Escape From Paris (26 page)

Eleanor retied her scarf with hands that suddenly shook. She looked up the street now and saw a man in an overcoat standing across the street, standing in the November cold, watching the Duquets' tobacco shop. Now he had seen her.

Eleanor bent her head and began to walk toward him, her hands jammed deep into her pockets. She walked quickly, almost running, but everyone moved quickly in this cold. She passed the shop, her face hidden by her scarf. She was just a few feet farther on when she heard harsh words in German and the scuffling of feet. At the end of the block, the long dark car passed her and she could see, a momentary unforgettable harrowing glimpse, the faces of Emile and Lucie Duquet. Then they were gone.

She wanted to run but, even after the car was out of sight, she continued to walk, head down, coat drawn tightly to her. There would be a Gestapo agent left in the shop, to gather up all those who wandered in. There would be another agent, the one across the street, to watch and see if anyone started to enter then swerved away. As soon as she turned the corner, she broke into a run. She had to warn the others. She ducked down into the Metro, packed now as the work day ended, and elbowed and wormed her way across the jammed platform, ignoring angry mutters, to get onto the first car. As the train rocketed across Paris, filled to the last inch with weary workers, smelling of sweat and wool and garlic and wine, Eleanor closed her eyes and tried to decide what to do.

She had to warn Father Laurent. The Duquets knew him. If they talked, if they were forced to talk—Eleanor opened her eyes, willing away the images that flashed before them. Everyone knew what the Gestapo did. The whispers floated around Paris, hung in the frosty air, obscene visions of terror.

They made you kneel on a bench then an agent would climb on your shoulders.

They filled a bathtub with ice water then, your hands handcuffed behind you, plunged your head beneath the water until you almost drowned, pulling you up, struggling, choking, hysterical, at the last possible instant.

They took away your clothes and attached an electric wire to your ankle and to your nipple or your penis, then turned on the current.

They filed your teeth, tore out your nails, burned you with a soldering iron.

They beat you with their fists or clubs, kicked you with their boots.

She fought a wave of nausea. If she changed lines at the next station, she could check at home first, get Robert to safety, see about Linda. But the Duquets didn't know her. They knew Father Laurent. Even if the Gestapo had broken into the escape line, they had no direct link to Eleanor yet. She had to warn the priest first. It was he who was vulnerable.

What if Father Laurent had already been arrested? What if a Gestapo agent waited in the Church, sitting behind the heavy oak door in the cellar offices?

She rode on to the Vaneau station. On the street, she turned and began to walk up the rue de Varenne. A block from the Church of the Good Shepherd she walked more slowly, looking from side to side, searching the street, checking the windows. The Gestapo often took over an apartment across the street from their quarry's address, the better to watch and see all who approached a particular door. It was a long block. When she heard a car coming up behind her, she fought the desire to run. It wouldn't do any good to run if the car were coming for her. It would be a certain giveaway if it weren't.

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.”