothing difficult at all.
It was very quiet after Eleanor left. The men went to bed and were almost at once asleep. Linda could hear their deep uneven breathing as she waited in the rocking chair near the door. Twice she checked on the sick man. She carried a candle. Their blackout curtains weren’t good enough to risk the lights. His breathing was slow and labored. The second time, Linda approached the bed and resolutely touched his cheek. She yanked back her hand. His hot, dry skin felt like metal under an August sun. For the first time, she felt a pang of concern for him. He was something more than a problem, an inert foul-smelling burden.
His face was turned toward her on the pillow and he looked defenseless as do all sleeping creatures. His blond hair was thick and curly. Longer now, she would guess than was his custom. The stubble on his face had a reddish cast. He would probably, Linda judged, have blue eyes. His face was thin and drawn but had once been heavier, a full stubborn chin, broad cheeks. A nice mouth, wide, full-lipped.
He opened his eyes suddenly, looked directly at her. Not blue eyes at all. Brown. Rich dark brown, almost black. He stared at her, his mouth moved, but there was not even a whisper of sound. He stared and tried to raise up his head then, as quickly as a light dims, his face was empty, his head fell back, his eyes shut.
For an instant, Linda was rigid with horror then, with a rush of relief, she saw the slow rise of the bedclothes over his chest and heard again that stertorous breathing.
Linda picked up the candle holder and returned to the rocking chair. The flickering of the candle threw her shadow against the wall. Eleanor had been gone more than an hour now. Of course, the doctor might have been out, seeing another patient. Perhaps she hadn’t found him yet.
Dr. Gailland. Linda had never met him. She did recall Eleanor mentioning an appointment with him, oh, it must have been March or April. Eleanor had an earache. She had come home and talked inconsequentially with Andre about the visit, the waiting room had been full, Dr. Gailland’s sister had joined him in his practice, her specialty was pediatrics, Dr. Gailland and his wife were planning a trip to Nice in May.
Now Eleanor was hurrying to put their lives in his hands. It would be easy for him to turn them in. So many Frenchmen accepted Petain, supported him, considered the English their betrayers.
How could Eleanor be sure?
Linda rocked, back and forth, back and forth, then she stopped and put her hands against her mouth. She was going to be sick.
The tapping was so soft, Linda scarcely heard it. She sat up straight, bent her head forward. Through the open bedroom door, she heard three quick taps, three slow taps on the apartment door. Numbly, her lips pressed tightly together, Linda rose and walked to the door. She listened once again.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap…tap…tap.
She opened the door a scant inch and wished she had blown out the candle. “Oui?”
“Mlle. Rossiter?” It was a woman’s voice, soft and clear.
Linda hesitated.
“Mlle. Rossiter, your sister, Eleanor, has sent me. I am Dr. Gailland. Marie Gailland.”
Dr. Gailland’s sister. Well, surely it was all right, but still Linda stood stiffly at the door.
“Your sister told me to tell you that she was born in Santa Barbara. And you were born in Pasadena.”
Linda held the door open.
A small slight woman stepped inside. She carried a black leather satchel.
Linda picked up the candle holder and led the way to the bedroom. Linda waited at the foot of the bed as the doctor made her examination.
In better days, Marie Gailland’s face had a tendency toward laughter. Curved lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes testified to good humor. Now fatigue had slackened the muscles in her face, made pouches beneath her dark intelligent eyes. She took Jonathan’s pulse. Quickly, efficiently, cut away the coveralls over the improvised bunched bandage. Her eyebrows drew together. “Would you get me a basin of some sort? And some hot water?”
Linda brought a steaming tea kettle and a small blue enamel basin. Linda very carefully didn’t watch but she knew when the wound was opened. An indescribably vile odor swept the room. He stirred and moaned once, a deep weary unconscious sigh of pain. His head twisted on the pillow. His face was young and defenseless and still as the cold marble on a crypt.
Dr. Gailland cleaned the wound. “Mlle. Rossiter. I have drained some of the infection. Every four hours you must take a fresh swab and insert it, thus,” Linda watched in horror as the doctor thrust the white-tipped cotton into the wound and gently pressed forward and backward and a yellowish thick liquid oozed from the opening. “Here.” She handed Linda a fresh swab. “Let me see you do it.”
Linda held the swab in a hand that trembled violently.
“Don’t be nervous. It isn’t difficult.” Dr. Gailland placed a firm brown hand over Linda’s and gently guided her hand forward. Linda resisted as the swab was next to the wound. “It’s all right,” the doctor said, “you won’t hurt him. The nerve ends have been cut. There won’t be any pain. Besides, he is unconscious.”
The swab slipped into the wound, moved back and forth, pushing out more of the pus.
“Very good. Each time, after you finish swabbing, reinsert the tubing so that the wound will continue to drain.” She looked down, frowning. “I h
ope you understand, Mlle. Rossiter, he is very ill. It would have been better if I had seen him sooner.”
Linda looked up, shocked. “But he’ll be all right, won’t he?”
The doctor shrugged, an infinitely French shrug. “He is suffering from blood poisoning, Mademoiselle. Do you see the reddish streaks here, on his leg, above and below the wound. If I could take him to a hospital, perhaps he would get well. But we can only try.”
“You think he’s going to die.”
Slowly Dr. Gailland began to gather up her equipment. She opened her bag, stared down into it for a moment, then turned to Linda. “I have something new here. I’ve not tried it on any of my patients so I can’t be sure of it’s worth. But I may as well use it.” She opened the container, lifted out a vial and a syringe. “They say it’s a miracle drug. He needs a miracle.” She upended the vial, pulled down the plunger to draw the liquid into the syringe. “It’s a sulfanilamide,” Dr. Gailland added almost absently.
When the doctor closed her valise, she gave a tired sigh.
“Would you care for a glass of wine?” Linda asked tentatively. “If it won’t run you too late?”
The doctor smiled and looked, suddenly, years younger. “Oh, I have a special permit. I don’t have to worry about the curfew. I’m even allowed to keep my car and receive ten gallons of gasoline a week. It isn’t enough but it’s better than nothing.” She glanced down at her watch. “If it won’t keep you up too late, Mademoiselle, I would very much enjoy a glass of wine.”
Linda led her guest into the tiny kitchen and closed the door, explaining softly, “There are others, asleep in the living room.”
Dr. Gailland nodded. “Of course. Things are irregular in many homes these days.”
When the wine was poured and they each had lit a cigarette, Linda raised her glass. “You are very good to come, doctor.”
“It is my job.” She drew deeply on her cigarette. “I don’t know how long I can manage all of it, my brother’s practice, my own. And those like you, who need me in the night.”
Escape From Paris Page 14
