track of time. It had not been long, maybe only twenty minutes or so.
The crowds grew denser. There was less room to walk on the sidewalks or even the street. In another block, he could see the façade of the station in front of him. He did not walk any further, and instead turned around.
He walked against the crowds coming down the street, turning his back to the south train station with a horde of people before it. A herd of goats being led by a peasant farmer did not faze him, because livestock had now become common in Paris.
After another thirty or so minutes, he stood in the street below his apartment. Bricks crushed a car on the other side of the street. People took what they could from the building. Marc stood in shock, as he looked directly up into the parlor room of his fourth-floor flat. He made his way in through the door and up the marble staircase as others were coming down.
Marc opened the door to his apartment, and the evening breeze gently flapped the drawing he’d done of Marie back in early December. He turned over the armoire, pulled out the clothes, and packed his bags. He found the keys that Nigel and Dora had given him. The bowl’s rose-colored glass lay shattered on the floor. He stuffed the francs from Dora into his jacket.
Marc felt cold and detached as he gathered his belongings. He fully accepted the loss of the wall to the outside street below. It did not bother him at all that he was not sure where he was going to stay. He had two sets of keys, after all, for two other Parisian apartments.
They could not have got all of them,
he thought to himself.
Nothing could take his mind off the crowds at the south station. The desperate voices, the stares of the other refugees looking to flee the city, echoed in his mind. Before he left the apartment, he looked around. He saw the drawing again on the wall, and remembered with a small laugh what the instructor had said. “This is what you came to France for, Marc.”
He took a deep breath and decided to leave it on the wall, turned and made his way down the stairs, thinking of sleeping that night at the YMCA. He knew it would be crowded, but it was better than sleeping alone in an apartment if another raid should come.
June 5, 1940
Bordeaux, France
Nigel walked through the masses of men, women and children moving toward the city. He could see the Bordeaux skyline in the distance. The bus he had taken ran out of petrol five miles back. On both sides of the road, refugees plodded forward toward the city. Some pulled handcarts containing what belongings they could carry; a few had horse-drawn carriages.
People talked, but in a hushed tones, as if their voices could somehow draw down the planes. As they began to approach the outer parts of Bordeaux, the mood became somber. From time to time, a car or truck would pass, but this was rare.
Nigel crested a small hill and in front of him was a scene he was not prepared for. A truck lay on its side in a ditch. About thirty yards in front of that, two dead horses stretched across the road. Beyond the horses laid a dead farmer who appeared to be maybe fifty years old. No one spoke a word. People just kept moving toward the city. In the distance, Nigel could see a column of smoke come from south of the city and knew that meant a bombing raid.
A teenaged girl walked with her father in front of Nigel. A truck sped by in the opposite direction, just as a second truck was coming from behind Nigel and the girl. The truck swerved to miss the oncoming vehicle, and the truck’s mirror struck the girl in the back of the head.
She fell to the ground, rolling into the ditch on the side of the road. The father yelled in horror and Nigel ran to see if he could help. The father took the girl into his arms and began to rock her back and forth, yelling for anyone to help. Nigel removed his wallet first and then took off his jacket to give her a pillow. He tried to see if the girl was bleeding on the back of her head
The crowds grew denser. There was less room to walk on the sidewalks or even the street. In another block, he could see the façade of the station in front of him. He did not walk any further, and instead turned around.
He walked against the crowds coming down the street, turning his back to the south train station with a horde of people before it. A herd of goats being led by a peasant farmer did not faze him, because livestock had now become common in Paris.
After another thirty or so minutes, he stood in the street below his apartment. Bricks crushed a car on the other side of the street. People took what they could from the building. Marc stood in shock, as he looked directly up into the parlor room of his fourth-floor flat. He made his way in through the door and up the marble staircase as others were coming down.
Marc opened the door to his apartment, and the evening breeze gently flapped the drawing he’d done of Marie back in early December. He turned over the armoire, pulled out the clothes, and packed his bags. He found the keys that Nigel and Dora had given him. The bowl’s rose-colored glass lay shattered on the floor. He stuffed the francs from Dora into his jacket.
Marc felt cold and detached as he gathered his belongings. He fully accepted the loss of the wall to the outside street below. It did not bother him at all that he was not sure where he was going to stay. He had two sets of keys, after all, for two other Parisian apartments.
They could not have got all of them,
he thought to himself.
Nothing could take his mind off the crowds at the south station. The desperate voices, the stares of the other refugees looking to flee the city, echoed in his mind. Before he left the apartment, he looked around. He saw the drawing again on the wall, and remembered with a small laugh what the instructor had said. “This is what you came to France for, Marc.”
He took a deep breath and decided to leave it on the wall, turned and made his way down the stairs, thinking of sleeping that night at the YMCA. He knew it would be crowded, but it was better than sleeping alone in an apartment if another raid should come.
June 5, 1940
Bordeaux, France
Nigel walked through the masses of men, women and children moving toward the city. He could see the Bordeaux skyline in the distance. The bus he had taken ran out of petrol five miles back. On both sides of the road, refugees plodded forward toward the city. Some pulled handcarts containing what belongings they could carry; a few had horse-drawn carriages.
People talked, but in a hushed tones, as if their voices could somehow draw down the planes. As they began to approach the outer parts of Bordeaux, the mood became somber. From time to time, a car or truck would pass, but this was rare.
Nigel crested a small hill and in front of him was a scene he was not prepared for. A truck lay on its side in a ditch. About thirty yards in front of that, two dead horses stretched across the road. Beyond the horses laid a dead farmer who appeared to be maybe fifty years old. No one spoke a word. People just kept moving toward the city. In the distance, Nigel could see a column of smoke come from south of the city and knew that meant a bombing raid.
A teenaged girl walked with her father in front of Nigel. A truck sped by in the opposite direction, just as a second truck was coming from behind Nigel and the girl. The truck swerved to miss the oncoming vehicle, and the truck’s mirror struck the girl in the back of the head.
She fell to the ground, rolling into the ditch on the side of the road. The father yelled in horror and Nigel ran to see if he could help. The father took the girl into his arms and began to rock her back and forth, yelling for anyone to help. Nigel removed his wallet first and then took off his jacket to give her a pillow. He tried to see if the girl was bleeding on the back of her head
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