Escape From Paris (21 page)

Lieutenant Fritz Weber didn't quite hide his smile of pride. “At Guines, near Calais. I've been posted to the 26
th
Fighter Group, Third Wing at Caffier's airfield.” He paused, then added, “Maj. Galland's unit.”

Maj. Galland was Germany's premier air ace, the veteran of 280 Spanish missions, 87 Polish missions. By early August, he had already been credited with 17 victories against the RAF and had been awarded the Knight's Cross.

“We have much to celebrate. Come now, Fritz, I will show you Paris. We will have dinner at Maxim's.”

Eleanor paused in front of the art store window to study the display. The Romanesque steeple of the Church of St. Germain-des-Pres dominated the small watercolor on the easel, giving the painting a lop-sided look. The initials SW were clear and distinct in the lower left-hand corner. In front of the easel, in two uneven rows, was a collection of small matchboxes. Eleanor counted the boxes. Five in the first row, five in the second. Ten. The Englishmen were to be taken to the Southwest corner by the Church of St. Germain-des-Pres on September 10. Tomorrow was Tuesday, September 10. The rendezvous hour was always 5:30, no matter the date or the place, as the train for Bordeaux left the Gare d'Austerlitz at 7 p.m.

Father Laurent had arranged for the display to be made by the shop owner in order to avoid so much traffic in and out of the Church. If, however, Eleanor or Linda needed to talk to him, it could be arranged. Tomorrow he would be expecting four Englishmen, but there were going to be only three.

Eleanor pushed in the shop door. A bell tinkled. After a moment there was the sound of slow heavy footsteps. Eleanor peered through the gloom. Paintings hung from the walls, were propped against tables, stacked in corners. A dark velvet curtain at the rear of the shop swayed, parted, seemed to move toward her. Eleanor blinked. The curtain was coming forward. Then she realized it was a mountainous figure swathed in dark velveteen. The woman moved ponderously, the floor creaking beneath her weight. Her face was immense, too, bloated, the chin lost in rolls of fat that swelled in creases down to the huge yet shapeless chest. She stared blankly at Eleanor. “Yes?”

Eleanor cleared her throat. “Is Mme. Lisette here?”

“I am Mme. Lisette.” A deep throaty gruff voice.

Eleanor looked at her searchingly. “I am interested,” she said slowly, “in paintings of medieval churches. Especially those by Laurent.”

The woman nodded heavily. “I am a connoisseur, too.”

At that correct response, the tension eased out of Eleanor's shoulders.

“I do not have any in stock,” Lisette continued. “If you will leave your name, you will be contacted when a painting is available.”

So that was done, Eleanor thought, as she walked up the Boul' Mich' toward the Hotel de Cluny. She did need to talk to him. Not just to tell him there would only be three travelers tomorrow. That wasn't a problem, merely a matter of information. But she did have a problem if the fourth Englishman died. Harris, that was his name, Jonathan Harris. Perhaps Father Laurent could help her get some papers in the name of Roger Lamirand. The apartment, of course, was still listed in his name and the concierge, in the official domicile records, carried him as the renter. Father Laurent might know specifically which papers would be needed.

Would it take cooperation by the concierge?

Eleanor recalled her face, middle-aged, hard. Which way would she jump? But she might go along with the story. She had, after all, been willing to sub-rent the apartment to Eleanor without any questions. She must have known, would surely have known, that there must be some compelling reason for someone like Eleanor to go to such trouble. Something more than just a love affair, in times such as these.

Eleanor walked a little faster. She was willing to gamble. She must be catching something of Father Laurent's spirit. What was it he had said Saturday? “There will be plenty to help us. We don't need to be afraid, almost all Frenchmen will help, if we ask.”

She didn't subscribe to that. There were too many who had turned brusque when she had called, hinting at her need for help. But there had also been Annemarie and now Madame Lisette and Father Laurent and all those who had helped the men who were hiding now in the apartment

The apartment door opened before Eleanor reached the top of the stairs. Robert poked his head out and looked disappointed. “We thought it might be Dr. Gailland.”

His mother put a finger to her lips. When they were inside, the door closed, she cautioned. “Don't use names, Robert, in a hallway. The doctor is taking a risk to help us. Let's not take any chances on endangering her.”

“Do you think someone here in the apartment house would turn her in?”

Eleanor said gently, “We don't know, Robert. But we must remember to be careful. With every word and every action. So many others are depending upon us now.”

He nodded solemnly, his thin face grave and adult.

Oh Robert, Robert, his mother thought, I am so proud of you. I love you so much.

His shirt was too small. It stretched across his chest and shoulders. He was beginning to grow from a little boy into an adolescent. He was shaped so much like his father. He was going to be thick-chested like Andre. Funny, they had never foreseen that when he was small. His school trousers were short, too. How he had grown since last spring. Andre had not seen him since May 19. Oh Andre, are you somewhere? At this moment are you picturing me or Robert, tracing in your mind where we would be, what we would be doing on a sunny September afternoon?

“Mother, do you think the doctor can do something more?”

“Is he worse?”

They spoke in low voices. Funereal tones. It was quiet, Eleanor realized, throughout the apartment. She could see Kittredge, standing to the left of the window, staring down into the street. One of the men, sat with his back to her, reading. The third was asleep, sprawled on his stomach on the sofa.

“He lies too still. He looks like wax.”

“Where's Linda?”

“She stays with him. He makes too much noise when he is alone. He mumbles and thrashes and sometimes almost shouts and tries to struggle up. But he hasn't done that since early this morning. Now, he doesn't move. Aunt Linda bathes his face and talks to him, just gently. He rests better when she is there.”

Early this morning? “Robert, didn't you go to school?”

Robert avoided his mother's eyes. “Aunt Linda wants to talk to you. She thinks we ought to try and call Dr. Gailland.”

Eleanor wasn't deflected. “Robert, did you miss school?”

“I thought Aunt Linda might need me. I knew you were going to be visiting the hospitals all day and I thought I should stay here.”

“Robert.” She tried to be stern. “You mustn't miss school. It's part of what we talked about. We must try to keep our usual schedule. That's why we are going to have Linda stay here at the apartment. Our neighbors won't notice her comings and goings but you must keep to your school schedule and I will continue to work for the Foyer du Soldat. We mustn't do anything out of the ordinary.”

“Sister Colette won't turn us in.”

“Petain is currying favor with the Church, Robert. He is easing restrictions on the clergy so many of the Church leaders are supporting Vichy and that means they won't work against the Germans.”

“Not Sister Colette,” Robert said stubbornly.

“Robert, I don't want you missing any more classes.”

He didn't answer.

She slipped her arm around him, hugged him close to her. “There will be plenty for you to do, my dear. You won't be left out.” She felt his shoulders relax. “Right now you can go get some food.” She opened her purse. “I went by the bank earlier.” She drew out a wad of banknotes. “I understand there's a new black market behind the Broken Lance restaurant. Buy whatever you can, anything that we can fix for dinner.”

When Robert was gone, Kittredge called out to her. “Mme. Masson, have you heard anything?”

“Yes. I have news.”

Miller put down his book and Jamison struggled to a sitting position on the sofa.

“You leave here tomorrow evening for Bordeaux.”

“Bordeaux? Where's that?” Jamison asked.

“Southwest. It's still in the Occupied Zone, but you will cross the Demarkation Line there and travel on to a little town near the Spanish border.”

“Who's taking us?” Miller rubbed his chin nervously.

Eleanor smiled. “One of us will take you to a certain point. We will do it in the same manner that we walked across Paris Saturday. One of you may walk with me, one of you will follow a half block behind and the third will follow on the opposite side of the street. When we reach our rendezvous—the southwest corner in front of Paris' oldest church—I will leave. You will follow a man carrying a plaid valise. He will take you to the railroad station, buy the tickets and travel in the same car with you to Bordeaux.”

“What if we get stopped, here in Paris? Or what if they ask to see our papers on the train?” The questions spurted out of Miller.

“Just be relaxed,” Eleanor urged. “Don't look frightened or worried. When they ask for your papers, ‘
Vous papiers, s'il vous plait
,' hand them over. Look tired, maybe a little surly. There's no reason for anyone to ask you any more questions. Your papers will look good.”

He nodded and turned away, walking swiftly to the window.

I hope your papers look good, Eleanor thought, but there isn't a thing in the world you can do or I can do to make everything go perfectly. But, later this evening, after Robert came back with something for dinner and after she had seen to Linda and her patient, she must remember to come and sit with Miller, talk to him, teach him a few more words of French, try to give him the confidence to make the journey.

Eleanor sighed. She was tired, very tired. She had visited four hospitals today. At each one, she couldn't help looking for Andre among the still forms who lay unconscious, unknowing on the high narrow beds in the surgical wards. Down every corridor as she carried food and took messages, she looked for Andre. Then she had made the long walk to the bank and taken the Metro to the Latin Quarter and the art shop. She didn't use the car except for the hospital visits to save the precious gas. Now she and Robert needed to get home, resume their regular schedule. Linda must be tired, too, and tired of dealing with that dreadfully ill airman. Eleanor turned toward the bedroom.

“Why can't we go today?” Jamison demanded harshly.

Eleanor turned back to face him. He was glaring and once again his eyes were wild.

“That decision isn't mine, Mr. Jamison. I'm sure there are good reasons why Tuesday was chosen.”

“Isn't there somebody who can change it? Make it today?”

“Mr. Jamison,” she struggled to keep the irritation out of her voice, “you leave tomorrow. Not more than twenty-four hours from now. Why are you complaining?”

He took a deep breath. “I can't stand it here. I've got to get out of here. Tell me how to get to the Church. I'll meet you there tomorrow. I'll find someplace else tonight.” He started for the door.

Kittredge caught him by the arm. “Don't be a fool, Frank. You'd be picked up for sure. There's the curfew.”

Jamison struggled to break free. “I don't care.” His voice rose. “I can't stand this place. It stinks. It smells like death.”

“Lad, be quiet.”

“Oh Eleanor, hurry, come quickly, Eleanor, hurry!” Linda's voice sounded above Jamison's, cut through the scuffle at the door.

“Don't let him leave,” Eleanor said sharply. She turned and dashed for the bedroom.

Linda was bending over the bed, clutching Jonathan's shoulders. “I fell asleep for a little while,” the girl cried, “just for a little while, then, when I woke, he was so still and white. Oh my God, he died while I was asleep, oh Eleanor, I just slept for a little while.” Tears streamed down her face, her whole body quivered.

Eleanor gently pulled Linda away from the bed. She reached down, picked up one of those flaccid hands. In a moment, she spoke. “Linda, listen to me, there's a pulse, I tell you, I feel a pulse.”

The slender reddish blonde girl, her face streaked with tears, her hair rumpled with sleep, whirled back to the bed and reached out to touch Jonathan's face. “But his face is cool, almost cold.”

“Mme. Masson,” the soft Scots voice called. “The doctor is here.”

“Oh, thank God,” Eleanor breathed.

“Is he still alive?” Linda asked anxiously.

Dr. Gailland listened for a heartbeat. “Yes, Mademoiselle. However, the crisis is near. I will give him another injection of sulfa, but I will tell you honestly that I have little hope of his recovery.”

“But he is alive now,” Linda said steadily.

The small doctor nodded. “That he has lived this long surprises me. Every hour, Mademoiselle, that he survives increases his chances. If he makes it through the night I think he will live.”