Eleanor gently massaged her temples, lifted her index finger to rub at the bridge of her nose. In her memory she could hear her mother’s light voice. “Ellie, you mustn’t frown as you work, (or read or sew or think) it will make the deepest indentation there, between your eyes, and you know you don’t want to look like a cross old woman when you are still young.” Eleanor smiled. For an instant her face looked so different, cheerful and amused, almost impish, and, since she had lost so much weight since summer, quite young. But the line was there, a deep crease, and growing deeper every day. Oh Mother, she thought, if that was all I had to worry about now, looking young, fighting lines. Then, with a rush of remembered affection, she was fiercely happy that her mother was safely dead and couldn’t know, couldn’t dream of the fears and worries that peopled Eleanor’s days and nights. Eleanor’s brows drew together again as she frowned at the check book.
What was she going to do? For an instant, she fought a flood of panic. She had never before in her life been afraid because of money. Because of not enough money, actually. There had been, when she was a girl, the security of being Eleanor Rossiter. Of the Pasadena Rossiters. Her great-grandfather had come west from Pittsburgh to California, one of the faceless thousands joining in the Great Gold Rush. He had found gold, as had so many. Justin Rossiter was not only lucky, he was canny. He sent for his three brothers and they established banks in the raw mining towns and the family wealth began to grow.
After her marriage to Andre, she had never thought of money either. Andre didn’t earn a great deal as a professor, but the money from America always came, the income channeled to her from family investments and trust funds. There had always been money. The payments came quarterly, dependable substantial checks every four months. Then came the shocking deaths of her parents and the subsequent probate of the estate. Frank, as an executor, had arranged for her income to continue. She would be, when the probate was completed, a very wealthy woman. But that money was in America and she sat in her unheated Paris apartment, bundled up in a fur coat, hunched at her roll-top desk, frowning at the checkbook.
There had been so many expenses since the last check from America. It cost 500 francs a head for each soldier to cross the Demarkation Line, and 7,000 francs to cross the Pyrenees, about $140 a man. That didn’t include the money it took to feed the men coming to the Latin Quarter apartment twice a week. They had now, she made hatch marks on her pad, been responsible for passing along fifty-four British soldiers. For an instant, the tight line between her eyes eased. Fifty-four men safe from the Germans. Or, possibly not safe, who could know how far along they were on the way to freedom, but they were started, they had a chance and some of them, perhaps all of them, would struggle through the high reaches of the Pyrenees into Spain, and, if luck touched them, they would make it to Gibraltar and sail for England.
Oh, it was worth it. It was worth the danger and the strain but none of it was going to be possible if she didn’t get more money, money to buy black-market food and gasoline, money to give to Father Laurent to help pay for forged papers, train tickets, money to meet their own expenses, including the rent on two apartments. And, God yes, money to buy an adequate winter coat for Linda. She had come to Paris last winter with her spring coat, suitable for California. There had been plenty of coats in Paris stores then, but, somehow, they had never bothered to shop for one. This winter there were no new coats. No buttons. No needles. No cloth for sewing. The polydore at work, Parisians said. Everyone knew where the coats and dresses and peacetime goods had gone, along with the food. The trains, laden with scrap iron, oil, food, and plundered art works rolled eastward every day.
Money, money, money.
Eleanor pulled open the lowest shallow drawer and picked up her address book. In August, she had called almost every person in it. Most of the telephones had rung unanswered, but, every day more people returned to Paris She flicked slowly through the pages, saying names aloud, “The Arbeufs . . . Paul Bidault . . . Paul might help but I don’t know how much money he has. Yves Callet. No. Rene Christen. Maybe. Armand Galois? I don’t know. Oh the Leclercs . . . I will call Jacqueline. She will help if she can and they are quite rich.”
The Leclercs were older than most of their friends. They lived in an elegant private house in the Roule district. Felix Leclerc owned a chateau in the Loire Valley which he permitted the public to visit twice yearly. He and Andre had met at a philatelist congress and, since they both were interested in the same kinds of stamps, early issues in Africa, they met again in Paris and gradually, over the years, became friends. Their wives had enjoyed each other and it was one of those easy relationships which can sometimes develop between couples distant in age.
Eleanor reached for the telephone then let her hand drop. It would be better, safer to drop by unannounced. If the Leclercs weren’t in Paris, well, then, she would have to think of someone else.
Panic flickered again. She couldn’t write another check without being overdrawn and no more money was due from America until November. If she wired Frank . . . All wires would almost surely be read by the Germans. She couldn’t afford to attract their attention. If she wrote Frank, well, all letters leaving the country had to be cleared through censors. Of course, a request for money wouldn’t excite anyone but Frank might wonder why, might write back and urge Eleanor to be more careful of her expenditures and inquire what she was spending so much money on in a war-repressed economy, might even list sums. A smart German, and God knew there were too many smart ones, might wonder too why an American-born French resident with only a son and a sister to support needed so much money.
Eleanor massaged her temples again. She had to stop worrying. The thing to do was to get up and go hunt for help. It didn’t do to be proud, not in circumstances such as these. But she hated to think of asking anyone for money.
She struggled to open the ground-floor door. She pushed out into the wind and stopped for a moment, shaken by the onslaught of cold. It was the coldest November in years. And they had no warmth to come home to. The Germans had all the coal. The only way to have a warm apartment was for a member of the Gestapo to move in. That brought the coal trucks. But they were better off cold. That would be all they needed now—to have someone associated with the Gestapo living in their apartment house. She pulled her fur coat around her more tightly, ducked her head and plunged down the steps into the windy street.
Yvette Bizien peered down from her front window. “I wonder where she goes every day. In and out. In and out.”
“Who?” her husband asked absently, not looking up from his morning newspaper.
“That Masson woman. There’s something odd about those people. Always going in and out and it isn’t just for shopping. They don’t have packages or bags when they come home. Half the time that boy doesn’t go to school but off he hurries in the mornings. What are they up to?”
“Who cares?” Rene folded the newspaper, put it neatly down on a doily-topped table. “I’d best be getting on to the shop. Will you come in this morning?”
Yvette turned away from the window, her thin pale face petulant. “It doesn’t matter, does it? We don’t have enough business for me to come.” She began to clear the breakfast table. “What are we going to do, Rene? We will have to close by Christmas if something doesn’t happen.”
He was at the closet, getting his overcoat. “I don’t know. Why ask me? I didn’t start the war. I can’t help it there aren’t any customers.”
“I’ve heard there’s money in the black market. If we could get a truck—”
“A truck? You might as well want the moon. It couldn’t cost much more.” He slammed out the door.
She washed the dishes, her pale face drawn in thought. They had to do something. When the apartment was straight, she walked again to the window, stared down into the empty street. All the little shops in their neighborhood had closed one by one, except theirs. No one around here had any money. The Germans had all the money. If only she and Rene had o
ne of the expensive restaurants or a shop dealing in antiques. If only they had something they could sell to the Germans.
The front door to the apartment house slammed shut.
She craned her head, looked down. Oh, that was Mme. Masson’s sister, the American girl. All huddled up because of the cold. Not dressed for it either. So why was she going out on such a bitter day? What was she carrying so carefully? Something wrapped in paper? It would be interesting to know where she was going in such a hurry.
Jonathan heard the slight click of the key in the lock and swung to face the door, his hands loose at his sides. When he saw Linda, his dark eyes lighted, he smiled and began to limp toward her. “What a nice surprise. I didn’t expect you today.”
She came up to him, her cheeks red with cold and something more. “I wasn’t supposed to come today. But I have something for you and I had to get it here before Robert comes with the new batch of men. There wasn’t enough flour and sugar to make more than one. It’s just a little something.” She held out the clump of tissue paper. As he unwrapped it, she said breathlessly, “My mother made them for us when we were little—it’s a sugar crisp.”
He held the small pastry in his hand, a thin curl of dough baked in the shape of the letter J, sprinkled with precious sugar.
“Happy birthday, Jonathan.”
He stared at the pastry. His birthday. Yes, it was. November 23, 1940. He was twenty-six years old today. When had he told Linda his birth date? During one of those long restless nights when he was mending and she sat by the bed? She had talked to him, giving him by her very presence strength and will to survive. They had talked and talked and talked, of England and America, of Chaucer and medieval romances, of sea sides and mountains and cities, of Jonathan and Linda.
And she had remembered. She looked so young, standing there in that pale blue coat, her face thin and too pale, her eyes smudged with fatigue, young and a little frightened and uncertain.
He tried to speak, stopped.
“I’ll make some tea,” she said, as the silence stretched. “I’ve saved a little bit.”
He followed her to the tiny kitchen and watched as she measured the water, set it on to boil.
“A clandestine tea party,” she said and laughed, but there were tears behind the laughter.
He insisted that they share the crisp. They sat close together at the little white wooden table and ate the delicacy and drank the steaming cups of tea and watched each other with eyes full of emotions they weren’t free to express.
“You’re walking better.”
“Much. My leg’s stronger every day.” When his leg was strong enough . . . but they didn’t talk about that either.
He was helping her wash up the little pile of dishes, standing close to her in the tiny kitchen, so close, when they both heard the rise and fall of the siren.
Linda lifted her head to listen.
He saw the flutter of a pulse in her throat and realized she was scarcely daring to breathe. He reached out, took her in his arms and she clung to him, burying his face against his shoulder.
“It isn’t coming here, love. It isn’t coming here. Can’t you tell? It’s turned away. Linda, don’t be frightened, it isn’t coming here.”
It was a long time before she would look at him and when she did her face was streaked with tears.
His hands tightened on her shoulders. Such small shoulders. “Linda, listen to me. Apply for an ausweis. You can get one. I’m sure of it. You’re an American national. Your Embassy is still here. They’ll help you.”
She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling and shook her head.
“Why not?”
“I can’t. It isn’t fair.”
“What isn’t fair?”
“For me to go home when Eleanor and Robert can’t.” She paused, said miserably, “Why don’t we be honest about it? Eleanor wouldn’t leave if she could. She wants to stay here and keep on helping the soldiers escape. I think she feels like it is something for Andre.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with you,” he said gruffly. “You’ve done more than was ever your share anyway.”
“You don’t think it would be deserting Eleanor?”
“No. And she wouldn’t see it like that, either.”
She looked up into his eyes. “Jonathan . . .”
He smiled at her. “What?”
“You don’t despise me?”
“Despise you?” He looked startled. “Is that what you think? My God, Linda, don’t you know how much you mean to me? Don’t you have any idea how much you’ve done for me? How much I admire you?”
“Even though I’m a coward?”
“A coward? You little fool,” he said angrily, “Don’t you know we’re all afraid? Don’t you know that you’re braver than any of us? Because you know what can happen. You can imagine it in your mind and know it and yet day after day you walk across Paris with men who will only go to prison if they are captured but you will die. Despise you? Linda, don’t you know how much I—”
“Jonathan?” Robert’s clear young voice called softly. “Jonathan, I’ve five of your ‘chaps’ today. Come meet them.”
Jonathan and Linda looked at each other, then he sighed and turned toward the living room.
The butler began to close the door. “Madame is seeing no one.”
Eleanor startled him and herself as she pushed against the closing panel, slipped into the hall.
He drew himself up, his dark face reddening. “Madame is seeing no one,” he hissed.
The cavernous hall was achingly cold. The marble floors looked dull and dirty. Eleanor could remember another November evening, years before, when she and Andre had come to a formal dinner. Eleanor had worn an evening dress and a light shawl over her bare shoulders. Sleet had hissed against the dining room windows but fires flickered in every grate and every room had been warm. Past the archway to her right she could see the long formal dining room. The furniture was covered, the fireplace grates empty. No lights had been turned on though it was almost dark now.
“Tell Mme. Leclerc that I am here, that Eleanor Masson needs to see her. Tell her that it is very important.”
“Mme. Leclerc is seeing no one. I must ask you to leave.”
Why was he so determined? And so angry about it? Yet, at the same time, he gave an impression of furtiveness.
I don’t like you, Eleanor thought, I don’t like the way your eyes move. I don’t like your face, the pasty look of your skin or your thin weak mouth or the sound of your voice.
“I must talk to her.” Eleanor was almost shouting now and the sound of her voice shocked her as it echoed in the huge hallway.
They both heard the door close above and the slow sound of steps. “Jules? Jules? What is happening?”
The man gave Eleanor such a hostile glance that she was startled. He turned walked midway up the stairs. “I am so sorry, Madame, but this person has pushed her way in, even though I told her you were resting.”
Resting? That wasn’t what he had said. Eleanor came up the steps, too, stood just behind him, called out. “Jacqueline, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I must speak with you.”
“Eleanor? Is it you, Eleanor Masson?”
“Yes.”
The old woman stood at the top of the stairs. “My dear, forgive me if I don’t come down to greet you properly. Please come up and we will go to my room. Eleanor, how kind of you to come.”
Eleanor was shaken by the change in Mme. Leclerc. They had to stop twice for the old woman to rest, the long way down the hall. However, the sitting room was warm. A good fire crackled in a little monkey stove. Madame Leclerc waved Eleanor to a seat beside the stove.
Eleanor held out her chilled hands. “This feels so good. How wonderful to be warm for a little while.”
Madame Leclerc smiled wryly. “I never thought it would ever come down to breaking up my furniture to keep warm. But it has.”
Eleanor was shocked. “You are bu
rning your beautiful furniture?”
The old lady was calm. “Not the fine pieces. Not yet. All the servants are gone except for Jules and his wife, Margot. We’ve been breaking up all the wooden things in the servant’s quarters. We may reach the salon eventually. I would rather be warm than have lovely furniture.” Jacqueline looked incredibly old and shrunken.
Eleanor started to speak, stopped. How could she involve this old, old lady in her problems.
Mme. Leclerc smiled at her kindly. “I’ve thought of you and Andre so often. I tried to get in touch with you, but there was only a small memorial service. There isn’t any family left now, you know. No one.”
Eleanor reached out, touched those old gnarled hands that lay quietly on Mme. Leclerc’s lap. “I’m sorry, Jacqueline, I didn’t know.”
“He died the day Petain said he was asking for peace—June 17.” She looked at Eleanor steadily, but tears brimmed in her eyes. “We listened on the radio and then, without a word, he picked up his walking stick and stormed out.” She looked across the crowded room at a portrait above the mantel. It was scarcely visible in the early darkness of the winter afternoon. He was in uniform in the portrait and the brim of his cap shadowed his face. A World War I uniform, Eleanor realized. He looked toward them, out of the portrait, with unseeing canvas eyes, but they could each of them see him again, a slight but dignified man with bright and lively dark eyes and a firm but gentle mouth.
“We were at the Chateau. We had gone down in late May, after the blitzkrieg started. Felix felt we should see to our people. So we were there the day Petain said it was over, that France wouldn’t fight on.” Tears trickled slowly down her face. “Felix didn’t wait until the speech was over. He slammed out. I went after him.” She stopped then, looked down at her legs with a bitter face. “But I can’t walk well and he wouldn’t wait for me. He walked faster and faster along the line of poplar trees. That was the last I saw of him, striding, his head down, and the poplar trees stretching out ahead of him, green and gold in the sunlight. I sent Alphonse, the head gardener, after him. He found Felix at the cemetery.”
Escape From Paris Page 17
