Yesterday afternoon, Edmond had killed a Boche. Now with a heavy heart Hélène wondered what innocent Frenchmen—unknown and faceless—would end up paying for that deed. For someone would surely have to pay. The Boche always saw to that.
Bitterly she wondered which was the harsher fine—the loss of their own lives if they were caught, or the subsequent attack on their consciences if they were to live. Instinctively she knew that somehow they would all eventually have to pay. If they were to be delivered from danger now, they would probably be guilt-ridden for the rest of their lives. How else could they ever begin to do penance for those who substituted for them—those who would suffer such a brutal, final solution in their place?
Still, it is survival—not sacrifice—that is the foremost of human instincts. The fight for survival was now on—consciously and subconsciously. Their first move was only too clear. As quickly as they could, they had to get out of Paris. That was their only hope for survival. They had to follow Maman's instructions and try to reach the safety that beckoned to them from Tante Janine's house in faraway Saint-Nazaire.
Saint-Nazaire. Oh, but how distant it sounded! And Hélène had never been farther from Paris than Rambouillet. Then she frowned, and the magic in the name crumbled like ashes in the wind. Travel took money.
'We don't have any money,' she found herself worrying aloud. 'Why, we can't even get on the metro. How will we ever get out of Paris?'
'We have money,' Edmond said softly.
'We do?' Catherine asked. There was surprise in her voice.
'Yes,' Edmond said. 'We have Maman's wedding ring, along with a pile of francs. Over two thousand.'
'Two thousand francs!' Catherine whispered. Then her voice turned suspicious. 'Where did you get it?'
'From Gisele's nightstand, of course. Where else?'
'But. . .but that's stealing,' Catherine said.
Edmond didn't bother answering. Hélène could imagine him shrugging his shoulders. Then she spoke up in his defense. 'I'm glad he did it,' she whispered to Catherine. 'Gisele was a monster! She deserved it! She wanted to sell us to the Boche!'
'But still, stealing—'
Edmond cut Catherine off. 'What do you want?' he hissed savagely. 'To stay in Paris and get caught? Have them repeat what they did to you? Is that what you want?'
His words had the effect of a slap across her face. She recoiled and fell silent. All Hélène could hear were Catherine's quick footsteps in the darkness. Then she heard another sound, and it hurt her to hear it. Catherine was crying softly.
Edmond heard, too. He was helpless against tears. 'I'm sorry,' he told her gently. 'I. . .I didn't mean to hurt you. God knows, you've suffered more than enough. But please try to understand. If we're to reach Saint-Nazaire at all, we'll need that money. That and more. Believe me.'
Catherine sniffed, and they walked on in silence.
6
Her feet were sore, her legs were sore, even her back and neck were sore. She couldn't tell whether it was because of the cold or all the walking they'd done. It was days now since they had left Paris. Edmond had bribed a velo-taxi driver to take them out of the city, but the danger hadn't ended there. Now they had to battle the Boche-infested countryside. Instead of the roads, they had stayed on the dirt paths that crisscrossed the fields. By doing this, they not only managed to avoid any traffic—namely the Boches—but also skirted most of the villages along the way. The earth must have been soggy just before winter set in; the paths all had deep wheel ruts frozen into the dirt. As a result, walking was treacherous.
It was Edmond's turn to carry Marie. He held her in such a way that she could look backward over his shoulder. He was singing softly to her.
Suddenly Hélène stopped walking. 'I have to take a short rest,' she announced wearily.
Edmond turned to her. 'We'll rest for five minutes,' he said. 'But then we'll have to move on again.'
'Thank heaven,' Catherine murmured gratefully. 'For the last half-hour I thought my legs were going to give out on me.'
Keeping her hands in her pockets, Hélène looked out across the endless barren fields and past the villages that dotted the landscape up ahead. Way in the distance, where the earth met the sky, thin twin spires poked up out of the horizon.
'Hey. . .what's that over there?' she asked.
Edmond looked around. 'What's what?' he asked.
'In the distance,' Hélène said, pointing toward the spires. 'See? Those two little things.'
Edmond squinted. Then he shrugged. 'Looks like a church or some¬thing,' he answered.
Catherine shook her head excitedly. 'It's got to be Chartres! Michelle once told me that after Ablis, you can already see the cathedral. Well, we've just passed through Ablis.'
Ablis was one town they hadn't managed to bypass, but they had stayed near the outskirts to avoid being seen by too many people.
Edmond nodded thoughtfully. 'If Michelle was right, that has to be Chartres,' he said slowly. 'There's no other cathedral around here that I've ever heard of.'
Once again Hélène glanced at the distant spires. 'Do you think it's far to Chartres?' she asked.
He smiled. 'On foot, everything is far.'
She poked him angrily. 'I meant in kilometers.'
He frowned. 'I don't know. But it could be ten, maybe fifteen kilometers.'
To Hélène, fifteen kilometers sounded a world away. 'I hope it isn't as far again to Saint-Nazaire as it is from here to Chartres,' she murmured. 'I don't think my feet could stand it.'
Weakly Edmond smiled down at her.
Suddenly Hélène had an inspiration. She gripped his arm. 'Couldn't we take the train the rest of the way?' she asked eagerly.
He shook his head. 'I'm afraid not. We'd need travel permits and money to do that. We don't have either.'
'Oh.' Her face fell. 'But I thought we had money.'
'It's all gone. I paid the velo-taxi driver with it.'
'But we still have Maman's ring,' Hélène pointed out. 'Can't we use that instead of money?'
Edmond tapped the pocket where he kept it, just to make sure he hadn't lost it. 'We're not going to touch the ring if we can help it,' he said flatly. 'It's the only thing Maman could give us. It's. . .well, it's like an. . .an heirloom.'
'Couldn't you steal some more money, then?' she asked.
Catherine shot Edmond a triumphant look. 'Fine things she picks up from you. Before we know it, she'll become a pickpocket.'
An expression of hurt crossed his face. Hélène glanced sharply at Catherine. 'What's a pickpocket?' she demanded.
'Someone who reaches into other people's pockets and steals their money,' she said harshly.
Hélène shook her head. 'No, I don't think I'd like that,' she said thoughtfully. 'It doesn't sound very nice.' Then she looked at Edmond curiously. 'You weren't a pickpocket when you took Gisele's money, were you? I mean, it wasn't actually in her pocket.'
Edmond put a hand on her shoulder. 'Just remember one thing, Hélène,' he said quietly. 'Whether you lift something from a person's pocket or from a nightstand or a chicken coop, it amounts to the same thing. Stealing is stealing, no matter how—or why—you do it. It's wrong, and nothing can ever make it right.' He glanced sharply at Catherine. Her face reddened and she turned away in shame.
Hélène took Edmond's hand and squeezed it. 'But if it's wrong, then why did you. . .?' Her words trailed off uncomfortably.
He smiled sadly. 'Because I had no choice. Remember what Maman said. She told us that God would forgive us for what we might have to do. But that still doesn't make it right.'
Hélène digested this in silence.
Suddenly Edmond clapped his hands. 'All right,' he said gruffly. 'Five minutes is up! It's time to get moving again.'
'Already?' Catherine moaned.
'Already,' he said with finality. 'We still have far to go.' He looked up at the sky. Hélène's eyes followed his. The sun was starting to go down and the sky was graying again. She knew
that as soon as the sun dropped down, so did the temperature. Another couple of hours and it would get dark. And much colder.
They hadn't continued walking for five minutes when Catherine cried out sharply. Startled, Edmond and Hélène stopped and looked over at her. She was bending down, rubbing her left ankle with her hand.
Swiftly Edmond lowered Marie into Hélène's arms; then he touched Catherine gently on the back. 'What's the matter?' His voice was concerned.
She looked at him sideways, her hair falling down over her face. Between strands of hair, Hélène could see her eyes. They were glazed over in pain. 'It's my ankle,' she moaned. 'I. . .I twisted it in that rut.'
Edmond knelt on the ground, his fingers gently probing around her ankle. Hélène could hear her sucking in her breath in pain.
He stood back up, placed a hand under Catherine's armpit, and pulled her to an upright position. 'Do you think you can walk?' he asked.
She took a few tentative steps and nodded her head. 'I'll be all right,' she said.
Edmond looked thoughtfully across the fields, his eyes roving to the distant road. 'We'll get off the path and stick to the road,' he said with finality. 'That way, walking will be a lot easier for you.'
'The road?' Catherine said in a worried voice. 'Do you think it's safe?'
'Right now it's a lot safer for you than the path. You could have a sprain, and these ruts won't help it any Besides, I doubt that anyone's out here searching for us. The Boches may be looking for us in Paris, but they can't scour all of France. Not for us, anyway. We're not that important.'
Catherine nodded. What he said made sense.
'Come on,' he said. 'Hélène can carry Marie for a while. You just hold on to me, and I'll help support you. That way we'll take some of the weight off your leg.'
Even though they switched over to the smooth asphalt road, their progress had now slowed considerably. But Hélène had to credit Catherine with having guts. She tried to make light of her pain, although she limped noticeably, and much as they wanted to, she wouldn't hear of stopping so she could rest. And she was right. They had to keep on going. Already it was about time to look for a place to spend the night. So far, they hadn't come across a single shelter that looked suitable.
It was almost half an hour before they encountered any traffic. Then they heard the lonely drone of a car somewhere in the distance.
Hélène glanced at Edmond and pointed questioningly at the ditch. 'Do you think we should. . .?'
He shook his head. 'I don't think that's necessary. But in case anyone asks, your names are Sara and Denise. Mine is Jacques. We live in Ablis and we're on our way to visit our sick grandmere in Chartres. Got that?'
Catherine and Hélène nodded in unison. Quickly they decided that Catherine was Sara and Hélène would be Denise.
It was just as well that they had the story prepared. Less than a minute later, a black car coming from the direction of Ablis pulled to a halt alongside them. A plump, red-faced Boche in a field uniform rolled down the window and leaned out, gesturing for them to come over.
Hélène glanced at Edmond hesitantly. He nodded, and they drew toward the car. Then, while he and Catherine talked with the driver, Hélène stood on tiptoe and peered curiously in through the back window. She was surprised to see that there were no passengers. Only a big bundle, wrapped up with brown wrapping paper and tied with a string, was on the backseat.
'Where are you headed?' she heard the driver ask in surprisingly fluent French.
Catherine tossed her head brusquely. 'Our grandmere is sick,' she said in a cold voice. 'We are on our way to visit her.'
The driver's mouth curved into a faint smile as he stared at Catherine longer than was necessary. 'Where does she live?'
Catherine pointed in the direction of the distant spires. 'Chartres.'
'I noticed you were limping.'
'I twisted my ankle,' Catherine said with a shrug. 'It's nothing.'
'Even without a twisted ankle it's a long walk to Chartres,' the Boche said. Suddenly his smile widened. 'I tell you what. I shall drive you there.' He leaned sideways and opened the front passenger door from inside. 'Get in.'
It sounded more like an order than an offer. Catherine didn't move. 'What about my brother and sisters?' she asked stiffly.
'They can get in the back.'
Once again Hélène looked at Edmond. Grudgingly he nodded his head, and she stood aside as he opened the back door. He shoved the package against the far side and let her climb in first.
Hélène glanced around excitedly. This was all new to her. She had never been in a car before. The seats were soft and bouncy and smelled faintly of leather; the dashboard was paneled with polished wood. She felt very important to be riding in such style.
After they piled in, the Boche expertly put the car in gear and drove off smoothly. While driving, he kept glancing sideways at Catherine. She didn't mask her distrust for Germans. She leaned against the door, as far from his reach as she could get. In frosty silence she stared out the windshield at the lifeless flat scenery up ahead.
'What is your name?' the Boche asked finally.
'Sara,' Catherine answered softly. She didn't bother to look at him.
'My name is Kurt,' he said. 'I am from the Rhineland. From Koblenz. Where do you live?'
'In Ablis.'
With curiosity Hélène inspected the wrapped bundle on the seat beside her. The brown paper crunched when she touched it. 'What's in here?' she asked loudly.
The driver's eyes glanced back at her through the rearview mirror. 'Newspapers. Every day I have to drive to Paris and pick up the Pariser Zeitung, Paris-Soir, and Le Petit Parisien for the general staff in Chartres.'
'Oh!' The package might as well have been a snake; instinctively Hélène withdrew her hand. Even she knew what those newspapers were. Every kiosk in Paris sold them. The Pariser Zeitung was Paris' daily German newspaper. The others were French collaborator papers.
Good Parisians didn't read them.
'You can look at them if you like,' the driver said. 'You have plenty of time. Chartres is still a long way off. Over twenty kilometers.'
'No, thank you,' Hélène declined politely.
He chose not to hear her. He took one hand off the wheel, reached for a folded newspaper on the seat beside him, and handed it back over his shoulder. 'If you don't want to tear the package open, here's a loose copy.'
She had no choice but to take it. She murmured her thanks, and since she didn't want it, she handed it to Edmond. He started unfolding it.
Suddenly he let the paper drop facedown on his lap. He stared out the window thoughtfully.
Puzzled by this reaction, Hélène decided to find out what had triggered it. She lifted the newspaper and saw that it was a copy of Paris-Soir. The headlines screamed at her: 'A MOTHER'S ANGUISH.' Smaller headlines underneath it read: 'Countrywide Search on for Kidnapped Children—One- Million-Franc Reward Offered.' There was a blurred photo of a fat woman whom Hélène had never seen before. And below that, three pencil sketches.
Nausea rose up in her throat. The drawings had been reduced in size, but how well she recognized them! They were Gisele's sketches! And Catherine's likeness was incredibly accurate, unmistakably recognizable. . .
A series of chills swept through Hélène. The tactics were clear. The Boches were after them—but good. And in their search, they were even trying to enlist the aid of the unsuspecting French populace. Had it been spelled out that they were wanted for murdering a Boche, they'd be overnight heroes. Any good Frenchman would have welcomed—and helped— them with open arms. But instead, they had been 'kidnapped,' and their tearful 'mother' was anxiously awaiting their return. The romantically inclined French loved children. They would go out of their way to reunite them with their 'mother.' Hélène had no doubt that whoever recognized them now would quite innocently head for the nearest police station and report seeing them.
And their 'mother' in the photo? She would probab
ly turn out to be a Gestapo agent.
Suddenly the Boches were no longer all they had to fear. Now every Frenchman was their potential enemy too.
Now they couldn't trust anyone. Under any circumstances.
Edmond turned away from the window. His face wore a grim expression. Carefully he laid the paper on his lap and turned it to face the front seat. He tried to make his voice light. 'Look, Sara,' he said. 'Isn't this interesting?'
It took Catherine a moment to respond: she wasn't quite used to her new name yet. Then she twisted around in her seat.
Edmond pointed at the pictures.
Catherine's expression didn't change, but her face went white. Slowly she turned back around and stared blankly out the windshield.
There was a little more traffic on the road now. They passed a platoon of soldiers marching in the direction of Chartres. The sight of them only increased Hélène's dread. She couldn't help wondering what would happen if the driver recognized them. But she already knew the answer to that. He would turn them in—without giving it a second thought. In fact, at this very moment he might already be driving, not to Chartres, but to the nearest police station. Or worse, Gestapo headquarters.
The driver glanced over at Catherine again and frowned. 'You know,' he said slowly, 'you look familiar. Somehow I can't get over the feeling that I've seen you somewhere before.'
'I don't think that's possible,' Catherine replied quickly.
'No, I'm sure of it. Maybe it was in Ablis. I often drive through there.'
'Of course!' Catherine lied. 'I remember now! I've seen you before too!'
Suddenly he hit the brakes. With a tremendous jolt, the car screeched to a halt. 'Ach du lieber Himmel!' the driver exclaimed. He twisted around in his seat and snatched the newspaper off Edmond's lap. Then he peered closely at the drawings on the front page and rattled the paper. 'You. . .you're the kidnapped children! The ones the whole country is being searched for!' He stared at Catherine.
Suddenly she began to laugh. It was a laugh Hélène had heard her practice over and over in her room at home. Perhaps her acting lessons would now pay off, after all.
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