Escape From Paris (19 page)

They had to walk faster. This slow pace was making the others conspicuous. Already, the chunky blond and the tall emaciated man were waiting at the corner, each trying to ignore the other. Across the street, waiting, too, was the third man, his face turned toward them, a pale blob in the dusk.

Don't look at us, Eleanor thought angrily. I told you what to do. And they all, each of the three, looked so foreign. For just an instant, the thought hung in her mind. Andre would love that, she thought. I think they look foreign. Andre would…

Tires squealed behind them.

Eleanor's hand tightened on Jonathan's elbow. Oh God, a car. That meant Germans, more than likely. Sometimes they stopped pedestrians on the street, checking papers at random. If it were Gestapo agents on the prowl and if they had seen three young men, moving slowly and uncertainly down the street, they might very well be suspicious.

The car picked up speed, roared by in a blur. It was a German staff car. Eleanor caught a flash of a green uniform but a touch of color, too. She began to breathe again. High ranking officers with their girlfriends. They wouldn't be interested in pedestrians on the shabby street. Probably they were on their way to Maxim's for a night on the town. Gay Paree. For some.

“No.”

That was all he said, but it was a guttural sound of defeat..

“It isn't far,” she said quickly. “Only five more blocks. You've come this far. You can make it a little farther.”

“I'm too slow. Take the others. Go ahead.” Jonathan swayed perceptibly. “I'll start up again in a while. If…maybe come back for me…”

Oh God, Eleanor thought. Did I say it out loud? Did I tell him we had to go faster? I was trying to hurry him and I pulled on his arm. I can't leave him here. We're almost to the apartment. “Five more blocks. Oh please, just five more blocks.”

He didn't shake his head, didn't move at all, didn't say a word.

It was getting darker every instant. Now, all three of the Englishmen in their ill-fitting civilian clothes, were looking back, obviously tense and afraid. Eleanor had warned them. Walk easily, slouch a little bit, you're on your way home, you just got off work and you're tired, looking forward to a bit of supper. Now, close to safety, or at least the illusion of safety, they waited on street corners, strangers in a dark city, dependent upon her to guide them.

A sliver of light flashed for an instant near the corner. Before the door shut, Eleanor heard a snatch of rollicking can-can music. She remembered a party one night years before in Montmartre and a thin silver quarter moon hanging behind Sacre-Couer and the laughing giggling group, arm in arm, singing and swinging their legs.

She gestured for the men to come, short quick imperative waves. Each turned, stepped indecisively, stopped. She waved again. As they walked toward her, Eleanor quailed for a moment. Did she have any right? She was gambling their safety for the man beside her.

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.