Escape From Paris (8 page)

“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. . .

“Is he dead?”

“I don't think so. Hurry up. The Boches are coming.”

He wasn't dead, Jonathan thought indignantly. He must tell them so. He wasn't dead. He tried to form the words but they receded in his mind and the gray woolly cloud seeped over him again. He realized there was movement around him and he was dimly aware of hands pulling and tugging at him. He heard whispers and the snap and pop as his parachute was unbuckled.

“My God, it's all bloody.”

They were worried about the blood. That was nice of them, he thought fuzzily. He would have to explain, tell them it was a wound, nothing bad, actually. You didn't have to worry about blood, just clean it up. Wipe it up. Everything neat and tidy. He would tell them to relax. Roll me over, roll me over in the clover. He felt a tiny silly giggle forming in the back of his mind. They were rolling him over and over, wrapping him up like a silken butterfly in a cocoon, rolling him up like a sausage in his parachute and dragging him, bumpity, bump, across the ground.

For the first time, he began to feel aggrieved. This was a silly game and he didn't want to play it. What did they take him for? Uncomfortable, too. He was squashed in the folds of silk. He couldn't see and it was hard to breathe. He had a sudden frightening sense of being out of control as he was dragged roughly across the ground, then lifted and swung up into the air. He began to struggle and tried to cry out.

A hand fumbled across the folds of silk and roughly gripped his jaw. “Be quiet. Please. Be quiet.”

It wasn't the command that hushed him, it was the desperation in the soft cry. “Be absolutely quiet. Do not move or speak.”

Jonathan was fully conscious now and, though he couldn't see, he heard the scratchy rustle of hay and knew when it was smoothed over him. Reins rattled, a horse snuffled and slowly, wheels creaking, the bed swaying, Jonathan felt them begin to move. He was hidden beneath a mound of hay on a wagon. Someone had switched him from the cart to another horse-drawn vehicle.

He was conscious and his head ached. He remembered now the sudden violent uprush of trees and how he had yanked at his parachute straps but still he plummeted down into an oak, banging his head, crashing heavily through the limbs into a thicket of bushes.

Obviously, he had been seen and rescued.

Why had they wrapped him up like a rug?

The pop-pop-pop of the motorcycle was faint at first, like a string of faraway firecrackers on the Fifth of November. Then the pops sounded louder and nearer until the staccato sound drowned out the muffled clop of the horse's hooves and the sway and creak of the cart.

It roared alongside then slowed to an idle. “Stop.” The command was in German. The soldier spoke only a smattering of French.

Jonathan's rescuers made the conversation as hard as possible, pretending not to understand the heavily accented French of the German.

Jonathan knew it was a pantomime, the German pointing at the sky, making the noise of a wounded plane, “
Anglais
,” he repeated over and over, “
Anglais
.”

“Oh,
oui, oui
,” a light young French voice exclaimed finally and there was a rush of instruction and comment and finally, a slow painstaking reply. “To the South. Do you understand? To the South. Four kilometers at least. That way.”

“
Danke. Danke
.” The motorcycle revved up, exhaust fumes swirled around the cart, and the cycle turned and lurched off down the road, the way it had come.

The wagon once again began its easy swaying progress up the road. Jonathan felt tension easing out of him. As he relaxed, pain pulsed in his leg. He fought a wave of nausea. It took all his strength not to cry out and he lay weak and sweating, only dimly aware of the moving wagon and uneven jolting ride. The wagon had been stopped for a minute or so before he realized it. Sightless, helpless, he tried to still his uneven breathing to listen.

“Hello, Francois.”

“Ah, Maurice, how's it going?”

“So so.”

“Lots of excitement up ahead.”

“Oh?”

“The Boches are looking for an English pilot. He bailed out somewhere around here. The whole garrison saw it. They've been combing through the woods and they're beginning to get ugly.”

“Why's that?”

“Well, they know he's down but they can't find him anywhere and they think somebody's hiding him. They're tired of airmen getting away. There's a roadblock up ahead and they're searching everything. They'll poke your hay full of holes.”

They spoke a few sentences more, then the wagon began to lumber forward.

Jonathan understood well enough. He couldn't get every word but he understood well enough. The Germans were looking for him, looking hard. They would jab and prod this load of hay at the roadblock up ahead. He had to get out of this mummifying wrap and hide. Nausea swept him again. He had moved his leg. Tears burned behind his eyes. Goddamn it, he couldn't even walk, much less run and hide. But he had to do something. He started to twist and turn, trying to loosen the shroud like covering.

A soft voice called to him, “Be still, Monsieur. Don't make the hay move. As soon as Francois is 'round the bend, we will stop and hide you.” Then, an afterthought, “Do you understand me? Do you understand French?”

“Yes,” Jonathan managed. He lay still, breathing heavily. Where could they hide him? He felt sweat trickle down his face and back, not so much from the late afternoon heat, even though it was stifling beneath the hay, wrapped up as he was in the parachute, but from the pain, the pain that didn't stop now, that moved up and down his leg like liquid fire. But fear and a tenacious, intense will to survive made the pain bearable, an irritant, just one more problem to be surmounted.

Once again, the wagon stopped. Gentle hands pushed the hay up and he was once again lifted up and out. His rescuers carried him, running heavily across the road. He was tilted as they half-slid with him down an embankment.

“This way, Roger, this way.”

The pain was too much now. Pain blotted out everything, the movement, their low voices, even, for a moment, the knowledge that he was on the ground and they were gingerly unrolling the thick swathing of silk.

“Monsieur, listen please.”

He lifted his head and dazedly looked at them. They were brothers, it was clear, two dark thin faces, watching him, two pairs of worried brown eyes.

He nodded. “Yes. I can hear you.”

Quickly, one interrupting the other, they told him they were going to leave him, here, beneath this wooden bridge, hidden by the high stalks of sunflowers growing in the dry creek bed. They would be back. He was to wait and they would come back for him. When it was safe.

It was very quiet after they left. He listened but the only sound was an occasional rustle as some animal moved in the grass and reeds nearby. It was already almost completely dark beneath the bridge. Some faint sheen of light penetrated where the broad boards were laid together but the tall weeds on either side shut away the evening sun. Jonathan wondered if they had left a trail when they carried him down from the road. If the weeds and grasses were bent, the Germans would find him.

There was no point in worrying. He was propped up against the bank which shelved gradually down to the dry rock-strewn creek bottom. It wasn't too uncomfortable, and it smelled good, faintly dusty and grassy. If he could lean back just a little, ease the pressure on his neck. He realized he was still wearing the bulky uncomfortable Mae West. He pulled off his flying gloves, began to unstrap the life preserver. To pull it off, he had to lean forward. That moved his leg. Once again pain made him dizzy and ill. He managed at last to thrust the Mae West away. He clawed at his tunic pocket. He had some aspirin in there. He was sure of it. Last night, he had dropped a tin in his pocket. His fingers touched his cigarette case. Matches. A crumpled piece of paper. That pretty WAAF's telephone number. He had said he would call her tonight. For a moment, he paused. Would she have heard by now that he hadn't come back? Or was she waiting at the barracks for him to call. Funny. He couldn't remember her face very well. Had he even looked at her face? It was her legs he had noticed. Then, at the bottom of the pocket, he found the tin of aspirin. He opened it, touched inside. One, two, three, four. That was all.

His leg hurt like the devil, pain so bad it made him lightheaded. Should he just take one or two, save the others? Two. He would take two of them. It was when he tried to swallow that he realized how thirsty he was, ragingly thirsty. He got the tablets down, then lay back, trembling with pain.

Shouts. Faraway at first, then nearer and nearer. The heavy thump of men running, fanning out, crashing through grass and underbrush, calling back and forth to each other.

He didn't understand German. He didn't need to. It was at least a platoon, the soldiers streaming across the countryside, perhaps twenty yards apart.

Sweat beaded Jonathan's face, clouded his eyes, but slowly, inch by inch, he moved down the little incline until he reached the creek bottom, his right hand levering his body along, his left hand searching. He brushed over the pebbles, the little smooth rocks tumbled along by a spring freshet. Near the center of the dry creek bed, he found a jagged rock as large as a softball. Heavy, sharp edged. A formidable weapon in a desperate hand. Panting a little from exertion, he inched back up the incline so that he was again in a sitting position. The better to throw. He had learned to play baseball his second year at the University. There were two American Rhodes Scholars in his class. He could see their faces so clearly. Paul Weiss and Mickey Jezek. They had delighted in teaching the game to their English classmates. They had told Jonathan he was a “natural.” It was dark now beneath the narrow wooden bridge, not even a sliver of the sunset slanting through the cracks, so he lay in a warm dark pocket on the dry rocky ground, screened on either side by head-high cane and sunflowers, waiting, listening to the shouts coming nearer, the clump of boots, the rattle of a truck, remembering the soft silken light of English evenings in May and different shouts, “Strike him out, Jonathan, that's a boy,” listening and waiting, remembering, holding the jagged-edged stone.

It didn't take long to gather up a blanket, clothing that had belonged to Andre, worn gray trousers, a blue pullover, sturdy hiking boots he had worn in Zermatt last August, a hamper with a half loaf of bread, a small pot of strawberry jam, a precious piece of cheese and a bottle of sauterne. Robert looked as loaded as a porter when he was ready to start downstairs.

“I'll carry everything,” Linda offered. “Robert can go ahead and make sure the way is clear.”

Eleanor nodded. “Be sure no one sees you. Explain to the lieutenant that we don't dare bring him upstairs this late in the evening. Everyone is home from work and, if someone should walk out of their apartment, well, we can't take a chance that they might not turn us in.” She paused and added grimly. “Especially the Biziens.”

Rene and Yvette Bizien had the small tobacconist shop midway up the block. Both had long pale faces and pointed noses and looked uncannily alike. Childless, they always shushed Robert and his friends as they clattered up and down the stairs. They were not particularly likeable neighbors but not offensive. Negligible. At least, they had been negligible until now.

Since the Armistice, everything had changed, including neighborhoods and the way you looked at your neighbors. Every second or third shop was shuttered. They had to walk a half mile to reach the nearest open bakery. They couldn't buy pastries on Mondays, Tuesdays or Wednesdays. There was no sugar, no coffee, no flour, no butter. There were seven kinds of ration cards for everything from meat to cloth. But the biggest difference, especially to English-speaking Parisians, was the division of all France into pro-Vichy, anti-British and anti-Vichy, pro-British. Day after day, the newspapers and radios attacked the British, blaming them for the defeat of France, claiming Britain had forced France into the war then abandoned her.