Escape From Paris (12 page)

“The right people?”

Annemarie shrugged. “I don't know who you would ask. It was the brother of my friend Germaine who told me.”

“Could you get in touch with him? Find out for me?”

Annemarie shook her head. “He is gone now, too.” She frowned. “Perhaps if the person who wishes to cross would go to Saint-Quentin, perhaps ask at the Church.”

“That won't do. The person who wishes to cross, he can't speak French.”

“Oh, Madame! Oh, you must be careful!”

“Annemarie, Annemarie,” Mme. Durand called plaintively.

“One moment, Mama Leone, one moment.” Annemarie opened the door, then closed it to whisper quickly, “Madame, do you remember Roger Lamirand? The cocky medical student? The one with the wispy beard who always wore a beret?”

Hazily, Eleanor did. A rasping voice, always too loud. A pugnacious, abrasive not especially likeable young man.

“He lives two blocks from here, the northeast corner apartment house. Just off the Rue Saint Jacques. I think you can ask him.”

On the street, Eleanor hesitated then swung to her right. It would do no harm to go by Lamirand's apartment. She didn't have to tell him anything. Why did Annemarie think he could be trusted? She walked slower and slower. The whole area seemed odd to her. It had been so familiar. Andre's offices had been just a half block from here. She had often met him and carried a picnic lunch to the Luxembourg gardens. The Medici Fountain was their favorite spot. They never went there, in the heat of summer or the cool leaf-strewn fall or even occasionally on a brisk snowy winter walk, without seeing some student Andre knew. Now the streets were almost empty and the occasional passerby seemed furtive and wary.

Lamirand's apartment house was in a narrow twisty street where sunlight would touch the curbs only at noon. Even now, at mid-morning, it was cheerless and drab, the bricked facade chipped, the tall narrow windows uncurtained and dirty. In the entry hall, Eleanor paused uncertainly. No letter-boxes here. She knocked at the concierge's door. A middle-aged woman with a flat hard face and harshly hennaed hair stared at her.

“M. Lamirand? He no longer lives here, Madame.”

“Can you tell me where he has gone?”

A shrug. Then a flicker of interest stirred. “Are you looking for an apartment, Madame? I could rent it to you cheap, very cheap.”

“I don't—” Eleanor stopped, looked up the stairs. Dirty, yes. Cheap. A young man would not be noticeable here, in the Latin Quarter. There weren't many young men these days, but there were some. A place where a young man could hide. Eleanor looked back at the concierge. “I might be interested,” she said slowly, very slowly, and emphatically, “in subletting an apartment. I'll pay you in cash and the apartment would still be listed in M. Lamirand's name.”

The concierge nodded and answered, as slowly, “It can be arranged, Madame. Of course, I will need a little extra fee to make it possible. Say, 2,500 francs?”

Eleanor calculated quickly, nodded. Not quite fifty dollars. Fair enough. She stepped inside the concierge's apartment and peeled off the bills. She had just enough to make up the sum. The woman gave her the key and pointed up the stairs. “The top floor, back.”

It was a small one-bedroom apartment, shabby and cheaply furnished, but cheeringly clean, the living room recently painted buttercup yellow, the floors waxed and swept. Eleanor began to smile. What a perfectly wonderful piece of luck. Now they had a place to hide Michael. Roger must have left in a hurry, the closet ajar, the dresser drawers agape. He had not even taken time to empty out his larder. Eleanor knew then it must have been a very swift departure. The crock of honey would be unobtainable at the grocery and cost up to two hundred francs on the black market. There was half a loaf of moldy bread and, riches, a mesh bag of potatoes. She looked more carefully through the apartment, then. Surely he was coming back. But there were no clothes in the closet, the bed was stripped and bare, the dresser drawers empty. In the small square living room, she was puzzled for a moment by the arrangement of the furniture. There was a worn rocking chair and lumpy sofa along one wall. An armchair sat with its back to the room, facing the one large window to the north. When she leaned against the sill, she said aloud, “Oh, how lovely.”

To the left and down the street, old stone, fifteenth century surely, glowed in the hot August noon sun. A crenellated wall with a watchtower and battlements guarded a courtyard and, beyond, a huge Gothic building, the Hotel de Cluny, museum of medieval crafts. Eleanor studied the gargoyles along the balustrade. One of the things she loved the most about Paris was the unexpected glimpses of grandeur, even from the meanest of vantage points. This was where Roger Lamirand had sat, looking up from his studies to admire the pentagonal tower or the incredibly complex frieze that ran along the bottom of the main building's roof or to shade his eyes against the sun reflected from the huge skylights.

Eleanor felt the same surge of excitement she had experienced so many times in Paris, her first view of Sacre-Couer glistening like alabaster in a hard winter sun, the gray magnificence of Notre Dame, the Rue de Conde just after dawn, looking as it must have in 1789, the year the Bastille was captured and the Revolution begun.

A sleek black Mercedes roared down the Rue du Sommerard, the staff flag snapping. The horn blared. Eleanor drew her breath in sharply.

A cart was midway across the street, moving slowly, heavily. An old woman looked up in panic and tried to pull the cart backward. The Mercedes, never slackening its speed, swerved to the left, sweeping past, the edge of its bumper just clipping the cart. The impact shattered the end and dumped mounds of flowers rolled in damp newspapers. The vendor was pulled down. The Mercedes wheeled around the corner.

Slowly, painfully, the old woman struggled upright and hobbled toward her cart. Then, she stood, her shoulders slumped, staring down at the wreckage, the splintered wood, the scattered bright bits of flowers. Tears began to spill down her face.

Eleanor closed her eyes. Damn them. Oh, damn them.

“Didn't you find anyone who can help us?” Linda tried to keep the despair from her voice.

“Not a soul. After I left the Lamirand apartment, I went to the Café Marius, do you remember it? I used to meet Andre there for lunch. I used the telephone and I called and called. Hardly anyone is still in town.” She found only a few at home. She told Linda of her guarded inquiry to several, she had a friend, someone she trusted, who knew of someone who needed to cross the line, not openly, and did they have an idea what she might tell them? The cold long empty pauses. So sorry. No idea. None at all. Her stiff good byes.

“What if one of them turns us in?” Linda asked, her voice small.

“I don't think anyone will. They just don't want to get involved themselves.”

Linda clasped her hands tightly together. “What are we going to do?”

The heat pressed against them. Not a breath of air stirred, the drapes hanging heavy and lifeless by the open windows. Eleanor leaned wearily back in her chair. “I don't know,” she said finally, “I just don't know.”

“Mother, I could ask Franz's father—”

“No,” Eleanor said sharply, almost angrily. “Don't tell anyone, Robert, anyone at all. I'll think of something. Tomorrow I'll take the train to Senlis and talk to your Uncle Raphael.”

Robert looked surprised. “But Mother, I thought you didn't like Uncle Raphael. I thought—”

“Robert.”

They sat for a moment in a strained silence.

The clock on the mantel chimed 11:30. “Oh my heavens, it's almost noon. I was gone all morning, wasn't I? Eleven-thirty. We must hurry and get Michael out of the building before the Biziens come home for lunch.”

“I'll take him now, on the Metro,” Linda offered.

Eleanor shook her head. “We don't dare. I went by the Metro today and I saw the Germans checking papers at three different stations. They come without any warning and check everyone as they go out. We don't have any papers for Michael. Even if we did, he would be lost if anyone stopped him since he doesn't speak French.”

“Let's put him back in the trunk of the car, the way I brought him.”

“If anyone saw him get into the trunk . . .”

There were so many difficulties. The only safe place to get into the trunk would be in the garage itself but Pierre was almost always there and could they take a chance on him?

“What about riding in the front seat, just like anybody?” Robert asked.

But was there anyone anymore who could be just like anybody? Cars were conspicuous. Only Germans and the friends of Germans had cars. Their car did have the Red Cross pennant, but Michael was young and a man and that just might catch the attention of a German patrol. Would anyone be on the lookout for that particular car with its Red Cross pennant? If Krause were still suspicious of them, they might be under surveillance.

“It's too far to walk. At least we could, but Michael is still weak from so little food.”

“My bicycle!” Robert exclaimed. “He can ride my bicycle and I'll borrow Franz's.”

Eleanor frowned. “Robert, do you think Franz will loan you his bicycle? You know how hard it is to find a bike and they cost almost 10,000 francs on the black market.”

“Franz will help us. You forget, Mother, Franz is Jewish.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. But Robert, if,” she stopped, took a breath, “if you should be caught with Michael, it would go doubly hard for Franz.”

“I wouldn't tell anyone I had his bike. The Germans wouldn't know we didn't have two bikes.”

Slowly Eleanor nodded. “That's all right then. That should work. Linda can go by the Metro to meet you at the apartment and bring back Franz's bicycle. Yes, it should all work out beautifully. Hurry now, Robert. Go see if you can borrow the bicycle.”

When Robert returned with Franz's bicycle, they left through the alley. Linda followed on foot. They were soon out of sight, Robert riding a half block in the lead, far enough ahead so that if he saw a military roadblock he could turn back and so could Michael while still out of sight of the soldiers.

The Etoile station was the nearest. Linda didn't hurry. The mesh bag she carried, with some necessities for Michael, was fairly heavy. She would reach the apartment before them anyway. She welcomed the shade of the plane trees along the sidewalk. Many of the fine houses along here, sheltered behind grilled fences, looked empty and deserted. There, two doors ahead, soldiers were carrying furniture and paintings out of a gray stone house, filling the Army truck. Some wealthy Parisian would return one day to find his home empty and, more than likely, taken over by a high-ranking officer. She was still a block from the Champs-Elysees when she heard the music, the steady tramp of marching feet, punctuated by drum rolls and the strident blasts of trumpets. She walked a little faster. A parade? Whatever for?

She was struck first by the emptiness of the broad lovely street. No cars, no taxis, no throngs of shoppers or idlers or tourists. Only the wide street and the German band, helmeted, booted, led by a drum major, and behind the band, detachments of soldiers. She knew what it was then though this was the first time she had seen it. The changing of the German guard at noon. The few pedestrians walked quickly, heads down, eyes averted from the street.

Ba-rom-pom-pom, ba-rom-pom-pom, rom-pom, rom-pom, pom.

The soldiers looked straight ahead, their heads held high, chins up, youthful faces cold and arrogant. Their high black boots flashed in the summer sun as their stiffened legs swung up and down.

Linda looked to her right, toward the Arc de Triomphe, at the immense Nazi flag which hung motionless in the summer sun, the Swastika brilliantly red in the white circle against the black background. The band had reached the Arc now. There was an instant's pause, then the drum major raised his baton and the band sung into Deutschland Uber Alles.

Linda turned away, walking toward the Metro steps.

“Stop. At once.”

She took another step and her elbow was roughly grabbed. She looked up into the hard red face of a German captain.

“You will wait until the music is finished.”

She saw then that German soldiers stood stiffly at attention and the few, very few Frenchman, waited, their faces impassive.

The captain held her elbow tightly until the last chord then loosened his grip and walked away without another word, as if she were too insignificant and unimportant to merit any further attention.

Linda fled toward the Metro entrance, almost running down the broad shallow steps. It was better down here, even though the station was jammed with people. She finally got onto a car on the third train. She would change at the Chatelet station. The car was smelly and hot, claustrophobic, but better, so much better, than standing in the shade of a chestnut tree and watching Germans march past. The subway glided to a stop. Passengers struggled on and off, then it started again. Gradually Linda began to ease her way nearer the sliding doors. Not too far now. Her station was the seventh. She was near the door when the train reached the Louvre station. A young man behind her asked to get by. He was almost out of the door when he saw the green uniforms at the top of the stairs and the line beginning to form as people stopped to show their papers. He stepped backward, his heel coming down heavily on Linda's right foot. She gave a muffled cry. He swung awkwardly around, mumbling, “Pardon.” But he still stared at the checkpoint. Behind him, coming into the car from farther up the train, were two men, both wearing hats and unremarkable gray suits, but their eyes darted from seat to seat, from face to face.