She stared at the pigeon holes, bills tucked in one, correspondence in another, Robert’s school reports in a third. Why had she been such a fool to agree to help Michael? What would the Germans do to them if they found him? Put them in prison? And Robert—what would happen to Robert if they found him hiding an escaped English soldier?
Even the Germans wouldn’t put children in prison. Would they?
She remembered the Petersons’ description of their attempt to flee Paris just before the Germans reached the capital in mid-June. The roads South had been clogged, blocked by the thousands and thousands of refugees, families on foot pushing wheelbarrows or baby carriages, others riding in ramshackle trucks, old cars, school buses and farm carts, a few in limousines and hundreds on bicycles, anything and everything that could move and carry a few belongings. There was no food, no fuel. Stops along the way had been stripped of everything. If a car ran out of gas, it was shoved off the road and its owner joined the thousands on foot.
Patsy Peterson’s voice had shaken when she told them, “It was just after dawn of the 14th that the Messerschmitts came roaring down along the road, machine gunning everything in their way.”
Screams and shouts rose and fell like a long wave across the countryside. People ran off the road, jumped into ditches, hid under trees and bridges. All except those who were dead, of course. That’s how the Nazis cleared the road for troops to pass. Stolid-faced, bored-looking soldiers stared without much interest from the trucks that hurtled to the South, chasing the remnants of the French Army.
People who would machine-gun refugees just to clear the road of defeated people, what would they do to a boy, caught helping an enemy soldier?
Frank had demanded in his last letter that they come home to Pasadena, bringing Robert, of course, with them. “You damn fools, don’t wait until it’s too late and you are trapped.”
It had been two weeks before Christmas, 1939, that Frank and Betty put her and Eleanor aboard the Chief, in Pasadena, en route to Kansas City, the first leg of the long journey to France. Frank had been reluctant even then. “Dammit, Linda, there’s a war on. Eleanor has a husband there, but you don’t have to go.”
She was impatient. “No one really expects any fighting now. After all, war was declared September 3 and nothing’s happened. Nothing.”
He had nodded, but he was still opposed. “Hell of a time to go, anyway. Why don’t you spend Christmas here with us, you know the kids love having you, then think about a visit next summer if it’s safe?”
But that was just what she didn’t want to do and it was so difficult to explain to Frank. Frank, after all, was so much older. He and Eleanor had been almost grown when Linda was born. He was thirty-six and Eleanor thirty-four to her nineteen so both of them were in their college and early married years when she was a little girl. She had clear memories of them, Frank receiving his law degree, Eleanor walking down the aisle at her wedding, slim and dark-haired, smiling radiantly. But Linda didn’t actually know either of them well. Frank and Eleanor hadn’t grown up in the same way either, though they all had the same parents. Her mother and father had delighted in Linda, the late-come, last child. She had traveled almost everywhere with them. They were on their way to see Linda, to pick her up for a weekend from Mills, when their small plane, lost in fog, had crashed into the Tehachapi Mountains. The loss of their parents had been a grief, of course, to Frank and to Eleanor, but not the devastating loss it had been to Linda. When Eleanor, home for the funeral, urged Linda to come back to France with her, Linda accepted at once.
She couldn’t bear to stay in Pasadena, to spend Christmas at Frank’s house, and to know that her own home, shuttered, dark, sat silently only ten blocks away. Perhaps, as far away as France, where everything was different, there would not be so many reminders of her parents.
And Paris swept her feelings far from America. Except for the nightly blackout and the colorful mixture of uniforms on the streets, Paris was unaffected by the war. The Phony War. With Robert as her willing guide, Linda learned to know Paris, from the unmistakable ironwork of the Eiffel Tower to the twisty, winding streets of Montmartre. She and Robert and Eleanor were sitting at a sidewalk café in the shadow of Sacre-Couer the Tuesday afternoon in April when the newsboy came up the street waving his paper and shouting, “Germans in Denmark. Germans in Denmark.” But it was the horror of Rotterdam, the merciless vicious bombing of a city when surrender was in progress that turned the war from an uneasy rumble in the background of their lives to the all consuming reality that dominated every day. It was then that Linda wanted to go home. This wasn’t her war. But, abruptly, Andre was gone, called up with his unit, and she didn’t want to leave Eleanor alone.
It was on June 5, when German troops were reported attacking all along the Somme, that Eleanor, her plump face pale and unsmiling, had urged Linda to leave.
“I talked to Patsy Peterson this morning. They are getting ready to leave and they have room for you. They are going to drive to St. Jean-de-Luz and cross into Spain.”
“What about you and Robert?”
“I can’t leave when I don’t know what’s happened to Andre. What if he reached Paris and we were gone? But that’s no reason for you to stay.”
Linda had grown fond, these last few months, of this almost unknown sister with her vivid lively black eyes and good-natured plump face. A good woman, a good mother, a good wife, facing now a bleak and frightening future, but facing that future, Linda realized, with grace and charity. Eleanor didn’t know what had happened to her husband, but she worked long hours visiting the hospitals near Paris, trying to help wounded, bitter men get some word of home and some word to home. It was only late at night, when Robert slept, that Linda would wake and hear the soft rustle from the living room, Eleanor pacing wearily up and down, up and down, hoping news would come, dreading what it might be.
So Linda had refused to go home to America. She knew, if she stayed, she could be some help and support. If nothing else, she and Robert could stand in those interminable lines for food, freeing Eleanor for her hospital trips, and help keep up the apartment. At the outbreak of fighting, Eleanor’s maid, Marie, had left to go to her family in Toulouse.
It had never occurred to Linda that she might bring danger to Eleanor and Robert.
Linda sat stiffly, listening, hearing the heavy thump of men’s feet on the apartment house stairs. She was expecting it, knew it was coming, but, still, the thunderous unremitting knocking on the door shocked her. Her hand closed convulsively around the pen and a thick dark stain angled down the page.
Eleanor stood in the hall doorway.
“Linda, would you answer the door, please. My hands are floury.”
Linda pushed back her chair, hurried across the room. Eleanor looked as though she’d been in the kitchen all afternoon, her apron smudged with flour, even a streak of flour across one cheek. A marvelous bacony aroma wafted from the kitchen. Linda knew there hadn’t been any bacon in months, not since April at least. But Eleanor was brilliant at improvising. Turning to go back to the kitchen, Eleanor called out something about, “. . . I can’t leave the stove or the grease will get too hot . . . fritters . . . do see what all that noise is about . . .”
Linda opened the door, ready to ask with a fine show of innocence what was wanted, but she had no chance to say anything.
“Step clear,” he ordered in French.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice thin and strained.
The two men ignored her. She saw with horror that the heavy-set blond man held a gun in his right hand. He moved swiftly, almost running, down the hall that led to the bedrooms and kitchen. She heard Eleanor’s startled cry and then her sister was in the living room, darting toward the telephone. She grabbed up the receiver, began to dial. The older man caught her by the arm and pressed down the cradle.
Eleanor turned on him in a fury, her words coming so fast she could scarcely catch her breath. “. . . think you are! I’ll thank you
to get out of my apartment! I’m calling the police. Now. Immediately.”
“So you are English. That is very interesting, Mme. Masson. It makes everything quite understandable.”
“I am not English,” Eleanor said crisply, “though I can’t see what business it is of yours. I am an American married to a Frenchman and I have lived in Paris for sixteen years. Now, I will thank you to explain why you have pushed into my apartment. And who is he?” She jerked her head toward the thick-set blond who was coming back into the living room, carrying the gun.
Linda watched, her eyes wide. She had seen scenes such as that in Al Capone movies but she had never before actually watched a man matter-of-factly thrust a hand gun beneath his coat.
“Mme. Masson, my assistant, Sgt. Schmidt. I am Maj. Erich Krause.” He inclined his head a little. “Of the Geheime Staats Polizei.” He paused, added, “The Gestapo, Mme. Masson.”
None of them moved or spoke.
Krause stared at Eleanor. She started to speak. He chopped the air once, sharply, with his right hand. Eleanor flushed but said nothing. The major looked at his assistant.
Sgt. Schmidt shook his head.
Krause frowned, turned again toward Eleanor. “So you are an American. That is no excuse, Mme. Masson.”
“Excuse?”
“For harboring an escaped British soldier.”
Eleanor gave a sigh of relief. “I can assure you we aren’t involved in anything of that sort. And, of course, Sgt. Schmidt didn’t find anyone because we don’t have anyone hidden here.”
Krause’s face hardened. “We know, Mme. Masson, that Lt. Michael Evans escaped from Douellens today in the trunk of your car. Now it does no good to make denials. We have an eyewitness. It will only make things go harder for you if you lie. However, if you cooperate, surrender the fugitive to us, and give us your solemn assurances that you will not engage in any such criminal activities in the future, well, I think perhaps my superiors would agree to let the matter drop there.”
Linda watched his thin grayish face with a kind of fascination. His head, the skin drawn back tightly over the temples, reminded her of a snake’s, the way a caged reptile will lift his head and move it, swaying slowly, from side to side, small eyes glittering. But he was lying to them. How could an eyewitness have seen Eleanor and described her, small and dark and plump, when it had been she, Linda, who drove the car? No one could confuse them. She was a good three inches taller and slender and her hair was red-gold.
“Maj. Krause,” Linda interrupted breathlessly, her voice high, “your informant must be very confused. It was I, not my sister, who visited Douellens today. Eleanor had a dental appointment so I went instead. Since this trip was already planned, I took her place. But I certainly didn’t bring an English soldier back with me. Why, I’ve never been there before and didn’t know a soul. Besides, the sentry who checked my papers can tell you I was alone when I left.”
“She certainly didn’t have anyone with her,” Eleanor said emphatically. “She arrived here about forty-five minutes ago. Alone.”
Krause looked at Linda.
Linda held her face unmoving. Don’t let him see you are afraid, she thought, don’t let him see. But she was afraid, terribly afraid.
“So it was you.”
Her breath caught in her throat. The way he said that . . .
“You won’t object then, Miss . . .”
“Rossiter.”
“. . . if Hans checks your car for fingerprints,” and his shining green eyes watched her avidly.
Somehow she managed not to change expression, not to reflect the sudden surge of panic. She had concentrated so hard on not revealing her instinctive, innate revulsion to him that her face was already frozen in a blank emptiness.
“Fingerprints?” she repeated stupidly.
“Yes. If you came home alone from the hospital, then there will be no trace of Lt. Evans’ fingerprints in your car or trunk.”
“Oh, I see,” she said slowly. “I’ll . . . I’ll get the keys.”
The men walked on either side of her down the stairs and out into the street.
She held the keys and looked straight ahead. His fingerprints would be in the trunk. Could she run away? But no, that wouldn’t do any good. That would just leave Eleanor and Robert to be arrested even if she should by a miracle escape.
They walked on either side of her, so close. A corporal from their car came behind, carrying a valise. It was an eerie passage. Every door stayed closed. No one walked down the street. No children played on the sidewalks. It was just at dusk on a soft summer evening but the street was as empty as though a plague had stripped it clean. A curtain twitched on the right. All down the street she was conscious of watching eyes.
The Germans seemed oblivious to the deathlike quiet. Perhaps they were used to it.
The garage was empty, too, though she knew Pierre usually sat in the little room just off to the right. The evening paper lay atop a rickety wooden table. A chair was pushed back.
Deny everything, she told herself firmly. That was her only chance. And Eleanor and Robert and Lt. Evan’s only chance, too. Deny everything If they find his fingerprints, shrug your shoulders. You don’t know anything. Anything!
Schmidt held out his hand for the keys.
She was so involved in her thoughts as he opened the trunk that she wasn’t even aware how carefully Krause was watching her and the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. She stood back to give them both room.
The corporal dusted a fine gray powder along the rim of the trunk. Schmidt studied the thin gray film then spoke briefly in German. Krause nodded slowly, his face expressionless. Then he turned to Linda.
“It appears, Miss Rossiter, that we have been in error.”
Linda was too surprised to respond.
“We do not, of course, wish to inconvenience American citizens. It was only because of the seriousness of the crime that we have been forced to insist upon an immediate search.”
Linda nodded formally, politely, but inside she whistled with excitement. They had done it, they had fooled the Gestapo, the all-mighty, all-powerful Gestapo. And now, the imperious Germans were, for them, apologizing. It was an example of the “correctness” of which she had heard. So far, the occupying forces had been so polite, so correct, in their dealings with the French. If a German officer wanted an apartment, he very politely dispossessed the owner. The apartment was “requisitioned.”
But the Gestapo wasn’t so smart. They had been bluffing about the fingerprints. Obviously, they didn’t have Lt. Evans’ fingerprints because, of course, they were liberally sprinkled about in the trunk, but she only nodded soberly, politely, as she listened to Krause.
When he finished, she held out her hand for the car keys. Schmidt gave them to her. Once again she nodded, then she turned and walked steadily out of the garage.
Eleanor and Robert were waiting in the apartment.
“It was a trick,” Linda burst out immediately. “They didn’t have his fingerprints.”
“We should have known that,” Eleanor said disgustedly. “That’s the trouble with being scared to death, it keeps you from thinking. Of course, they haven’t fingerprinted all those wounded soldiers. It’s a hospital, not a prison. They aren’t fingerprinted until they are transferred to the Citadel.”
Eleanor pushed up from the chair, walked to the window and looked obliquely down into the street. “They’re standing by their car. Here comes a soldier, a sergeant. He’s talking to Krause and there are other soldiers, coming out of the cellar.”
Robert came close to peer around his mother’s shoulder. “They’re alone,” he said excitedly, “They didn’t find him. I knew they wouldn’t. It’s a good place, the best place, nobody ever finds me when we play hide and go seek.”
“Robert’s right. They’ve given up. Look, there’s the truck and the soldiers are climbing into it. Oh, thank God.”
When the truck rumbled out of the street, following the slee
k gray Citroen, Eleanor hugged her son. “Robert, I’m so proud of you. We wouldn’t have managed without you.”
He tried very hard to look matter-of-fact, but he fairly glowed with pride. “It’s just lucky I came home when I did.”
There was an instant’s silence.
Some of the elation drained out of Eleanor’s face. “Lucky,” she repeated. “Yes, we’ve been lucky so far. But what are we going to do now?”
“You’re bleeding!”
Jonathan looked down. Blood oozed through his trousers
“Here.” The boy worked fast, cutting the tangling parachute loose, thrusting a swath of silk at Jonathan. “Wrap your leg. Fast.”
Quickly, grimacing, Jonathan wrapped the silk around his leg. He tried to stand.
“Wait, I’ll help.” The boy jumped nearer and pulled Jonathan up.
From beyond a nearby hill, smoke rose in a thin plume.
“That’s from your plane,” the French boy said. “We’ve got to hurry. The Boche will be here soon.”
Jonathan looked around the field where he had landed. “There’s no place to hide.”
“I have a cart up on the road. Through those trees.”
Jonathan’s face glistened with sweat by the time they gained the road, his leg throbbed with a hot angry pain. The boy took a moment to look up and down the gray dusty road. Quickly he shifted burlap sacks that looked lumpy. “I’ve made a place for you. Once you’re up, I can arrange the bags to hide you. Don’t move. Don’t talk. We’ve got to get away from the plane.”
The cart began to move. Jonathan felt pressure against him from a bag, smelled the sweet scent of apples.
Jonathan wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he dimly heard a voice. He thought maybe he’d lost consciousness. He understood dimly that the rickety transport was no longer moving. Somebody had helped him. . .
Escape From Paris Page 5