Escape From Paris

by Carolyn G. Hart

  She still stood by the door. She had to go inside. She had to tell Franz. She had to do that and then so much else this raw gray wintry day. It was such a cold day. A bad day for the old to be out. Should she call Mme. Leclerc, say she would come by to pick up the money? But it was better to keep to their meeting at the Arc, safer for Madame. The money was a huge help. They could keep the apartment going and their twice weekly groups of Englishmen at least until spring with that much money. Thank God for Madame.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs below her. Eleanor opened the door and entered the apartment.

  “Eleanor?” Linda poked her head out of the kitchen. “Jonathan and I are making some bread for them to take tomorrow.”

  “Good.” Eleanor looked around. “Where is Franz?”

  He poked his head up over the couch, then flung himself up and around it to race toward Eleanor. “Madame, Madame, have you found out anything?”

  “I found out.” She stopped, swallowed. “I talked to Father Laurent and he asked his friends in the Prefecture. They knew. It seems there was a huge roundup all across Paris . . . of families. Most of them had fled Germany in ’38 or ’39.”

  Franz nodded, his head jerking up and down, his dark eyes never leaving Eleanor’s face. “Where did they take them?”

  She forced out the words. “The trucks went directly to the Gare de L’Est. The trains left the next morning for Germany.” Hundreds of people of all sorts, old women, babies, children, mothers and fathers, crammed fifty or sixty to a car. Open cattle cars. In the coldest November in modern memory.

  “Left for Germany?” Franz repeated numbly.

  “Franz, I’m sorry. But you had to know.”

  “Left? Mutter . . .” His thin narrow face quivered. “Where did they go?”

  “Father Laurent said his informant thought the trains were scheduled to a camp named Buchenwald but he wasn’t sure.” She watched Franz’s face but it didn’t change when she said Buchenwald. He didn’t know then what they said of it, what Father Laurent had told her of it. Oh Franz.

  “Mutter will be worried about me.”

  “Franz, I’m sure she must guess that you escaped and that will give her something to hold on to. She must be so happy that you are not with them.”

  Eleanor began to open her purse. “I want to show you something, Franz, something very important. Father Laurent has a friend who can make the most beautiful official papers and I’ve had him draw up papers showing that you are mine and Andre’s adopted son.”

  She slipped her arm around him, drew him toward the couch. “Let’s sit down here. I want to show you. Now, these papers are very important to you, the papers and the letter I’ve written to my brother, which will make it possible for you to go to America.”

  “America? But that’s so far.”

  Eleanor nodded soberly. “I know, Franz. But you will be safe there. Someday, when the war is over, we will find your family.”

  Bewildered, he looked down at the stamped notarized adoption papers and the letter, folded very small. “You must leave with the group tomorrow night, Franz, when Jonathan goes. He will take care of you and make sure that you reach the right American officials in Spain.”

  He listened intently as she explained it all to him. When she left, he was reading her brother’s name, “Mr. Frank Lassiter of Pasadena, California, Mr. Frank Lassiter of Pasadena, California.”

  She didn’t go in the kitchen to talk to Linda and Jonathan. This was their last day. Let them have every possible instant together. She only poked her head in the door. “I’m on my way now.”

  Linda turned toward her. She looked very young and happy, her face flushed with exertion, a smudge of flour along one cheek, her eyes smiling. “We have some ersatz coffee.”

  “I don’t have time. I have to meet the lady who has the money and I’ve just time to get there. I won’t see you until tomorrow. You and Robert will be staying here tonight, won’t you?”

  Some of the light left Linda’s eyes. “Yes. Oh yes.”

  “It will be Franz’s last night, too, Linda. Try to console him. His family is already on its way to Germany so I’m sending him home to Frank. Tell Franz you will be starting home, too, next month.”

  Tell it to a little boy who must cross the Pyrenees by stealth in November. Tell it as if it were so certain you will be seeing him again, Eleanor thought, as she started down the stairs. But it was better for Franz to make the dangerous journey than to stay in France. There was no hope for Franz here. If he could reach Spain, and Jonathan would see that he reached Spain if he humanly could, then Franz might have a chance to make the long difficult journey to America.

  More chance than his family had.

  The cold was bitter when she reached the street. Eleanor bent against the wind, stayed close to the walls of the buildings, as she walked to the Metro. As the train rattled across Paris, jammed as usual, hot with the body heat of travelers, she thought about the Glickmans. They had been arrested a week ago on Monday night. The train, cattle cars, had left Tuesday morning. Tomorrow it would be a week. Surely they had reached the camp by now. If the train hadn’t been shunted to a side rail while troop or goods trains passed. Were there other families like the Glickmans still in Paris whom they might be able to help? She would have to ask Father Laurent. With the money Mme. Leclerc was giving, they could handle more travelers.

  The people streaming up to street level at the Etoile stop didn’t seem as numerous as usual. Eleanor remembered why as she neared the top of the Metro steps. She could hear the loud clear overweening blare of the brass and the dull heavy beat of the drums. She didn’t look at the goose-stepping band. Like all French, she had learned to ignore what she would not see. Halfway up the steps, Eleanor hesitated. Had they been foolish to pick this hour when the Champs-Elysees was almost deserted? But then she saw Mme. Leclerc at the top of the steps. Eleanor hurried up to her.

  No one was paying any attention to them. Mme. Leclerc stood as if about to descend the steps. They didn’t speak, but brushed close together and the small square packet slipped from the elderly woman’s hands to Eleanor’s. For an instant, Mme. Leclerc’s hand patted Eleanor, then she turned away, walking slowly toward the waiting car. Eleanor stood for a moment at the top of the steps, shrugged, as if she had changed her mind and turned to walk back down into the Metro.

  A heavyset woman with a mottled face followed her. Margot moved quickly for her bulk, keeping only a few feet behind Eleanor, pushing into the same car when the right train came. They got off at the next stop, Eleanor first, Margot following.

  She’s not noticed me, Margot thought. She’s too busy thinking about the money. If I hadn’t lost her last week, she wouldn’t have the money. Twenty-five thousand francs. Money that should belong to Jules and me. I won’t lose her now. This is the last time she will get money from Madame.

  Eleanor huddled in the dark living room in the plum-colored overstuffed chair that had always been Andre’s. It was too large for her but it gave plenty of room for her fur coat and two blankets and an afghan. She was warm for the first time in days. She should go to bed. It was almost eleven. But there never seemed any reason to go to bed any more. No one there to talk to, to share her day. No one to hold her. She didn’t sleep well alone.

  Andre, Andre . . .

  She opened her mind, calling out to him, willing him to answer. There was nothing, nothing, nothing at all, just the silence of the empty apartment and the still night, Parisians barred from their own streets, nothing to give her hope that Andre lived.

  If he lived, she would know. She would feel his thoughts, feel his care across miles and time. There was nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Eleanor pushed back the covers, got up from the chair and crossed to the malachite-topped table next to the fire place. She grabbed up the crumpled packet of cigarettes, wrenched one free, put it to her lips. The cigarette lighter flickered on and shadows rippled around the walls. She drew deeply on the cigarette. She wa
s smoking too much. Her throat burned raw and a deep-seated achy cough had begun. But cigarettes helped fight the constant dull pang of hunger, made it easier to take small portions for herself and give more to Robert.

  If only Robert could be safe . . . That was what every mother wanted, of course. Franz’s mother, the mothers of all the young men she was helping escape from France. Most of the fliers weren’t more than a half dozen years older than Robert. They were still boys to their mothers. So that at least was good in her life now. No matter what else she lacked, had lost. If Andre never came back, she had Robert. But she wouldn’t think about that now. It was at night that it was hardest to will away depression, hardest to keep a semblance of hope, hardest not to despair.

  Eleanor whirled away from the table, paced toward the windows. She must get to bed. It was foolish to waste energy. She didn’t have enough food to waste energy like this. She must sleep.

  She stopped by the middle front window and pulled the shade back just far enough to peer into the street. A week ago tonight the Gestapo car had slipped, its lights hooded, down the street, stopping in front of Franz’s apartment house.

  The car came slowly around the corner, eased to a stop directly beneath her window. Eleanor’s hand tightened on the wooden frame. The driver jumped out to open the back door on the sidewalk side. Two men in civilian clothes, with trilby hats and heavy overcoats, got out and turned toward the steps. One of the men, the second one, carried a bulky automatic weapon. Robert would know its name. He had talked about them before. Schmeisser, that was it, a Schmeisser pistol. Then the men were hidden by the overhang and there was just the dark car with its uniformed driver standing by.

  It was so quiet, so unemphatic, that she stood a moment longer, staring numbly down into the street.

  They are coming for you Eleanor.

  Still she stood, unable to move, unable to breathe, her mind racing frantically. At least, thank God, Robert and Linda aren’t here. Oh God, had they already raided the Latin Quarter Apartment? Did they have Robert? Oh Robert, Robert my son! But they might not. Perhaps it was something else, not a leak in the line. If somehow they’d found her another way, there might still be hope for the apartment. But they would leave a Gestapo agent here after they arrested her.

  She could hear them on the stairs now, coming up to their floor.

  The shade, Eleanor, you fool, the shade. Hurry, hurry now, before they were here. The second window, that was the one. She moved to her right, reached up and pulled down the lighter shade she had installed over the darker one. She pulled it down. Now, if Linda and Robert came home tomorrow, and if they looked up, please God, make them look up, they would see the second shade, so much lighter, clear, distinct, blazoning a warning, please God, make them look up.

  They were pounding on the door now, a heavy reverberating knocking. She lunged away from the windows. She mustn’t draw attention to the windows. Was there anything incriminating? Nothing written down, of course, nothing. That had been the rule from the very first.

  The money. Twenty-five thousand francs.

  Eleanor stood in the middle of the floor. The knocks were thunderous, obscene in the still of the sleeping apartment house. Her neighbors would all be awake now, huddling fearfully in their cold apartments, wondering if their door would be battered next.

  Eleanor scooped up her purse, pulled out the packet of bills and ran toward the kitchen. She hadn’t examined it earlier. Surely to God, Mme. Leclerc hadn’t left any identifying mark inside. Eleanor turned on the kitchen light, tore open the packet. Money, just money. Frantically, she opened the mesh bag full of potatoes. She drew the cord tight again and plumped the bag back in the pantry. Turning off the kitchen light, she hurried toward the door.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called out. “Wait. What is the matter? What is it?”

  She undid the chain and opened the door to peer sleepily into the hall. “What’s wrong? Who are you? What do you want?”

  “One side.” They brushed past her. As the second man came in, he shut the door behind him. Eleanor had time to see Mme. Bizien, her pale yellow hair in tight sausage curlers, peering avidly up the stairs.

  Bitch.

  She drew herself up, stood as tall as she could. “I demand to know by what right you are invading my home?”

  The first man turned on the living room light, reached into his coat pocket to pull out a badge. “German Secret Police.” His eyes darted around the living room. He reminded Eleanor unpleasantly of a ferret with a sharp-featured face and slick brown hair that lay close to his skull. Heavy lidded eyes gave him a malevolent sleepy look. “Where are the others, Mme. Masson?”

  It shouldn’t have shocked her, hearing her name in his thick German accent. But it was one more unmistakable signal that this was no accident, that it was she they wanted. “Others?”

  “The others who live here. Your son.” He looked down at a sheet of paper in his hand. “Your sister.”

  “They’ve gone to Rouen. On a visit.”

  “When did they go?”

  “They left yesterday.”

  He pulled a pen out of his pocket and a small notebook and slipped it open and began to write.

  Rouen, Eleanor thought frantically, where can I say they are? What’s the name of that hotel where Andre and I stayed that weekend? Le Royal, that was it.

  “Give me their names, Madame, and the address where they are staying.”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  He looked up at her, the thick lids dropping over his black eyes. Inwardly she flinched. His eyes were sickening, she thought, sickening and evil.

  “Their names and the address, Madame.”

  “Robert Masson. Linda Rossiter. Le Royal Hotel.”

  “What was the purpose of their trip, Madame?”

  “To visit military hospitals on behalf of the Foyer du Soldat.”

  It was so quiet she heard the scratch of his pencil as he wrote. When he finished, he slapped the little notebook shut and returned it to his pocket. “We will give you time to dress.” He turned to his subordinate. “You may begin the search.”

  “Search?”

  He looked at her again and the same sickening sensation swept her. “You have very little time, Madame. If you waste it talking, you will have to come along dressed as you are.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To our office, Madame. For questioning.”

  “Questioning about what? I haven’t done—”

  He looked at his watch. “You have three minutes, Madame.”

  Eleanor averted her eyes and hurried toward the bedroom. She dropped her fur coat on the floor and shut the door behind her. For an instant, she hesitated, then slipped off her flannel gown and pulled on the skirt and the sweater she had worn that day. The window? No, it gave onto a narrow ledge, too narrow.

  A heavy knock on the bedroom door.

  “I’m almost ready,” she called irritably. She was pulling on woolen socks now and heavy walking shoes.

  The door opened.

  So there had been no time to try an escape. And that would be a confession, wouldn’t it? If she had tried to escape, they would be certain that she had some guilty knowledge. It would make her that much more vulnerable. Now, she could continue to proclaim her innocence. She picked up her fur coat and slipped into it.

  As they walked through the living room, she risked one quick glance around. Yes, the shades were just as she had left them. All four were pulled down and one was a distinctly lighter shade. It would be meaningless to anyone else.

  She didn’t look back at the apartment as the car pulled away. The second Gestapo man stayed behind. When they left, he was sitting at the roll-top desk, methodically emptying every drawer, looking at its contents. He would have no reason to raise the shades.

  Please God, don’t let him raise the shades.

  They rode in silence. When the car began to slow, Eleanor looked ahead curiously. She saw sentries st
anding beside a gate and beyond the gate, a graceful, dignified building, another elegant private residence converted to an office by the Germans.

  The first floor was almost dark, only an occasional dim wall sconce breaking the gloom. Wooden doors were closed on either side. Her escort took her elbow and pushed her toward the stairs.

  “Where are we going?”

  He ignored her.

  When they reached the third floor, he guided her down a narrow corridor to the third door on the right. He took a ring of keys from his pocket, opened the door and stepped back for her to enter. “You will wait here.”

  “Wait for what? Why am I being held? I demand—”

  The door slammed shut.

  Slowly she turned and looked around. A single bright bulb, covered with a guard, dangled from the ceiling. Its glare illuminated every corner. The room wasn’t large, perhaps ten by fourteen feet. There was one window, boarded over. A straight chair sat against one wall. A huge Paris telephone directory, its cover splayed and ripped, lay in the middle of the floor.

  Her eyes moved, stopped.

  It was such a homely sight to be so frightful. A white porcelain claw-footed bathtub. That was all. Slowly, unwillingly, Eleanor walked across the room toward it until she saw the streaks of blood that had dried along the bottom.

  Quickly, she turned and walked away. That was probably why she had been put in this room, to frighten her. Her heart thudded and her breath came in gasps. She made herself breathe deeply, quietly.

  How long would it be before someone came?

  She walked up and down, near the door. Finally, achingly tired, she went to the straight chair and sat down. A half hour passed. An hour. An occasional noise sounded in the hallway. Each time her head would snap up and she would wait.

  No one came.

  It was almost three in the morning and she had dozed into a half sleep, awkwardly bunched into the chair, when she heard movement in the hall, footsteps, voices.

  She sat up, brushed her hair with her hands and looked toward the door.

  The door opened to the room next to her. The door slammed. There was a long moment of indeterminate noises, a scrape and a shuffle, a dull thumping noise.