Free Escape From Paris by Carolyn G. Hart Page A

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.
    Some of their French acquaintances looked away to avoid saying hello when they passed in the street.
    The Biziens had never been their friends so that didn’t matter. But it did matter that they were originally from Alsace-Lorraine and that last week, so the concierge told Eleanor, they had entertained a German officer at dinner. A school friend from Heidelberg.
    The Bizien apartment was the second-floor front.
    Linda carried a flashlight. Eleanor had taped a piece of blue silk over the lens so it gave just a glimmer of illumination. There was light enough to keep Linda from stumbling on the darkened stairway. Robert was already out of sight. In a moment, he scampered back up the stairs, gesturing for her to come. She passed the third floor landing, waited again in the darkness. When he motioned for her to come, she pattered down the stairs, using the dim light, rushing past the second floor. She was breathless, her legs aching, when she reached the cellar door. They opened the door onto absolute darkness. How horrid it would be to wait in pitch dark, cramped in a hiding place, wondering if every noise, every step, heralded exposure and capture.
    Robert carefully shut the door behind them. He began to whistle faintly but clearly, “Oh, Johnny, Oh Johnny, Oh!”
    It must, Linda thought, seem like an especially exciting game of soldiers to him. He was showing her the way now, past the huge furnace and a clutter of furniture and tenants’ trunks to the coal bin. “There’s a little space behind the bin, like a cupboard,” Robert explained.
    As they came near, a narrow plank of wood creaked open and a dark figure scrambled out.
    They spoke swiftly.
    Linda turned away as Michael changed into Andre’s clothes.
    â€œHey, these are a pretty good fit? Who do I thank?”
    â€œThey belong to my father.” For the first time, Robert’s voice was strained. “He was . . . his unit was in the fighting around Dunkirk. We haven’t heard from him since then.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” the soldier said. “I’m sorry. A lot of soldiers are still hiding out, Robert, did you know that?”
    â€œA lot?” Robert repeated hopefully.
    â€œLord, yes. And the Germans took thousands and thousands of prisoners and he may not have been able to get word to you yet. You can’t give up hope.”
    â€œOh no, sir. We haven’t given up hope. Not at all.”
    They helped spread his blanket the length of the