Escape From Paris (22 page)

“Tonight,” Linda repeated. “Tell me what to do. Tell me.”

“Continue the alcohol baths. Continue to drain the wound.” She shrugged. “And pray, Mademoiselle.” She stopped at the doorway, “I will return tomorrow.”

She stepped into the living room, motioning Eleanor to come. In a low voice, she said worriedly, “I hope you understand, Mme. Masson, I cannot give you a death certificate.”

“I understand. If I can obtain a French identity, the identity of the man to whom this apartment is rented, could you then give us a death certificate?”

“If his papers included discharge from a military hospital, to account for the wound,” the doctor said carefully, “then perhaps I could risk it.”

Eleanor nodded. “I will see to it. But, whatever happens, Dr. Gailland, we will make sure you are protected. I promise you that.”

The doctor smiled. “I trust you,” she said simply.

Jamison waited until the door closed behind the doctor, then he confronted Eleanor. “What was all that jabber about? What did the lady doctor say?”

One more problem to deal with. She had to settle Jamison down. If he burst out onto the street, wandered around, he would certainly be picked up and in his present emotional state, he would be an easy mark for the Gestapo. That was the first moment Eleanor realized how vulnerable she and Linda and Robert were to the men they were trying to help. There was always the chance the men would be picked up somewhere down the line of the escape route. It would take only one of them to talk, to tell all he knew, to lead the Gestapo to the apartment just off the rue Saint Jacques. After this, they must not reveal their names to the soldiers. There was no way, of course, that they could hide their nationality. It wouldn't take the Gestapo long to sift through the Americans still left in Paris and find them. Eleanor pushed a hand against her temple. So it didn't matter much if they remained nameless, though it might be a little protection.

“Mme. Masson,” Jamison persisted, “Did she say he was dying?”

Eleanor managed a smile. “He's doing much better. She expects to see a marked improvement by the time she comes again tomorrow. So you see, you can relax. I will fix some dinner for all of us soon. That will make you feel better. Until then, why don't you rest?”

He rubbed nervously at his unshaven chin. “Rest. I can't rest. I haven't slept in nights Every time I go to sleep, I see bodies, all stiff and hard, arms and legs sticking in funny shapes, and I smell that rotten stink, then I wake up. I can't rest.”

“Frank, come look at this.”

Jamison half turned.

Kittredge was gesturing for him to come. “This magazine has a map, lad. Come let me show you. It even shows the way the railroad line runs to Bordeaux. That's where we're going. Come here and I'll show you.”

Jamison moved heavily across the room, his head and shoulders rigid with strain, but, in a moment, he sat down beside Kittredge and bent over the map.

Wearily, Eleanor turned toward the kitchen. She began to set the round wooden table. She had just put a saucepan of water on to boil, surely Robert would bring back something to cook, when he banged in the front door.

“Hey, Mother,” he called excitedly, “Look what I have.” He emptied out the mesh bag onto the counter top and unrolled several sheets of the Paris Soir. “Look at these.”

“How marvelous.” A year ago, she wouldn't have considered buying these lamb chops. They were thin and small and the meat looked more grayish than pink, but now her face lighted up. She unrolled the last sheet. One, two, three, four, five.

“I could only get five, mother. I'll share mine with you.”

Five. Three soldiers and Linda and Robert and herself. Hunger was constant these days. She woke up hungry. She went to bed hungry. She turned to reach for the skillet. “Oh no, Robert, that's all right. The five will do perfectly. I ate earlier. At the hospital.”

It was a cheerful dinner for the three Englishmen and Robert. Robert described a vacation the Masons had taken in Bordeaux and the magnificent forest of pine trees, Les Landes. Eleanor carried Linda's dinner to her and watched her sister eat. Linda left an edge of crust on her plate. When Eleanor was back in the kitchen, she took the crust and slowly, carefully rubbed it in the skillet, absorbing the grease. She ate the scrap of bread very, very slowly and drank a half glass of wine.

She warned Linda, before she and Robert left, to tell anyone who asked that Jonathan Harris was improving. “One of them, Jamison,” Eleanor gestured toward the living room, “is upset. Battle fatigue, I suppose. He threatened to leave, wander the streets when he thought Jonathan was dying. We can't afford to have him on the streets.”

Linda's pale face flushed. “Let him go,” she said angrily. “Why should we care what happens to anyone who is selfish enough to—”

“Hush,” Eleanor said sharply. “Please, Linda, do as I ask. I have to think of everyone, protect all of us. If he were picked up by the Gestapo, we might all be lost.”

Slowly the flush faded from Linda's face. She looked down at Jonathan, lying so still on the narrow bed. “She said the crisis would be tonight.”

“Linda, you go home with Robert, I'll stay. You have done more than your share.”

“No.”

Later, Linda wondered why she had not accepted. She still fought waves of nausea every time she opened the dressing, pulled loose the tubing and reached for a swab. Her lips pressed tightly together, her hand tensed to still its tremors, she edged the swab into the open wound and carefully pressed it forward. Only a trickle of pus appeared. Had she pushed it deep enough? Gingerly she moved it again, the breadth of the opening. Almost nothing. Was that good? She looked up at his face. His features were as distant and unmoving as marble effigies she had seen on medieval caskets. She tossed the swab into the wastebasket, gently redressed the wound.

“Live, Jonathan. Live. Do you hear me?” She bent near his still face, felt his breath touch her lightly, lightly as the ripple of water beside a swan.

She knew his face now, knew it as she had never known another face, the curve of the forehead, the strong sharp line of his nose, the fullness of his mouth, the almost unnoticeable indentation in his chin, hidden now by the growth of bristly reddish beard. She knew his hands, long slender hands that looked both strong and oddly helpless as he lay so quietly. The fever was gone. Surely that was an improvement. But he lay so still.

Linda straightened the sickroom. It was quiet throughout the apartment now. They turned off the lights at dusk, of course, because of the blackout. They had not yet had time to cover the windows with blackout-proof curtains. Eleanor had promised to try and get the material tomorrow. The drawn curtains weren't sufficient to hide a light so the men dropped off to sleep soon after sunset.

In the bedroom, Linda had covered the window with towels. She didn't risk the electric light. The wavering shine of the candle gave her enough light to tend to Jonathan but wasn't bright enough to penetrate the towels.

She lay down on the pallet she had fixed beside the bed, setting the candle holder beside her. She lit a cigarette and slowly smoked it, staring into the wavering darkness, watching the flicker of the candlelight against the ceiling.

Jonathan Harris. Jonathan Harris. A nice name. He looked nice. He looked kind. What did his face look like when he laughed? What made him laugh? Chaplin films? Did he roar at the Little Tramp or was his humor quiet and subtle and wry? Jonathan Harris . What was he like?

When she woke, the candle had burned down almost to a stub. She checked her watch. Time again to tend to Jonathan. She struggled up to her feet, stiff from sleeping on the floor. It was getting so much cooler at night now. What were they going to use for fuel and warmth this winter? Their coal allowance, 55 pounds a month, was only enough to heat one room in the other apartment for two hours daily. There wasn't any extra to bring here. They would have to bundle up.

She put a new candle in the holder and set the light on the table beside the bed. She would have to get fresh water. She reached out and gently touched Jonathan's face. Oh good, the fever hadn't returned. His face felt cool and normal and he was still breathing.

His head turned on the pillow, turned toward her. His eyes opened. Dark brown eyes, defenseless and trusting.

“Jonathan.”

He stared at her with a kind of wonder in his eyes.

“You . . .”

She smiled at him, smiled and leaned closer and the candlelight turned her reddish blond hair into shimmering gold. “Jonathan, can you talk? How do you feel? Oh my God, you're awake. That's wonderful.”

He smiled a little too. “Who are . . . you?”

She laughed, a tiny soft triumphant laugh. “I'm Linda.”

“Linda.”

“I'll get you some water. I'll go get some fresh—”

“Wait.” His voice was thick and rusty and dry. He reached up to gently touch her sleeve. “Linda. I thought you were a dream.”

Jonathan turned his head to smile as Linda came in the room.

“Hello. Jonathan. I've brought you some books.”

Jonathan struggled up on an elbow. “Oh, I say, Linda, that's kind of you. I didn't mean to put you to the trouble when you have so much you must do.”

“It was no trouble,” she said quickly. And it hadn't been. It had been fun to look through Eleanor and Andre's library and select books she thought might please him. She crossed to the bed and smiled down at him. He looked better. Every day he looked better, his color ruddier, and his eyes brighter. He was too thin. Painfully thin, but so were they all. Hunger was constant, a dull gnawing ache that never left. She put the books down beside him and her hand brushed his.

“Linda, sit here by me and show me what you've brought.”

She perched on the edge of the bed. “It won't crowd you?”

“No.” His dark eyes watched her steadily.

Her hair fell softly around her face. A soft flush touched her cheeks. She pointed to the first book, “It's a French translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.”

His hand covered hers as she traced the title. “Sir Gawain. Linda, you could not have brought me a better book.”

She smiled. “Oh Jonathan, you are pleased, aren't you?”

“Pleased,” he repeated softly. “Yes, I'm pleased.” Then in a rush, he said, “Linda, you are beautiful, so beautiful,” and he reached up to pull her down to him and his mouth found hers.

Despite the sharp icy gusts of wind, a little crowd gathered to watch the itinerant artist. He hunkered down, his ears red with cold beneath the black beret, his thin shoulders shivering under the frayed gray jacket, but his hand moved in short sure strokes, drawing in chalk against the sidewalk the twin towers and huge rose window of Chartres. Robert edged in beside two teenage girls. Robert didn't even look at the artist, instead, his gaze swung up above the center spire of the drawing. In blue chalk, a flock of birds rose. Five birds. So there would be five Englishman to meet today.

Robert looked beyond the drawing of the Cathedral at a red chalk portrait, half hidden by a Pomeranian on a leash. Robert waited patiently until the dog moved a few steps. There, partially smudged, of no interest to anyone, was another drawing of a squat figure wearing a monocle and carrying a cane.

Whistling, Robert turned and strolled away. Five Englishmen shepherded by a plump man wearing a monocle and carrying a cane. Robert grinned in delight. This was fun, more fun than school, more fun than anything had been since the war started. He loved picking up fugitive Englishmen right under the noses of the Germans, leading them safely across Paris to the apartment. He looked forward to his days as the guide. They took turns, he, his mother and Aunt Linda, to avoid attracting the attention of Germans nosing around the railroad station. It wouldn't do for anyone to notice that one of them came, for example, every Monday and Thursday. But he wished he could meet the train every time. When he saw the black uniform of an SS officer, Robert grinned to himself, oh haven't we fooled you, haven't we done it.