Krista's Escape

by Gemma Jackson

  She leaned against the whitewashed wall, out of sight of anyone who might be passing. She sucked in fresh air, closing her eyes briefly. She sometimes felt the auberge was a prison. She had been working in the family business since she could toddle. First fetching and carrying under the watchful eye of Grand-mère Dumas, a woman who had been sparing with praise but fast with a knuckle-jab. She had worked before school and after school for as long as she could remember. She was never allowed to run free as some of her classmates were.

  She had no close friends. Only Hanna, who also worked in her family business, had ever really understood how frustrated she sometimes became. What would she do without Hanna to run to? She had lied to her brothers. She hadn’t sent a young boy to check the boulangerie, she had run down herself. She had knocked and shouted at the door for Hanna but no-one answered. Where was her friend?

  Footsteps crunched on the walkway outside the laundry building. Krista hoped whoever it was would visit one of the other outbuildings. She was enjoying this peaceful period.

  “We will find what we need in here.”

  She recognised that voice. Her father. What was he doing here? He should be tending to business in the dining room. Don’t see me! She closed her eyes and prayed. Please, don’t see me!

  “You are sure she is in her room?”

  Krista could almost feel her blood freeze in her veins. Maurice La Flandre, what was he doing here? She was afraid to move. She willed them to remain near the entrance door. She was deep inside the building. The damp hanging sheets should hide her from their view. Unless they walked down the long building. She clenched her teeth and took slow deep breaths through her nose. Her heart was beating so hard she was afraid they would hear it.

  “Of course she is in her room. Her mother gave her an order. She knows better than to disobey an order from her mother.”

  The striking of a match sounded. Papa never went anywhere without his cigarettes.

  “You said the attic bedroom door has a bolt. I may have to kick it in.” This was followed by a nasty male snigger.

  “No, that won’t be necessary. She only locks the door at night to protect her virtue.” Papa Dumas coughed.

  Krista could imagine him dropping the cigarette onto the ground and stamping it out with the heel of his shoe. How many times had she seen him do the exact same thing? Such a waste – he took one or two puffs then threw the cigarette away. Why was she thinking such rubbish?

  “That won’t be a problem after today.” Maurice laughed. “I’ll be taking her virtue.” He sniggered. “Make no mistake, after today she will be mine.”

  “I promised you could have her, didn’t I?”

  Krista had to slap a hand over her mouth when a gasp of horror tried to escape. What kind of man was her father that he would offer her to one such as Maurice La Flandre? The whole village knew he was a bully and a brute.

  “She will fight you,” Papa Dumas warned with audible relish.

  “That will please me greatly. I enjoy beating sense into stupid female heads.”

  “I’d like to help you. That is one female who considers herself higher than the rest of us. Here, grab one end of this. It’s the reason I brought you out here. You had best take something with you to tie her up.”

  She heard the sound of tearing fabric. That explained what they were doing here. They must be tearing up one of the old sheets kept for rags.

  “Be sure to push something into her mouth or she’ll scream the place down,” Papa Dumas warned. “The wife will not be happy if her guests are disturbed.”

  The ripping of fabric sounded again.

  “You are going to make an honest woman of her, aren’t you?”

  “I told you I would.”

  “And you will be sure to tell the Führer’s men of my co-operation?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  The loud blare of a claxon sounded on the street.

  “Shit, we’d better get out of here before someone sees us together,” Papa Dumas said.

  The two men left the room, closing the door at their backs. Krista wanted to collapse onto the floor and wail her woes to the world. She couldn’t. She didn’t have time.

  “Hurry along, old thing!” A crisp English voice broke the silence of the street and the bleeping of the car claxon sounded again. “I had a dashed difficult time finding this place. Rue d’Eglise, for heaven’s sake – why can’t the Frenchies call it Church Street and be done with it?”

  Krista dropped to her knees to look out the window. A large stylish British car sat close to the curb outside the window. She knew it was English because the driver was sitting on the wrong side of the vehicle. She wondered who it belonged to. They had no English guests at the moment.

  “Perhaps because this is their country and they speak French?”

  Krista recognised that voice. It was Miss Andrews, the lady who rented a small cottage in the mews that ran along the back of the auberge. Krista had taken English lessons from her for many years. She was a gentle lady and Krista had always felt comfortable in her company.

  “Don’t be like that, old girl.” The driver, a portly bald man in a tightfitting tweed suit, pushed his way out of the car. He stood by the open door, shouting without regard for anyone else. “I want to get on the road while the natives are having their three-hour lunch. We should have the road to ourselves. I had the little auberge here pack us a picnic. So do hurry along, old thing!”

  “I need help carrying my luggage.”

  “I can’t leave the car.” The gentleman sounded highly indignant. “It took a dashed long time to crank her up. I am not turning the engine off. Is there not a lad around who would be glad to earn a few francs?”

  “No, there is not – I need the assistance of your manly muscles,” Miss Andrews snapped. “Leave the darn thing on – there would be more danger of it being stolen if it were a pushbike. How many people in this village do you think could drive that behemoth, and with the wheel on the opposite side?” She snorted through her nose, a noise Krista was very familiar with. “Now come along.” She turned to go back to her little house.

  “Oh, very well.” The driver closed the door of the car gently and walked away without locking his vehicle. He disappeared down the laneway, following on Miss Andrews’ heels.

  Krista had no time to think. No time to plan. She must move now. She would rather find herself thrown out of that car onto the side of the road than in the clutches of Maurice La Flandre.

  She pushed up the window, sticking her head out slowly to check the way was clear. She looked at the white blouse she wore and almost groaned. She needed something dark. She looked around and spotted a man’s black suit jacket hanging on a hook behind the door. She didn’t know who it belonged to, but her need was great. She shoved her arms into the sleeves and, with a final glance to be sure the coast was clear, crawled out of the window, almost falling headfirst into the street. She took time she could ill afford to close the window behind her. She wanted to leave no clues as to where she had gone.

  She bunny-hopped over to the car and with desperate fingers and a prayer on her lips reached to open the back door. She almost threw her body into the space along the floor behind the front seats. She used the leather hoop to close the door behind her and, making herself as small as she could, aligned herself along the new-smelling carpet.

  She did a frantic mental check of her person. For once in her life she could be grateful for the dark colour of the hated woollen stockings she was forced to wear. She pulled the strange-smelling jacket over her head and face, making sure it still covered her white bouse. She should be well hidden under the black fabric. Praying as she never had before in her life, she waited to see if she would be discovered.

  “I still say you could have left a great deal of this rubbish behind you!”

  The door at Krista’s feet opened and something heavy was thrown on top of her legs. She bit her lip and fought to remain silent.

  “I ref
use to listen to any more of your grumbling, old thing!”

  A bag, fortunately soft, was thrown on top of Krista’s head and shoulders. They must be standing on either side of the car, shouting at each other. She thanked whatever fates were protecting her for their absorption in their argument.

  “You are the most contrary of women,” the man huffed.

  “Just a few more items and then we can be on our way.” Miss Andrews slammed the door at Krista’s head.

  “Steady on, old thing! There is no need to damage my vehicle!”

  The door at her feet was closed gently.

  She heard them get into the front of the car and slam the doors. Then the car moved off and it was impossible to hear if they said anything more over the deep growl of the engine. Was Miss Andrews going on a trip? Surely she would have heard? This was a small village and everyone knew everyone else’s business. But it didn’t matter. This sudden trip was a blessing for Krista. She wanted to move the bags to a more comfortable position but was afraid to move.

  “Did you really have someone pack a picnic?”

  These were the first words Krista heard from Miss Andrews since the car rolled out of the village.

  They were on their way. She had done it. She had escaped.

  “I am hungry,” Miss Andrews said. “This sudden flight of yours caused me to miss lunch. Still, I suppose a free journey home is always welcome.”

  “Hmm. In answer to your question, I do have a picnic basket, but I didn’t ask the auberge to pack it. Too many of the wrong sort of people in there.”

  “Oh really, Ger–”

  “Bertram!” the driver snapped. “It’s Bertram – remember it – Bertram.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. We are in the car driving along deserted roads and still you insist on this fiction.”

  “Have you forgotten everything you learned in the last war, my dear?”

  “I cannot believe we are coming to this again.” Miss Andrew’s voice broke slightly. “Two wars in one lifetime seems too much to bear.” There was a moment of silence. “I wanted to hide away in my little mews cottage and ignore all of it.”

  “Nowhere will be safe with that madman in control.”

  “I still don’t understand why you insisted I accompany you.”

  The sound of pinched leather carried to Krista. She imagined Miss Andrews must be twitching in her seat.

  “And why do I have to wear this ridiculous hat? I only have the thing to allow the children I tutor to play dressing-up!”

  “We need to have the appearance of an eccentric English couple exploring the country and staring at foreigners. As to why I insisted you accompany me, well, it is very simple, my dear. I need your contacts.”

  Chapter 4

  Krista lay on the car floor, listening to her companions talk. She understood the words but had difficulty understanding the meaning of their conversation. She wondered where they were going and how soon she should make her presence known. She needed a plan. For the first time in her life she was on her own. She could plan for her own future only if she had any idea of what that future should, could or would be.

  If the pair in the front seats were not too angry with her, they might agree to take her to the nearest train station. She had the morning takings from the café in her pocket. It wasn’t a great deal of money but it would be enough to buy her a train ticket to Paris or Brussels. Then she almost cried aloud. Papers! She had no papers with her! She couldn’t go into Belgium. All her identity papers were back at the auberge.

  The heavy load on her head pressed down when the car turned a corner. Was that fate hitting her up the side of the head for her stupidity? How could she travel without papers? The guards on the train could arrest her.

  Perhaps the English couple were travelling to Paris? That could be the answer to all her problems. The English seemed to believe Paris was an enchanted city. That could well be their destination. Would they allow her to travel with them? She could pay her way.

  How could she find work in Paris without identity papers? She thought briefly of reporting her papers lost to the police in Paris. Would that be possible? No, they wouldn’t issue identity papers without her birth certificate and carte de famille. The baggage moved again, pinching her legs and upper body. She wanted to give in to the despair she felt and howl, but she couldn’t.

  Surely she could find employment? She was fluent in three languages – French, English and German. She could prove that easily but without references it would be more difficult to prove she had years of work experience. She had to hope. Surely it would not be difficult to find a live-in position in Paris? Or if she couldn’t reach Paris she could take a bus to Reims? It would be risky because one of the suppliers for the auberge might see her there. But the champagne region attracted a lot of tourists. She would only consider Reims as a last-ditch effort though – it was far too close to Metz. She wanted to put as many miles as possible between her and Maurice La Flandre and his bully boys. She refused to think of what had caused her to flee from everything she knew. It was too painful. She had not the luxury of time to cry. She must plan.

  “You are being ridiculous!”

  Krista almost jumped at the sharp exclamation from the front. What had she missed?

  “How is it possible that a woman as intelligent as you, my dear Violet, can be unaware of what is going on in the world around her?” The driver changed gears with a heavy hand.

  “I have withdrawn from the world!” Miss Andrews snapped. “That is why I live in a tiny village in France, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Violet,” he said with a heavy sigh, “none of us have the luxury of withdrawing from this lot. It is lie down and let them walk over you or stand up and fight. You have sulked in your little mews cottage for over fifteen years. That must stop now. Your country needs you.”

  “You are a fine one to speak of one’s country needing one. Look at you, you are fleeing. You are an experienced soldier. You should be leading your country’s armies. Do not speak to me of patriotic duties.”

  “I will not lead that man’s armies!” the driver snapped.

  Krista was confused. What man? Mr Neville Chamberlain, the British Prime Minister? Surely he spoke always of peace and cooperation? He was not amassing armies, was he?

  The car slowed down.

  “What are you looking for?” Miss Andrews snapped.

  “I know an area without checkpoints where two dotty British tourists can cross into Belgium. When we reach a populated area, Violet, I need you to start acting like an emptyheaded aristocrat. Can you do that?”

  “You mean much handwaving and pointing?”

  “Something of that nature, yes.”

  Krista’s heart almost stopped. The border. She was a fool. She had no papers. What was she going to do? She could not allow the border guards to discover her. She had to make her presence known. Now!

  “Miss Andrews!” Krista’s voice was soft and shaking. She had to repeat herself to be heard over the engine. “Miss Andrews!”

  “Violet!”

  “On it!”

  The car pulled over and stopped, the engine idling. Krista pushed the bag from her head and tried to sit up.

  She looked up into the barrel of a handgun. She had never before seen that look in Miss Andrew’s pale-blue eyes. She threw her hands in the air, trying to present a nonthreatening appearance.

  “Krista Dumas, what in the name of heaven are you doing there?” The gun in Miss Andrews’ hand never moved as she leaned over the front seat. “Bertram, find somewhere safe to stop. We will have our picnic and get to the bottom of this.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Krista’s blood ran cold at the menace in that voice. What had she got herself into?

  “I am not going to pull the trigger on an unarmed girl until I know more about what is happening here. Now, do as I say and find somewhere safe to stop.”

  The car pulled out onto the road again.

  “Do
not move, Krista.”

  The car had stopped. Krista couldn’t take her eyes off the gun pointing so steadily in her direction. She heard the driver’s door open but was afraid to look. The door at her head opened and the bag was removed.

  Miss Andrews turned away to open the passenger door.

  Krista sighed with relief. Too soon. The driver was standing in the open doorway, pointing a gun at her head.

  “Come out – very, very slowly.”

  “I will have to remove the bag from my feet.” Krista didn’t want to start kicking at the item trapping her legs. The driver looked perfectly capable of shooting her if she made any sudden moves.

  “Violet.”

  “I have it.”

  The door at her feet was pulled open and the bag removed.

  She now had two handguns pointed at her. What in the name of goodness had she got herself into? She tried to sit upright, groaning slightly at the ache in her body from being in the same prone position for so long. She put her arm on the car seat and, making sure she wasn’t stepping on her skirt, put her feet on the floor. She pushed herself up onto the back seat. The man’s jacket she’d grabbed to cover her white blouse slipped off her shoulders. She shrugged the jacket off and, thinking perhaps Miss Andrews was the safer option, stepped out of the car on her side and into an area of wide-open countryside. There wasn’t even a cow in sight. She didn’t try to run. What was the point? They had the car and guns. With her hands in the air, she stepped away from the car.

  “You ladies go into the bushes there.” The driver waved his gun in their direction. “It will be primitive but after using those confounded Turkish toilets I doubt you will be offended.”

  “Miss Andrews –” Krista began.

  “Hush, child.” Miss Andrews didn’t lower the handgun. “I will wait while you relieve yourself. I advise you not to run while I tend to my own business.”