While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  “Here we are. Bobigny again,” the driver announced.

  As usual, they went to the stationmaster’s house to report for duty and pick up their meager breakfast—a cup of ersatz coffee and a lump of hard bread. He swallowed the brown liquid in one gulp but threw his bread out onto the tracks. His stomach was tied in knots. Could he really do it?

  He wandered over to the tool hut, taking out the fishplate bolt spanner and the large crowbar. Glancing over at the other men, who were still chewing their bread, he started to walk along the line, looking out for a gap where a set of tracks met. It didn’t take him long to find one. Crouching down, he examined the fishplate more closely. The bolts looked rusted on. If he was really going to go ahead with it, then he would have to do a test first—time himself to see how long it took to undo one bolt, then multiply it by four. He reckoned he had a good fifteen minutes. The guards seemed to pass every thirty minutes on average.

  His legs felt weak and he folded them under himself as he sat on the ground staring at the rusty bolts, trying to breathe normally. Sweat trickled down from his armpits and his mouth was suddenly dry. He knew that if he didn’t do it now, then he would never do it. And he would have to live with his cowardice for the rest of his life.

  Taking a deep breath, trying to slow his rapid pulse, he took the spanner, placing it around the first bolt. He pulled his sleeve back, glancing at his watch—7:41 exactly. He turned the bolt. It was stiff. He pushed down hard, putting all his weight on the spanner. His breath coming fast, he managed to get a turn on it, and then another. After that, it moved quickly. When the bolt came completely loose, he glanced at his watch—7:43 and forty seconds. Nearly three minutes. That meant nine minutes total for the other three bolts. He had time. He could do it.

  “Jean-Luc!” Frédéric’s voice shot through him like an electric shock. “What are you doing? We’re supposed to be working on the other end of the track today.”

  The spanner fell from his hand, clattering onto the rails. Still on his knees, he looked around, checking who was within earshot. But it was early yet, and only a couple of guards stood nearby, smoking and chatting. They looked at him, catching his eye. He held his breath. But they hardly seemed to notice him as they leaned toward each other, obviously absorbed in their conversation. Jean-Luc let his breath out slowly, then turned back toward Frédéric. He concentrated on keeping his tone low and steady as he said, “This fishplate is loose.”

  “Well, hurry up!” Frédéric walked away.

  Picking the spanner back up, he placed it on the second bolt and turned it, his left hand holding his right to provide more pressure. Around and around it went, steadily and efficiently. In just three minutes, it was loose. He moved on to the third bolt. His hand slipped on the spanner and his overalls clung to him. Three minutes and forty seconds ticked by.

  He placed the spanner around the fourth and last bolt. His throat tightened. This one was completely rusted on. It wouldn’t budge. He pushed harder and harder, his wrist aching with the effort. He looked at his watch. A minute gone already and he hadn’t got anywhere. He needed to undo all four or it wouldn’t work. He stopped, taking a deep breath. He’d give it one more go. He knocked at the rust this time before fixing the spanner around the bolt, then pushed down on the metal handle with all his force. It started to loosen. Three and a half more minutes ticked by.

  Now he only had two minutes left for the crowbar. He picked it up and pushed it hard into the earth under the track, his heart thumping. He couldn’t breathe; he opened his mouth wide, gulping in air. He heard commands shouted out: “Achtung! Vorwärts marsch!” But he didn’t dare look up. He pushed the crowbar with all his might now. The track began to move. He forced it out of line.

  Then a noise behind him made him jump. Heavy footsteps. He turned to look.

  It was the chief of the camp, walking toward him. Merde! Jean-Luc turned his face back toward the track. Please, God, he prayed. Please, God, make him go away.

  The footsteps grew louder. Nearer. Jean-Luc’s hand shook as he took the crowbar out, digging it in the other side now as though he were intending to straighten the track.

  He twisted his neck, looking at Brunner. He was talking with a guard. Throaty laughter burst out. Then they walked away. Jean-Luc turned back to the tracks, his hands still shaking. He had to do it. Digging the crowbar back in on the other side, he readied himself to put all his force into pushing the track outward again.

  It happened so quickly, he didn’t see it coming. The crowbar slipping. Rebounding. Pain seared through his cheek, like a knife slicing it open. He dropped everything, clutching at his broken skin. Blood gushed out over his hands. He couldn’t see. Then a blow to his leg sent him reeling. He cried out.

  Rough hands pulled him off the track, dragging him away. Then two men picked him up and threw him into a truck.

  Chapter Nine

  Paris, April 3, 1944

  CHARLOTTE

  “Late again.” Maman pushed a piece of hard bread into my hand as I ran out the door. “You need to get up earlier.” She said the same thing every morning, but quite frankly, I considered 6:30 to be plenty early enough. It was a long journey to Hôpital Beaujon at Clichy from our apartment in Rue Montorgueil, but I didn’t mind—the commute made me feel quite grown-up at the age of eighteen.

  Maman had found the job for me. She wanted me out of the apartment, where I was “reading my life away,” as she put it. She also wanted the extra rations it provided us with. Papa didn’t want me to go at first—after all, it was a German hospital—but Maman talked him around. She said it wasn’t like I was giving away state secrets or even denouncing a neighbor. She added something about “healing the wounded” being a good occupation for young women during wartime. Secretly, I wondered if it might not be a better occupation for young men; it might make them think before waging war. Anyway, the patients weren’t all German; there were quite a few French soldiers too, who must have joined up. There were plenty of recruitment offices all around Paris.

  I spent my days scrubbing floors, spooning food into the mouths of those who’d lost their sight or the use of their hands, or just sitting and listening to the French patients. The hardest cases were the ones who’d lost a limb but still felt its presence as insufferable pain; “phantom limb syndrome,” one of the doctors explained. There was nothing that could comfort them.

  It struck me that all men looked the same in a hospital bed. Vulnerable. Harmless. The language they spoke was the only way to work out where they were from. The hospital was run according to strict routines, but comforting the patients was encouraged, and I quite enjoyed this, though I still wished it wasn’t a German hospital. The irony of it wasn’t lost on me, for there I was, helping the enemy get better, while other, more patriotic French people were risking their lives to do the exact opposite.

  When I finally got to the hospital that morning, I went to the locker, taking out my uniform and putting it on, checking in front of the full-length mirror that it was clean and straight. I was almost late, but not quite, and I paused for a minute, turning to the side to study my body. Flat was the word. No bumps or curves to indicate that I was becoming a woman. Four years of occupation had left me with a deep sense of emptiness. It wasn’t only the constant physical hunger; there was an emotional hunger too. I was dying to experience life. I knew there was a world out there, a world where people laughed, danced, drank, kissed, made love, and I was missing out on it all.

  As I ran my hands over my chest, Maman’s words rang in my ears. “No point getting you a bra.” I remembered the excitement of having my first period, then the disappointment when they stopped after only three months, as though they couldn’t see any reason for having started up in the first place. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” Maman said. “They’re nothing but a curse.” But I wanted my body to change, longing to be touched in places I didn’t dare name.

  I turned back around to see my face. I tried smiling. Yes, that wa
s definitely better. But I didn’t feel like smiling, not even when the patients tried to flirt with me. Most of them weren’t funny anyway; they just gave me the creeps with their stupid remarks about “cold hands, warm heart” or “love that uniform.” I preferred the quiet ones, and I felt sorry for the ones who were in pain but put on a brave face, biting back tears when I helped them sit up.

  Smoothing my hair down, I wished I could have washed it. It was greasy, but there was so little soap, and Maman had rationed me to once a week. I wasn’t allowed makeup either, but I didn’t care so much; my eyelashes were quite long and dark, and if I pinched my cheeks, it looked like I was wearing rouge.

  “Allez! Allez!” The matron bustled into the locker room. She looked at my reflection in the mirror and I looked back at hers. It put a welcome distance between us. “This is no time to be admiring yourself,” she said coldly. “There’s work to be done.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, taking the mop and bucket out of her hands.

  Chapter Ten

  Paris, April 3, 1944

  JEAN-LUC

  “Ruhig zu halten!” A piece of leather was pushed into Jean-Luc’s mouth. He bit down hard, swallowing the scream. Oh God, what were they doing to him? It felt like they were slicing his face open.

  His heart raced as it all came back to him. Brunner striding behind him. The crowbar. The flash of metal in front of his eyes before it smashed into his face, then the blow to his leg. Had someone hit him? Had they realized what he was doing? How could they have? They wouldn’t imagine he was trying to sabotage the line. Would they? Oh God, what if they had?

  A glint of silver-colored metal caught his eye as he stared up at the fluorescent light. It moved toward his face. He spat the leather out and screamed.

  “Ruhig zu halten!” someone shouted again. “Halte ihn fest!”

  His head spun. Blurred faces came into his line of vision then disappeared, replaced by blinding white light. The smell of bleach and disinfectant clawed at the back of his throat, making him want to vomit. German words bounced off his throbbing head. “Please,” he begged. “Stop. Stop. I’ll tell you—”

  “Es ist aus. It’s finished.”

  Finished? They were done with him. He wondered what he’d told them. He knew he’d been mumbling, crying, begging. His eyes were wet and his mouth was dry. The pain in the side of his face ripped into him like a jagged knife, and the pulsating ache in his leg vibrated through him. He was suddenly so cold. A violent trembling took over his whole body. If only someone would cover him with a blanket.

  Someone gripped his shoulders, pulling him forward as though attempting to make him sit up. He tried to lift his head, but he was convulsing and couldn’t control his movements. Then he felt a hand around the back of his head. A glass of water against his lips. He took a sip, and realized that someone had pushed three pills into his hand. He looked down at them as they swam in and out of focus in his trembling hand. They were white, but he had no idea what they were.

  “Painkillers.” A voice with a German accent spoke.

  He swallowed them all at once, gulping more water, then closed his eyes, exhaling heavily with the pain, praying they would kick in soon.

  His leg! What had happened to his leg? He tried to sit up, to see it.

  “Nein! Non!” A hand pushed him back down.

  He was on some kind of contraption on wheels. He could feel himself being wheeled away. He laid his head back, staring up at the white ceiling, trying to block out the pain. He could hear a mixture of groaning, talking, and shouting, even the occasional burst of laughter. Sometimes he caught a whole phrase in French, then German interrupted and he was lost again. Where the hell was he?

  As they wheeled him along, he turned his head sideways, looking through blurry eyes. He made out rows of white beds. Thank God! It must be a hospital!

  He wasn’t being interrogated. He was being treated.

  The pain began to fade into the background. His head grew light. He only wished for oblivion, and so he let himself drift away.

  When he woke, he felt groggy and his cheek and leg still throbbed painfully. He lifted his hand to his face to find it covered in bandages. God, what had he done to himself? His stomach rumbled loudly; he wondered vaguely when he had last eaten. Pulling himself up to a half-sitting position, he looked around. Nurses in white bustled up and down the central aisle, sometimes stepping to the side to see to a patient, thermometer usually in hand.

  “Willkommen.” A German voice spoke from the bed to his left.

  He turned to look at the owner of the voice. “Bonjour.”

  “You’re French. What’s your name?”

  “Beauchamp.”

  “What happened to you then?”

  “Railroad accident.”

  “Well, you’ll have a lovely scar to show your children now.”

  “I don’t have children.”

  The Boche laughed. “I mean future children. I’m Soldat Kleinhart, by the way. Nice to meet you. Got shot in the leg—two crazy terrorists shooting off.”

  “I’m sorry.” What else could he say?

  “Don’t worry. They caught them and they’re being dealt with.”

  Jean-Luc closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of the tortured men that flooded his head. He couldn’t take any more pain.

  He opened his eyes. Kleinhart was staring at him. He had to say something. This was not the moment to be a hero. “Yes, they need to be taught a lesson.”

  “Quite.” Kleinhart lay back against his pillow. “Fear always works. It’s amazing how quickly people learn when taught with fear.”

  Just the word made Jean-Luc’s bowels contract. He tried not to imagine what they might do to him, and couldn’t help looking down at his fingernails, checking that they were all there.

  A nurse appeared, shaking a thermometer in her hand.

  “Guten Morgen, Krankenschwester.” The Boche smiled at her.

  “Good morning, monsieur.” Then she turned to Jean-Luc, looking directly at him with warm chocolate-brown eyes. “Open your mouth, please, monsieur.”

  Obediently he did as he was told, staring at her as she placed the thermometer under his tongue. He felt the slash on his cheek stretch, as though it might open up again. He closed his lips around the glass tube, calming his breathing as he studied the nurse. She looked very young; her smooth pale skin was completely unblemished, making him think of a blank canvas.

  She caught his gaze as she took the thermometer from his mouth. Quickly, she glanced away.

  “Where am I?” He tried to make eye contact, but she was looking at the thermometer intently.

  Suddenly she turned and looked right at him, her dark eyes shining into his. “Hôpital Beaujon.” Her voice felt intimate—a whisper, as if it were only meant for him.

  “Hôpital Beaujon?” He stared back into her eyes.

  “It’s a German hospital.”

  His heart beat faster, thumping in his ears. Of course! That was why they were all speaking German. But why had they sent him to a German hospital? He glanced around the ward, taking in the bustling efficiency of the Boches, the starched whiteness of the place. He was probably in good hands. But why hadn’t they given him any anesthetic before sewing up his wound? Was it because he was French? Or did they suspect him?

  Surely if they’d guessed he’d been trying to sabotage the railway, they would have sent him to a public French hospital, or even straight to interrogation. They didn’t suspect. They couldn’t. But what had happened to his leg?

  The nurse was busy tucking in the bottom corners of the sheets. He waited for her to finish, and when she turned back to look at him, he asked, “Do you know what’s… what’s wrong with my leg?”

  Without a word, she picked up the board that must have been hanging at the end of the bed. She looked at it, frowning. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. It’s all in German—”

  “Let me have a look,” the Boche in the next bed interrupted loudly.
<
br />   Without looking at him, she passed him the board.

  “Break to the femur.” The Boche paused. “Did you get hit by a train?”

  “No.” Jean-Luc felt dizzy again. “A piece of track came loose and I got hit by it.”

  “You’re working on the lines?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you’d better be more careful next time.”

  Jean-Luc nodded, turning back to look at the nurse. He could tell she was about to leave, but her presence comforted him. At least she was French.

  “How long will I be here, Nurse?” He tried to smile, but it hurt too much.

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the doctor.”

  And then she was gone, leaving him alone with the Boche.

  Chapter Eleven

  Paris, April 4, 1944

  CHARLOTTE

  As if the Boche curfew wasn’t bad enough, my parents imposed one of their own. I had to be in by eight o’clock, even though, at the age of eighteen, I was dying to go out in the evenings—to cafés, or dancing at one of the bals clandestins people talked about in hushed, excited tones. My only entertainment was on Friday nights, when I was allowed to have a few friends around. Maman let us use the library, which was much cozier than the salon, with its stiff upholstered Louis XVI couches. Those in the library had come from our country home, the leather worn and soft. We liked to slouch in them, pretending to smoke and be decadent, when really we just chewed on hard licorice sticks and drank tea that Maman had ordered from England before the war.