Escape From Paris

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “It’s a good thing she didn’t get picked up carrying that much money in cash. They would have thrown her to the Gestapo for sure.”

  “Yes.” That was all Linda said.

  “Linda.” He stopped and pulled her gently around to face him. “Please forgive me. Damn stupid thing to say.”

  She shook her head and tried to smile but couldn’t. “They’re going to catch her. One day, Jonathan. One day they will.”

  “No.” He said it heartily, wishing he believed it. He almost believed it. “Eleanor is careful. She isn’t a daredevil. One day she will look around and weigh up the risks and decide it’s time to get out. She’s doing it for Andre. But one day she will decide she owes him the safety of his son.”

  Linda looked up at him. “Do you think so, Jonathan? Do you really?”

  “I’m sure of it. Eleanor isn’t a fool.” If Linda believed Eleanor and Robert would follow her out of France, she could in good conscience leave. “She’ll leave, Linda,” he repeated emphatically, “I know she will.”

  Linda shivered.

  “You’re too cold. Let’s go in now.”

  “Not yet. I like it up here. With you.”

  “Oh, it’s a fine place. Come over here and I’ll show you my favorite view.” He took her hand and led her between chimneys. “Watch out there. There’s a skylight.”

  “You certainly know your way.”

  “I know it by heart. Here, around this chimney.”

  They came out into a flat bare space on the northwest corner of the building. He pointed and in the faint thin moonlight she could see the dark immensity of Notre Dame and its thin unmistakable spire.

  “It’s lovely,” she said softly. “Even now.”

  “The Germans can’t ruin Notre Dame.”

  “Just everything else.”

  “Not everything.”

  She looked up and wished she could see his face in the darkness.

  “Linda.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to frighten you, but I want to show you something.”

  For an instant she had felt safe but the nightmare never ended. What did he want to show her, an apartment rented by the Gestapo?

  “Come this way. See, you go around this chimney. Over there’s the trapdoor. Do you see which way we are coming?”

  “Yes.” She stumbled along with him, ready now to go downstairs. At least it would be warm. But she walked with him, his arm guiding her.

  “See.” They stopped by the coping. “The corner building is only one floor lower than this building. I checked it out once in the daytime, too. You could jump—”

  “Jump?”

  “Like Franz. That’s what gave me the idea. Robert told me how he did it. If the Gestapo came, you could come up here and stand just about here, see Linda, and jump. There’s a clear smooth space down there, looks like the roof’s been tarred at some time or other so it wouldn’t be too slick, unless there was ice. If you could make it to that building, you’d have a chance to get to the street and get away.”

  Linda clung to his arm. She looked where he pointed, at the opposite roof. She didn’t look down into the crevice between the buildings.

  “It isn’t too far, is it?” she asked coolly and she was proud of her voice. It sounded as though she really didn’t think it much of a distance at all. She had been frightened too many times with Jonathan. This once he was not going to know that the hand tucked through his arms sweated inside its glove, that she didn’t look into the alleyway between the buildings because she couldn’t bear heights, that it might as well be five hundred feet as five.

  He was strikingly handsome. A thick black brush mustache, a bold nose, bolder eyes. He loved champagne and pretty girls, and most of all, he loved to fly. But tonight his face was grim, his full wide mouth compressed. He reached for a cigar, then lay it back on his rickety desk. He had no appetite for a good cigar now. No appetite at all.

  In the mess tonight, his men had raised their glasses and laughed heartily, but their eyes were strained. It wasn’t good form to notice the men who were gone, but tonight had been the worst night yet.

  Seven pilots lost. Seven. And they had already filled places emptied in October and September and August. How many men were they going to lose?

  Adolph Galland slammed his hand against his desk. Goering’s directive was insane. Tying the ME109s as escorts to the slower bombers was like putting brakes on a sled. Often the bombers were late to the rendezvous, making the fighters use up too much of their fuel so that by the time they were over England, their reserves were down to nothing and they had ten minutes to fight then had to start back across the Channel or be forced to ditch midway because they had run out of fuel.

  How many of the men lost tonight had run out of fuel? Maybe most of them. He looked down the list of names. All of their families would be notified but he felt as their commanding officer a duty to write to their nearest relative. He would wait a day or two to be sure none of them had been picked up by a seaplane. But there were two letters he must go ahead and write. He had seen both planes go down and the pilots had no parachutes. One pilot would have had no hope in any event, the plane breaking up.

  That newest young man, God, what was his name? Fritz. Lieutenant Fritz Weber. A nice boy. Though he’d scarcely had a chance to get to know him. Fritz had been so polite, so careful of protocol. He had lost some of his reserve though that one night, talking about his visit to Paris. He had an uncle there, a major.

  Galland pushed back his chair and went to the baggage piled in the corner of the office. Yes, this was Weber’s. He riffled through the gathered-up odds and ends until he found a pile of letters. He received letters from his mother, Frau Marta Weber, and from his uncle, Maj. Erich Krause.

  Galland sighed. He’d better write both of them.

  Krause picked up the letter with a since of anticipation. A letter from Maj. Galland, Fritz’s commanding officer. Had Fritz been commended for gallantry? For an instant, Krause pictured his nephew, standing rigid in his uniform, his head high while Goering slipped over his head the sky blue ribbon with its dangling Iron Cross. It wouldn’t be anything that spectacular, of course. Not yet. But Fritz had written him the week before and, modestly, quietly mentioned that he already had three planes to his credit. Fritz had a great future.

  The words leapt up at him, brutally, flattening his face in shock.

  “. . . Fritz fought gallantly. He had dived on a Spitfire, but the Spitfire timed it well. It waited until the last instant then made a tight turn. Fritz tried to follow but the ME109 couldn’t take the stress. The Spitfire came around and its shells caught Fritz’s plane amidships. The plane exploded. It is an unhappy duty to be the bearer of such news but I do assure you, Maj. Krause, that your nephew gave his life in the . . .”

  Krause blindly put the letter down on his desk.

  Exploded.

  Fritz seared by flame, his flesh burning, his body turning black, shrinking.

  Krause pushed back from his desk, walked unsteadily across the room. He grabbed up his overcoat and turned toward the stairs. Fritz, Fritz . . .

  “Franz, I’ve found a perfect pair of boots.”

  Franz was standing by the window of the Latin Quarter apartment, looking down into the bleak wintry street. He turned slowly to face Eleanor.

  She was smiling, pulling off her fur coat and wool scarf, fumbling to open a package wrapped in newspapers. What luck, she thought. Father Laurent seemed to be able to manage everything. “Look, Franz, they are thick leather. With some wool socks, you will be very well outfitted.”

  The slight dark boy walked reluctantly across the room. He didn’t reach for the boot that she held out.

  Slowly, her hand dropped. “Franz, what’s wrong?”

  He spoke very formally, his voice stiff. “I thank you, Mme. Masson, but I do not need the boots. You must give them to someone else.”

  “Franz, of course, you need them. The snow is very deep in
the mountains now.”

  “Mme. Masson, please, I won’t be going to the mountains.” He gazed at her with desperate stricken eyes. She laid the boots to one side and looked at Robert, who had come to stand beside his friend.

  “Franz can’t leave Paris, Mother. Not when he doesn’t know what’s happened to his family. He can’t do that.”

  Eleanor looked at the two boys, one beginning to grow so tall, beginning to look like a young man, the other still as slightly built as a child. But they were both just boys. How do you tell boys of evil? Of hopelessness? “Franz, Robert, we must talk.”

  “Ma’am?” A white-faced English captain jumped up from the couch. “Ma’am, you aren’t intending to send a child with us? It’s madness. A child can’t keep up.”

  Eleanor lifted her head. “Captain, you are here by our grace. It isn’t for you to choose who travels with you. We help anyone who needs help to escape the Nazis. That includes children, Captain.”

  “But you can tell he’s a Jew just by looking at him.”

  “Captain.” Her voice was steely.

  “I’m not going,” Franz cried. “You don’t need to worry, I’m not going.”

  Jonathan was beside the captain now, pulling his arm to turn him away from Eleanor and the children. “Captain, you are a guest.”

  Eleanor bent near Franz, pulled him close. “Come, my dear, you and Robert and I will go in the kitchen. I have a little bit of cocoa. Come, now.”

  Franz’s small hand was icy in hers, icy and trembling. He came unwillingly, his back stiff, his face white and fearful.

  She brewed the chocolate and talked the while of the weather, so cold, and the hospital she had visited that morning, so many shell shock patients still, and of the busy day ahead, of course it was always a busy day when it was time for one of the groups of soldiers to depart. She poured the cocoa and watched as the boys started to drink.

  Franz took a sip, put the mug down.

  Oh my dear, she thought, don’t look so at bay, please.

  “I can’t go.” His voice was a whisper. “My mother, my father . . .” Tears welled in his eyes. “Hilda and Gertrude.” He looked at her imploringly. “What have they done with them? Where did they take them?”

  They. The enemy. The Germans. What have they done with them?

  Eleanor looked down at the table. “I don’t know, Franz.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I will ask Father Laurent to see if he can find out anything. He has friends in the Prefecture and sometimes they know what has happened to people. Or can find out.”

  Franz’s eyes lit up.

  She wanted to cry, oh my dear, don’t hope, there isn’t any hope, not anymore, but she just watched him silently.

  “Oh, Mme. Masson, would you please. Maybe it is a matter of the proper papers. Maybe they will let them go. I mean, this is France. Maybe. . . .”

  “Maybe, Franz.”

  She left the boys in the kitchen and they were cheerful now, pulling out the checker board to play. She joined Jonathan in the living room. All of the men, there were four Englishmen this time, looked up, then quickly away.

  Eleanor ignored them. “Jonathan, I’m going to let him stay for now. We will send out the usual group next Tuesday, the 19th. Perhaps then.”

  Jonathan nodded grimly. “I’ll stay until the next group leaves. Four days can’t make any difference to me and I can look out for Franz if we travel together.”

  Eleanor smiled at him. “We will all be glad to have you stay longer, Jonathan. You know that.”

  Jonathan nodded and abruptly turned away. It was hard to be honest even with oneself. He had been quick to offer to stay and, by God, he would look out for Franz, but in his heart he knew why he delayed. Linda, where are you? When will you come? You think I’m leaving today. Linda, where are you?

  She was breathless as she hurried through the door, still remembering to shut it softly behind her, never forgetting for an instant to be careful. She looked quickly around the dim room until she found Jonathan. “I hurried. I was afraid I would miss you.”

  Jonathan knew he wouldn’t have left without seeing Linda one more time.

  Eleanor looked from one to the other. “I’ll be in the kitchen. I’m going to pack some sandwiches.”

  The apartment was cold but stuffy. Every window was taped shut and newspapers were crammed along the sills to keep out drafts. Stuffy and full of people.

  “I brought—” Linda began.

  “Let’s go up on the roof,” he said quickly. “We’ve time.”

  The white-faced captain looked after them as they went toward the door. “How is it that he gets to go up on the roof and the rest of us have to stay shut up in this damned little room?”

  Robert and Franz were resetting up their game on the living room floor. Robert looked up and said coolly, “Maybe it’s because he was wounded and has been here since September. Maybe it’s because he knows how to handle himself and some others don’t.” Robert looked down at the board, ignoring the captain’s scowl.

  It was already dusk on the roof, the early dusk of winter.

  “Over here, Linda, behind this chimney. It’s not so cold.”

  “I was afraid I had missed you,” she said and her voice was uneven, breathless. “I hurried so fast, Jonathan.” She held out a thin flat packet of newspapers to him. “Open it,” she urged.

  The gloves were oddly shaped but thick and covered with fur inside and out, a kind of grayish white fur.

  “Where did you find them?”

  “A little shop on the Boul’ Mich’. I’m afraid it’s some kind of odd fur or fake fur, but they will keep you warm.”

  “Anything will do.” He laughed and she joined him and they stood, laughing, touching the gloves, touching each other’s hands, and then they were quiet, their faces so close together.

  “Oh, Jonathan.”

  He bent his head and his lips found hers and they drew together and for that moment there was nothing else in the world but the two of them, not time or danger or despair or grief, only Linda and Jonathan.

  “I want you so much.”

  “Jonathan, Jonathan . . .”

  “Linda, listen, my dear, my love, listen, we’ve time yet, a little time.”

  “Minutes. Oh God, Jonathan.”

  “I’m not leaving today.”

  “Not leaving today?” She stopped and pulled back a fraction to look up into his face, the face that she knew so well.

  “I’m going to stay over until Tuesday. Because of Franz. He refuses to go today. He wants Eleanor to try and find out where his parents are.”

  “Tuesday.” Today was Friday. That gave them Saturday and Sunday and Monday and most of Tuesday. Until five o’clock Tuesday when the group would begin its long walk across Paris to the train depot. Long time. Short time. Some time. Time. Oh Jonathan, my dear, my love. Kiss me, Jonathan, again and again.

  “Redouble the checkpoints at all incoming train stations from the North and East.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Increase street patrols. Pick up any suspicious looking men in their twenties. Set up spot paper checks on all the main streets. Tell them to be on the look out for men who are walking and who aren’t warmly dressed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Krause lifted up the thin black cigar. He rolled it between his fingers, lifted it to his nose, breathed deeply. The box of cigars had arrived yesterday with a note in it from Fritz. Krause didn’t need to look again at the note. The words would always be in his heart: Dear Uncle, it read, please accept these cigars as a small gesture of appreciation on my part for the truly enjoyable tour of Paris. I am looking forward to returning, perhaps in December, and visiting you again. I’m finding the flying a great challenge and I feel very honored to be a part of Maj. Galland’s wing. Just time for this short note. I’ll write a longer letter next week when I have a day off. Best regards, your loving nephew, Fritz.

  Krause lit the cigar, drew in the fragrant smoke. Fritz would n
ever smoke a cigar again. Fritz would never come back to Paris. Krause slammed his hand down on his desk.

  Sgt. Schmidt jumped.

  “I want more done. More,” Krause said loudly. “I want every damned sneaking craven English soldier caught and the people who are helping them. Check daily with the Prefecture to see if they have received any information on Englishmen or those hiding them.” Krause paused, frowned, blew a thin blue stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Sometimes I think our French colleagues do not pass on to us all the information we would like.” Krause smoked in silence. “We can remedy that. Post one of our men who speaks French well at the switchboard in the Prefecture. Then we will be sure we receive the names of those who are hampering us. After all, not all Frenchmen love the British.”

  The four narrow flights up to the Latin Quarter apartment had never seemed so steep, so difficult. Eleanor climbed a little more slowly with every step. How could she tell Franz?

  No matter how slowly you climb, you must eventually reach the top. She paused at the door. At least there would not be any strangers at the apartment. Robert would at this moment be walking toward the train station to pick up this day’s new arrivals.

  Jonathan was there, of course, and Linda. Linda had stayed at the apartment over the weekend and would stay tonight, Jonathan’s last night.

  Poor Linda. But at least Jonathan is this moment alive and here. While Andre . . . but she and Andre had so many years, so many wonderful years. They fell in love so quietly, taking long walks in the Tuileries, laughing at Punch and Judy shows, eating roasted chestnuts in the winter, looking at their shimmering reflections in the Luxembourg pond. Slowly, sweetly, completely, and all the years of love, tender and passionate, exquisitely sensual, unchanging but never the same. Oh Andre, we had such fun.