Escape From Paris by Carolyn G. Hart Page B

chocolate with its topping of cinnamon and cream.
    Annemarie deftly took the mug, substituting her basket. “Look now, Mama Leone, you won’t guess what I’ve brought today. Look now and give me a guess.” She gestured for Eleanor to leave the kitchen.
    Eleanor waited in the silent living room. The sharp morning sunlight emphasized the smudged windows, the film of dust in the once immaculate room, the general aura of disuse and neglect.
    Annemarie joined her in a moment. “I have her busy now, making the soup. If you don’t mind, it would be better for you to go. When she remembers, it distresses her. When she doesn’t remember. . .”
    When she didn’t remember, there was no point in staying.
    Eleanor nodded and turned to go.
    â€œIs there anything I can do to help?” Annemarie asked diffidently.
    Eleanor wondered if her tension was that obvious. She hesitated, looking again, almost as if for the first time, at Annemarie’s young thin face. Dark eyes, sallow skin, a splotch of acne across her forehead. She had, when Mme. Durand first took her in, a hunted badgered look. Warmth and caring had filled out the thin cheeks, relieved the anxious look. Then love had brought a faint glow, a touch of radiance. Now, once again, her face was sallow and pale, her eyes somber.
    What was her husband’s name?
    Annemarie watched her eyes.
    Eleanor didn’t have to ask.
    â€œJean-Paul’s company was at Lille. The last time I heard.”
    â€œAndre was at Bruges. The last I heard,” Eleanor said heavily. “So both of them were near Dunkirk.”
    That was the secret hope, the dream of so many thousands of Frenchwomen. They had heard nothing and they knew, the newspapers and radio broadcasts had told them, that many died on the roads and in the fields as the French and English fell back. But they knew too that thousands of Frenchmen had escaped to England.
    Andre and Jean-Paul?
    The two women saw in each other’s eyes grief and hope and the seeds of despair.
    â€œWe don’t have much here,” Annemarie said awkwardly, “but if you need food?”
    Eleanor shook her head quickly. “It’s nothing like that.” She barely whispered the words. “Annemarie, do you know anyone who could help someone get to the Unoccupied Zone?”
    Annemarie looked around the silent living room before she leaned close to Eleanor to whisper. “I have heard, I do not know if it is true, but I have heard that people can go to Saint-Quentin, you know it is a little village just next to the Demarcation Line, and that if you know the right people, you can be taken across.”
    â€œThe right people?”
    Annemarie shrugged. “I don’t know who you would ask. It was the brother of my friend Germaine who told me.”
    â€œCould you get in touch with him? Find out for me?”
    Annemarie shook her head. “He is gone now, too.” She frowned. “Perhaps if the person who wishes to cross would go to Saint-Quentin, perhaps ask at the Church.”
    â€œThat won’t do. The person who wishes to cross, he can’t speak French.”
    â€œOh, Madame! Oh, you must be careful!”
    â€œAnnemarie, Annemarie,” Mme. Durand called plaintively.
    â€œOne moment, Mama Leone, one moment.” Annemarie opened the door, then closed it to whisper quickly, “Madame, do you remember Roger Lamirand? The cocky medical student? The one with the wispy beard who always wore a beret?”
    Hazily, Eleanor did. A rasping voice, always too loud. A pugnacious, abrasive not especially likeable young man.
    â€œHe lives two blocks from here, the northeast corner apartment house. Just off the Rue Saint Jacques. I think you can ask him.”
    On the street, Eleanor hesitated then swung to her right. It would do no harm to go by Lamirand’s apartment. She didn’t have to tell him anything. Why did Annemarie think he could be trusted? She