Escape From Paris (9 page)

Some of their French acquaintances looked away to avoid saying hello when they passed in the street.

The Biziens had never been their friends so that didn't matter. But it did matter that they were originally from Alsace-Lorraine and that last week, so the concierge told Eleanor, they had entertained a German officer at dinner. A school friend from Heidelberg.

The Bizien apartment was the second-floor front.

Linda carried a flashlight. Eleanor had taped a piece of blue silk over the lens so it gave just a glimmer of illumination. There was light enough to keep Linda from stumbling on the darkened stairway. Robert was already out of sight. In a moment, he scampered back up the stairs, gesturing for her to come. She passed the third floor landing, waited again in the darkness. When he motioned for her to come, she pattered down the stairs, using the dim light, rushing past the second floor. She was breathless, her legs aching, when she reached the cellar door. They opened the door onto absolute darkness. How horrid it would be to wait in pitch dark, cramped in a hiding place, wondering if every noise, every step, heralded exposure and capture.

Robert carefully shut the door behind them. He began to whistle faintly but clearly, “Oh, Johnny, Oh Johnny, Oh!”

It must, Linda thought, seem like an especially exciting game of soldiers to him. He was showing her the way now, past the huge furnace and a clutter of furniture and tenants' trunks to the coal bin. “There's a little space behind the bin, like a cupboard,” Robert explained.

As they came near, a narrow plank of wood creaked open and a dark figure scrambled out.

They spoke swiftly.

Linda turned away as Michael changed into Andre's clothes.

“Hey, these are a pretty good fit? Who do I thank?”

“They belong to my father.” For the first time, Robert's voice was strained. “He was . . . his unit was in the fighting around Dunkirk. We haven't heard from him since then.”

“I'm sorry,” the soldier said. “I'm sorry. A lot of soldiers are still hiding out, Robert, did you know that?”

“A lot?” Robert repeated hopefully.

“Lord, yes. And the Germans took thousands and thousands of prisoners and he may not have been able to get word to you yet. You can't give up hope.”

“Oh no, sir. We haven't given up hope. Not at all.”

They helped spread his blanket the length of the cubbyhole. They left the little flashlight with him so he could see to eat.

“Don't get out until one of us comes for you,” Robert warned. “You'll know it's one of us because we'll whistle, just like I did tonight.”

They waited until he was again shut behind the back of the bin, then they closed the lid and began to feel their way toward the stairs. They paused when they reached the top, opening the door slowly, quietly, waiting a long moment, but no one stirred in the corridor. They slipped out, eased the door closed behind them, and moved swiftly toward the front of the house. Once on the stairs going to the second floor, they began to relax.

“Aunt Linda,” Robert began, “do you really think my father—”

The bright swath of light from the opening door surprised both of them. They looked up startled.

Mme. Bizien stepped out into the hall. “Who is it?” she demanded. “Who goes there?”

Linda was in the lead. Mme. Bizien peered past her. “Is that a man? Oh, it's you, Robert.”

“Good evening, Madame,” he said politely.

“Good evening,” Linda said formally, but she didn't pause, she kept on walking. She and Robert climbed the stairs in silence. Behind them, Mme. Bizien stood on the landing, watching.

“That woman's a menace,” Linda said angrily, when they were safely back in the Masson apartment.

Eleanor nodded. “I'm afraid so. I'm afraid she really is. She must know that we are suspected of hiding a soldier.”

“How could she know?”

“The soldiers searched every apartment, Linda, while you went with Krause and his men to the garage.”

“You can bet the lousy Biziens couldn't wait to Heil Hitler!”

“Robert!” his mother said automatically, looking toward him. Her face changed. “Are those the lieutenant's clothes?”

Robert dropped the bundle onto the couch.

“Yes. Daddy's clothes fit him.”

“Take the clothes a couple of blocks away. Put them in a dustbin. Make sure no one sees you.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. We mustn't take a chance that they be found here. Hurry. And Robert, go down the back way. Don't let the Biziens see you.”

“Okay.”

When he was gone, Linda said unhappily, “I've really put us in a hole, haven't I?”

Her sister, frowning in thought, hadn't quite heard. “Hmm?”

“Eleanor, I'm terribly sorry. I've put you and Robert in dreadful danger.”

“Danger?” Eleanor looked at Linda with sudden attention. Linda's slender fair face was pale, her dark blue eyes huge. Eleanor wished abruptly that she knew this younger sister better. But Linda must be made of the right stuff for she had taken the chance, hidden the lieutenant in the car, brought him here. Danger? Who cared about danger after the past hideous weeks, hot and empty and quiet with the somber quiet of death, a dying nation. And Andre somewhere? Or was he anywhere? Was Andre, vigorous, abrupt, forceful Andre, nothing but a memory in her mind? Oh dear God, Andre, where are you?

“I know it was wrong,” Linda was saying hesitantly, “If I had it to do over again. . .”

Eleanor said sharply, “If you had it to do over again, what would you do, Linda?”

Linda looked away, looked down. Her shining red-blond hair fell forward, hid her face.

“Well?”

Unwillingly, Linda lifted her head. “I don't know. I don't know.”

“Linda, listen to me. You did the right thing. If I had been there that morning, if he had asked me, and it had looked, as it did to you, that the thing could be done, why, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. Of course, you did the right thing.”

The right thing, yes, Linda thought, it had been right. But it was still dangerous and she remembered so clearly, with such terrible clarity, those awful moments waiting for him to come, the heat that could not touch the cold chill of fear as she waited. It had been worse this evening. The Gestapo agent, Erich Krause, with his shiny ice-green eyes that clung to her as if he would pry into her mind, pry and poke, pulling out anything he wanted to know. They had fooled him. He would be twice as vicious if he ever knew they had fooled him. And now they were stuck with Lt. Evans hidden in the cellar and the nosy Biziens on the second floor. If she had looked ahead to this . . . Why wasn't Eleanor afraid? Didn't she understand what kind of danger they were in? But Eleanor had never seemed afraid all this summer and now, with a fugitive dumped on her, she looked positively cheerful.

“Yes,” Eleanor continued. “It was the right thing to do. This has been such a dreadful summer. No word of Andre and Paris so awful, shops boarded up and everybody staying inside, and the Swastika flying from the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. I hate it. Now, at least we are doing something.”

“Yes,” Linda said slowly. “But, Eleanor, what are we going to do with him now?”

Eleanor's voice was firm, confident. “We'll figure out some way to get him across the line.”

Across the line. Linda lay sleepless in her bed, eyes wide, watching the bright streak of moonlight that slanted in her window, gilding one wall in the narrow room. Was Lt. Evans sleepless, too, in his dark, cramped, hideous hiding place? Across the line. She turned on her side, shielded her face from the moonlight. How in the world could they possibly get him across the line? It took a special pass, the ausweis, to cross the Demarcation Line. Last week Eleanor and Linda had gone to a party, a not-very-gay party, at the Petersons, and Madeleine Lafleur, who worked for Paris Mondiale, the government short wave radio station, was the center of attention, telling how difficult it was to obtain an ausweis.

“My dears, it takes days of standing in line. Weeks, sometimes! The woman in front of me had come every day for two weeks. Her father was ill in Bordeaux and family had been called to come. But they wouldn't give her one. Then he died and she was trying to get one so she could go to the funeral. They still didn't give her one.”

“How did you manage?”

Madeleine had, just for an instant, looked a little uncomfortable, then she shrugged. “I had a little influence. My boss gave me a note.”

Her boss. He and Madeleine had stayed on at the radio station even after it had been taken over by the Germans. So now they were the ones who put on the programs blaming everything on the English.

“You have to live.” Madeleine said.

Madeleine knew how to get across the line. But it wouldn't do to ask her. Anyway, Evans couldn't take the train. Even if he had the right papers, and how in the world could they get them, he spoke no French. He couldn't travel hundreds of miles by train, having his papers checked, being looked at closely because he was young and male, and not know a word of the language.

Smuggle him onto a train?

The trains were carefully searched from the roof to the baggage compartments. Too many had tried to cross that way.

Linda turned restlessly onto her back. Surely they knew someone who could help them. She had met many of Eleanor and Andre's friends, but she didn't know any of them well. There were still a number of Americans in Paris whom they had known through the University.

Still in Paris. Americans who had chosen to live in German-Occupied Paris. Could they call on them to help smuggle an English soldier south?

Eleanor's French friends?

Linda sat up, punched her pillows up behind her. Was there a hospital they could visit, near the line? She would ask Eleanor in the morning.

The truck rolled slowly down the narrow cobbled street, soldiers dropping off every twenty yards. Barricades went up at either end of the block. The few pedestrians coming up to the roadblocks were motioned away. The silver gray Citroen pulled up to the curb directly in front of the Coq d'Or, but the bar's blackout curtains were pulled so no one saw the car. Krause and Schmidt sat in the back seat, Louis Robards slumped between them.

The driver held the door for Krause. He waited on the curb as Schmidt hauled Robards out. The railroad man could not stand straight. He bent forward, his arms crossed over his abdomen, moaning.

Inside the Coq d'Or, Georges Martel picked up his lunch pail and started to push back his chair.

“Hey, Georges, what's your hurry? Martine?”

Georges shrugged. He was newly married and his mates hadn't let him forget it, today or yesterday or the day before. He was good-humored, but he had heard enough of it. “No hurry,” he answered, “but I told Martine I'd be home for supper by seven.”

“Seven, eh.” Pierre wagged his head. “You've got a lot to learn, young fellow. If you tell a woman seven, don't get there before half past. You have to start these new wives off in the right way.”

It was heavy handed but well meant, so Georges smiled patiently. “Maybe so, but I told her—”

Alphonse raised his glass. “A toast to Martine! Come on now, Georges, she won't mind if you are a little late—if you tell her we were toasting her. Have one more drink.”

Georges hesitated then sat down again. Martine wouldn't mind. He saw her for an instant in his mind, hair tousled, sleepy eyed, reaching out her arms to him. He felt a quickening in his breath. One more drink. Then he would go home. Home was a tiny one-bedroom apartment with a closet-like kitchen but its size didn't matter. Once within, the tiny space was his world and hers. They would have dinner later. When he first got home . . . He took the glass from the barmaid and smiled his good-humored smile for no one could see in his mind. It wouldn't matter if he was a little late.

If Georges had left when he first stood, he would have seen the car and he would have known and, in an instant, the men in the bar, his friends, Alphonse, Pierre, Michael, Paul, Rene, all men who worked together, knew each other well, would have been warned. Or if Schmidt had entered the bar first. Any stranger would have quieted the talk, turned faces wary. But Georges sat down again, smiling, his thoughts his own, and, on the sidewalk outside, Krause motioned for Schmidt to wait.