The car roared past, then began to slow near the Church.
Eleanor watched tensely. It was a German staff car. She could see the green of uniforms. The car stopped at the corner, the back door opened and a group of laughing German nurses clambered out. One of them bent near the front window. “Danke, Eric.”
Eleanor continued to walk. The ache in her chest eased a little. It wasn’t quite so hard to breathe.
The nurses had already disappeared up the steps by the time she reached the Church. She walked on, to the corner, and looked up and down the street. Just a few pedestrians. Mostly old women. A few men, none of them young. A boy on a bicycle.
No men in thick overcoats wearing hats.
Gestapo agents who made arrests were always dressed in plainclothes. Parisians weren’t sure why. One rumor had it that the Army didn’t like the Gestapo, either, and didn’t want it in France any more than ordinary Frenchmen. But the Gestapo was there, scattered about the city, at the Avenue Foch headquarters, at the rue des Saussaies, at the Hotel du Louvre. Anyone taken into one of their buildings had little hope of leaving except to go to either the Cherche-Midi or Fresnes prisons.
Eleanor turned and walked back to the Church. After one last searching look up and down the street, she darted down the basement steps. The hallway was quiet and dark and cold. The Church office was closed.
Eleanor looked at her watch. Almost six o’clock. She walked on to Father Laurent’s office. Instead of knocking, she opened the door, very slowly, very softly.
The cold draft of air from the hall rustled the papers on his desk. He looked up inquiringly, his hand holding his place in a book.
She shut the door behind her, leaned against it. “The Gestapo has arrested the Duquets. I came to warn you.”
He closed the book, laid it gently on his desk. “When did this happen?”
She told him what she had seen. “I came directly.”
“I will warn the others who were linked to the Duquets. Perhaps some of them will wish to leave Paris. I will send them to you. I’m not sure how many there will be. Perhaps as many as seven.”
“We can manage.” She hesitated. “And you, Father Laurent. Will you leave?”
He shook his head.
“The Duquets know you. If they are tortured, they may not be able to hold out.”
“We don’t know yet why they were picked up, my daughter. It is possible that they have been arrested only on suspicion. That does not mean they will be released, but, if the Gestapo does not actually have all the facts from an informer, then a brave man when tortured can confess in such a way that he does not name others. I do not believe Emile or Lucie will name me.”
“Father,” she could scarcely manage a hoarse whisper, “you do not know what the Gestapo does to people. No one can be expected to keep silent.”
“I know what the Gestapo does. I also know the human heart and the Duquets. No matter what they tell the Gestapo it will not include my name because their only daughter is my secretary and they would rather die in agony than endanger her.”
Eleanor nodded slowly. If it were to protect Robert . . .
The priest sighed. “We have been, I suppose, a little too trusting, a little too careless. I understand your fears, my daughter.” He frowned. “I must devise a way to protect you and your family. If I am arrested, it will happen here at the Church, of course. Unless all of us have been betrayed, you should have nothing to fear. But, since I too, know what the Gestapo does and, to be truthful, my daughter, I do not know how courageous I am, it would be well for you to escape. If I am arrested, I will have my verger, Father Franciscus, contact you. He will call or in some way get this message to you.” Father Laurent thought for a moment. “‘The curtain is down.’ That message will be the signal for you and your son and sister to take the escape route yourselves.”
The first surreptitious knock woke Mme. Moreau. She sat bolt upright and listened. Someone was knocking on her front door. She slipped into her robe and picked up the candle holder. She didn’t light the candle for she knew her way, every inch of it, down the narrow hall with its worn carpet to the twisting stairway. She stopped on the landing to listen again. Knock, knock, knock. Louder now. Soon it would wake the young soldier asleep in the attic. Would he have sense enough to stay where he was? Mme. Moreau hurried on down the stairs. She pulled back the bolt, but she didn’t loosen the chain. She opened the door just an inch or two. “Who’s there?” Her voice was sharp, irritated.
“Please. I need help. Will you help me?”
English!
Mme. Moreau stood very stiffly.
“I’m RAF. My plane crashed, just a few miles from here. Could you help me? Or direct me to someone who would help?”
She lit the candle then opened the door a little wider and held up the candlestick.
He was a little older than many she had helped. Nearer thirty than twenty, handsome with thick blond hair and deep blue eyes. He smiled.
“I couldn’t hear what you said,” she said in French. She leaned forward and put a hand behind her ear.
He answered in easy fluent excellent French. “Madame, I am a pilot. I’ve crashed just past the village and I am looking for help.”
She hadn’t heard any planes overhead tonight and she had very good ears. If a plane had crashed, just past the village, it would be closer to seek sanctuary at a farmhouse. And, if he were going to chance the village, why had he come directly to her door and why, if he spoke such excellent French, had he first spoken in English?
She repeated slowly. “A pilot?” She put the candle near him, close enough to see the Mae West and the blue of the uniform. But the Germans would have no trouble getting an RAF uniform. She pointed at his sleeve. “Anglais?” She repeated it several times, her voice rising excitedly, “Anglais? Anglais?” She began to shut the door, crying, “It’s against the law. They will shoot me. I will have to call the police.”
He continued to knock as she rang the home of the police chief, Jean Boulanger. It was Jean who found rides for the English soldiers to Gisors. When he sleepily answered, she deliberately broke into a torrent of speech. Jean had known her for more than forty years. When she had told him to come, come quickly, there was an English soldier on her doorstep and she wanted him picked up because she certainly didn’t want the Boche shooting her, he said, “An English soldier?”
“Ersatz, Jean,” it was a whisper, “an ersatz English soldier.”
“I understand.”
The knocking had stopped by now. She looked out her shuttered front window and in the vague grayness of dawn saw the soldier walking down the street. When the car came, throwing him into clear relief in its headlights, he stopped and held up his hands.
Mme. Moreau ate very little that day and scarcely slept the next night. It wasn’t until Sunday morning, when Jean bowed over her hand at Church, that the ache in her heart eased.
“You were right, Helene. I called the Germans. They picked him up in just a half hour and, when he got into the back seat of the car, one of them slapped him on the back and laughed. When they drove off, he was laughing, too.”
As she knelt for prayer, she was torn between relief and anger. “Thank you, God.”
Damn the Germans, damn them.
Dr. Gailland gently touched his thigh, pushing, and moving the muscles and ligaments. She looked up and her tired face broke into a smile. “I pronounce you well, Lieutenant. You were my first miracle patient. Since then I have seen sulfa do many wonderful things but I still feel your cure is the most miraculous of all.”
“It wasn’t just the medicine, doctor,” Jonathan responded. “It was your skill and the care I have had.” He looked at Linda and there was no mistaking the love in his eyes.
Well, well, the doctor thought. Probably not all the credit should go to the sulfa.
Jonathan turned back to the doctor. “I can travel?”
Dr. Gailland looked thoughtful. “It is not a good time of the year to
go into the mountains. But you are as strong as you will become, Lieutenant, until you can get more exercise and better food. If possible, take another week or two and go up and down the stairs as often as possible.”
Another week or two. Linda kept her face unmoved but the pain within her was so intense that her chest actually ached. Another week or two and Jonathan would be gone. Would she ever see him again? Oh God, more important than that, would he be safe? Please God, take care of Jonathan, please take him safely home. I love him so much. Please God.
At the door, Dr. Gailland shook hands with them both. “I may not see you again,” she said soberly. “God be with you.”
When she was gone, Linda and Jonathan looked at each other.
He was frowning.
Linda began to gather up her coat.
“Linda.”
“Yes.”
“I want you to apply for an ausweis.”
They had been over this before. She turned away. “Eleanor needs me.”
“Eleanor should apply for one also. She is still an American citizen.”
“They might not let Robert leave. So she won’t even think about it. It’s too late.”
“It’s not too late for you.”
She didn’t answer.
He came up behind her, gently turned her to face him. “Eleanor knows time is running out. It’s running out for everyone. Last week Father Laurent sent word to six people who had been helping in the escape line to leave and save themselves. How long will it be until—”
“Until what, Jonathan?” Eleanor interrupted from the door.
Jonathan turned and looked at her gravely. “Until the Gestapo catch all of you, Eleanor.”
She stood by the door, her face white with fatigue. “I don’t know, Jonathan. But we have to keep on as long as we can. Every man we send back is another to fight for England and France’s only hope is that England will continue to resist.”
“I can’t quarrel with your trying to save other Englishmen. That would be a little bit much, wouldn’t it? I can’t say, well, save me, but don’t help any other chaps. But please, Eleanor, send Linda home.”
“Yes. It’s time.”
“Are you going to talk about me like I’m a child? Not to be asked but merely to be told? What if I don’t want to go home?” To go home. Home. She could see the house suddenly, the way it had always been, a long creamy adobe house with pepper trees and eucalyptus and tall slender palms. The grass was always trimmed just perfectly and, even in November, it was a cool green carpet that smelled like spring. But it isn’t that way anymore, she thought confusedly. Mother and Daddy are dead and Frank has probably sold the house by now and there isn’t any home for me, anywhere.
“I don’t want . . . I want . . .” She began to cry and that infuriated her. Why did she cry at everything anymore? Jonathan must think she was the biggest sop in the world. Oh Jonathan, you will leave in two weeks. Only two more weeks.
Eleanor touched her shoulder. “It’s all right, Lindy, don’t cry. I know you don’t want to leave. But none of us can do what we want these days. Jonathan is right, it’s time for you to go. Relations between Germany and America are getting more strained every day. You are so transparently American. That attracts attention. Yes, you must go. I want you to apply for an ausweis tomorrow.”
Linda stood in line for three hours at the rue Galilee office to apply for an ausweis. She was applying for permission to cross the Demarkation Line and travel through Vichy France to Spain then Portugal. And sail for home.
Would Jonathan reach England? Could she go to England? She would try, when she reached Lisbon. But would Jonathan want her to come? It was cold in the barren waiting room but the offices where the German officials worked were almost stuffy with warmth.
The woman in front of Linda asked, “How many times have you been here?”
“This is my first.”
“Oh well, it takes months. Where do you want to go?”
“Home. To the United States. My sister is married to a Frenchman and I was visiting her when the Blitzkrieg started.”
“Ah well, they’ll likely let you go. More likely than they’ll let a Frenchman go to Bordeaux,” she said bitterly. “This is the fourth time I’ve been here in two months. I first came the second week in September. I’m from Limoges and my family got word to me that my sister was dying. The Boche said to come back in a week. I did, but they still put me off. Then she died. I tried to get permission to go to the funeral. They said funerals didn’t matter. Now I’ve had word my mother’s in the hospital with a heart attack.”
The line crawled slowly forward. It was very quiet in the waiting area, a sullen angry quiet.
I’m glad I’m not German, Linda thought. I would hate to be surrounded, enveloped by this unspoken but seething hatred. It didn’t seem to bother the clerks who took the applications. A sergeant major in one corner heard special pleas. Linda overheard the exchange between the woman who had spoken to her and the sergeant.
“Please. Let me go this time. My brother doesn’t think my mother will live.”
“Is he a doctor?”
“No, but she is so ill and he says she has lost her will to live. He doesn’t think she will last the week.”
The sergeant riffled through a small pile of slips on his desk. Then he shook his head. “Request denied. All the special permits for this week have already been given.” He looked past her, at Linda. “Next.”
“Please,” the woman cried, “one more couldn’t make any difference. Why won’t you let me go?”
“Your brother is there. She has a family member in attendance.”
“I am her only daughter left. She is calling for me.”
“Next,” he said again, ignoring her.
Linda handed the sergeant her completed application form, her identity card and her American passport.
“American. Pasadena. I’ve never been to California but I visited St. Louis during the World’s Fair. I have a cousin who lives there. Do you know St. Louis?”
Linda shook her head. “I’ve never been to St. Louis.” What kind of person was he? He was smiling at Linda, eager to talk to her in English. Why had he treated the Frenchwoman so peremptorily?
He stamped her application and handed it and her papers back to her. “Take these to the third desk from the left, Fraulein, and your application will be filed.”
“How long do you suppose it will take?”
He smiled. “Not long. Perhaps next week it will be ready.”
She felt a wave of distress as she moved across the room. She heard the little ripple of words, oh, an American, stamped the first time, that’s why. She didn’t look at any of the tired faces of the people still waiting. At the third desk, she once again handed over the application and her identity papers.
A pudgy private with a perpetual worried frown took them. He looked to see if the application bore the official stamp, flipped open a ledger with narrow lines and laboriously began to write her name and age and residence, her destination. He looked up. ”When do you want to leave, Fraulein?”
To leave. It sounded simple, easy. Was it really going to be this easy to leave France? “As soon as possible.”
He thumbed through a card index, rubbed his nose in thought. “You understand, Fraulein, there are many ahead of you. December 13 is the first open date.” He looked up and laughed and the laughter sounded strange in the sullen quiet. “It’s Friday the 13th, Fraulein. Are you superstitious?”
Superstitious? Linda shivered as she stepped out into the biting cold. She pulled the inadequate blue spring coat closer against her and began to walk swiftly toward the Metro. It would be a lucky Friday the 13th if she could start home. But it was hard to believe she was going to obtain her ausweis so easily. The private had added another stamp and told her to return next week to pick it up. Today was Friday, November 8. She could pick up her permit next week and then it would only be a little more than a month and she would leave.
> Jonathan would be gone by then.
One more dreary month, fighting the cold and the constant gnawing hunger. There was never enough to eat. One more month to be afraid and then she could go home.
All the way across town on the Metro, she hugged a leather strap and rode with her eyes closed and permitted herself to think of home because, for the first time in so long, it didn’t seem an impossible dream. She would spend Christmas with Frank and Betty. Betty always fixed Posadas, the long row of paper sacks with candles glimmering inside, along the sidewalk leading up to the house. The Christmas tree, an Oregon fir, would sit in their living room. She would go to Mother’s, or wherever things were stored, and get out the box of Christmas decorations. The same ones they had used ever since she was a little girl. Frank and Betty would love them, too. The wooden gingerbread man with black jade eyes. The delicate glass redbird that she always put on a branch next to a popcorn ball. The tiny church her grandfather had carved and painted. To sit beneath the tree, loveliest of all, the wooden crèche that her parents had brought back from a trip around the world.
Linda had always loved the crèche best of all and it was she who laid the Christ child in his manger bed on Christmas Eve. The figures were carved from a darkly golden wood and every tiny detail was perfect, Mary’s smile, Joseph’s awe, the portly dignity of the Three Wise Men.
She could see her Mother, reaching up in the basement closet to lift down the box. Every year, she had said the same thing. “Just think, Linda, this has come half way around the world to be part of our Christmas, all the way from a little Bavarian village to Pasadena.”
Linda’s eyes opened. She had never thought before that the figures came from Germany. They were so beautiful, so lovingly done. By a German. By a German. By a German. The words rolled over and over in her mind to the rhythm of the train. By a German. She shivered.
Escape From Paris Page 19
