April in Paris by Michael Wallner Page B

my shoulders. “What good will it do if you all get arrested?”
    Suddenly, the barber sprang to the little passageway and peeked out between the strings of beads. In the late-afternoon light, you could see the nose of an automobile that was pulling up in front of the shop window. A second car approached from the left. These vehicles weren’t marked in any way, but the locals knew them well.
    Gustave whipped around. “This is a trap!” He stood very close to me.
    I rose from my chair. “In that case, I wouldn’t have needed to say anything!”
    The shop bell rang in the next room. The woman with wet hair hastily left the salon and ran past the uniformed men who were getting out of the cars. One of them checked her papers.
    A P R I L I N PA R I S . 103
    “Get out of here!” I hissed.
    Chantal nodded to Gustave. Outside the door of the shop, the men were receiving orders from a sergeant. The barber started frantically shoving aside some boxes that concealed a low door.
    “What will happen to you?” Chantal asked me as the barber unbolted the door.
    “If they catch me, they’ll treat me the same as you.”
    She struggled with herself for a second and then pointed into the unlighted passageway on the other side of the little door. I stooped. The barber hurried ahead of me. Chantal came last.
    We went through a narrow corridor, then up some steps into a cellar. The barber opened a grille. I smelled wine and resinous wine barrels. We came to a storeroom. A ray of light fell from a shaft that opened in the courtyard above our heads. The barber led the way to a spiral staircase. Chantal gathered up her skirt so she’d be able to run better. We reached a corridor at ground level.
    “Attention!” A whispered cry came from the depths of a flat. Electric lightbulb, under it a silhouette. The barber stopped before entering an inner courtyard. I noticed some people on balconies, eyeing us curiously. Chantal caught up with us; I felt her breath on my back. A woman scolded her child. A radio: the German broad-cast to France. More keys, then another passage, and at its far end we could see the street. We had crossed the entire square block, from one side to the other. The barber headed for the archway.
    Chantal called out, “Your jacket!”
    He fumbled with buttons and flung the white smock away.
    “Wait!” I peered outside. I knew their tactics. First came the uniforms, chasing the fox out of his lair. Behind them, men in 104 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
    civilian clothes lay in wait. I stuck my head out past the projecting brick facade. Red afternoon sun, street noise, normality.
    There was a car parked on the opposite side of the street, near it another one with its engine running, both French models. A man stood next to the first car and smoked a cigarette. Gray suit, inconspicuous tie. I narrowed my eyes. Despite the dusty day, his shoes were perfectly polished. I drew back.
    “They’re outside,” I whispered. “Is there another way out?”
    Chantal turned around and faced the courtyard. “The cellar,”
    she said. “But that means we have to go back.”
    “No. We’ll run!” The barber dug his fists into his pockets.
    “In these shoes?” Chantal said, pointing to her heels.
    I looked at Gustave. “They’ve got people posted on every corner.”
    Shouts, slamming doors. The moment had passed. Boots bat-tered against an obstacle. The barber took two steps forward, two steps back, gnawing the backs of his hands. The first salvos of gunfire; a lock burst. Shouts of protest, German replies. Somewhere a child was crying.
    Gustave moved closer to the light. “Let’s split up, then.”
    Chantal nodded. “Good luck.”
    He shot out of the dark entrance, darted sideways, and dashed away. The man with the polished shoes immediately jumped into the car. Dark suits appeared from every direction. I watched them run past the archway, just a few meters away from us. Startled pedestrians stopped walking. A shot. The street