Chapter 35 Frances
Frances
Paris
We stayed in the basement for ten days. It was not pretty. Sylvie did her best looking after Alain, but with limited medical supplies it was a hard task.
We managed to get some food and the water was still running so we weren’t in a terrible mess. But it was cramped and stuffy, we were scared, Alain was sick … It wasn’t a lot of fun.
The first night, Alain was delirious with fever.
Sylvie put the sulfa powder on his wound.
The bullet had gone right through his shoulder – in one side and out the other.
Which Sylvie assured us was good because it meant she didn’t have to dig out a bullet.
The thought made me shiver. We found the library first-aid kit, and Sylvie dressed the wounds.
‘I’ve done what I can,’ she said.
As Alain shivered and sweated his way through that first night, Guy was clearly terrified that he was going to die. He sat by his bedside, while Sylvie and I took a moment to get water.
‘I really thought Alain had saved Guy,’ I said. ‘I feel like I can’t trust my own eyes and ears now.’
Sylvie picked up a jug. ‘Maybe he did,’ she said. ‘We will never know for sure. But I know the bottle was on the stairs and then it was beside me on the floor.’
I gave her a tiny smile. ‘If Alain did mean to save Guy, he’ll tell everyone about it,’ I pointed out.
‘If he didn’t mean it, he’ll tell everyone he did,’ said Sylvie wryly.
‘Lord, I hope someone comes soon.’ I cast my eyes up to the sky, even though I didn’t really believe in God. ‘I just don’t know what to do for the best.’
‘How long will it take Marcus to reach Lisbon?’ Sylvie asked.
‘I have no idea,’ I admitted. ‘A few days if he knows people with a car? Weeks? We don’t even know if he’ll make it.’
Sylvie nodded. ‘We should set a deadline,’ she said. ‘If he hasn’t come back after what? Ten days?’
‘Sounds about right.’
‘Then we move.’
‘If Alain is better by then.’
‘Of course.’ She stepped closer to me and lowered her voice. ‘If his fever breaks soon, then I think he will be all right. If not, then …’
I didn’t want to think about how we’d deal with that. So for now, I just nodded.
The first night, Sylvie and I took it in turns to sleep in the basement, while the other kept watch from the offices upstairs, checking the street to make sure no one was coming.
I was absolutely convinced the Nazis would return to finish the job.
But no one came that night. Guy wouldn’t leave Alain’s side.
When it got light, I left my vantage point in the office and made my way back downstairs where I found Guy asleep, draped over Alain’s legs, and Sylvie reading Margery Allingham.
‘This is very good,’ she said.
‘I told you.’
Alain groaned a little and we both looked at him. Sylvie got up and put her hand to his forehead.
‘He is cool,’ she said in English. ‘I think he is out of the forest.’
‘The woods,’ I said, laughing through sheer relief. ‘He’s out of the woods.’
Guy stirred and Sylvie nudged him. ‘Alain’s fever has gone.’
Guy didn’t speak. He pinched his lips together and squeezed Alain’s hand.
Alain improved but it was slow-going. Sylvie tried to ration the painkillers, and he slept a lot. Guy slept next to him. It would have been sweet if I wasn’t still in two minds about Alain’s true nature.
On day three, some soldiers came in through the burned front door – luckily we were all safely downstairs. We heard their boots tramping overhead and them shouting to one another.
‘I think they’re looking to see if the building is empty,’ said Guy, as we all listened to them chatting above our heads.
Fortunately for us, the young soldiers clearly weren’t overly dedicated to their jobs. They stayed for less than half an hour and then left.
The next day, some others arrived. This time we heard them securing the building. Guy crept up the basement steps, listening at the door.
When they’d gone, he reported back that they were going to clear the books out and use the building as some sort of office for Nazi officials. I shuddered at the thought, but I was glad to know they’d clearly decided we had gone.
‘Did they mention us?’ I asked, almost dreading the answer.
‘They said there was no sign of the librarian,’ said Guy. ‘But one of them said the major wouldn’t be satisfied with that and they would have to keep looking.’
I rubbed my forehead, feeling wretched and unsure of what to do.
If they were only looking for me, then would it be safer for the others to leave? Alain was talking now, though he wasn’t eating very much. Perhaps he would soon be strong enough to go.
I wasn’t sure either way. I was crippled with indecision.
By day seven, Alain was much better physically. But he was quiet. Subdued. Very unlike Alain, all in all.
‘Alain?’ I said that evening as he lay on his bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
‘Alain?’ He turned his head to look at me, his eyes glassy. ‘Do you think the Resistance will be looking for you? Do you think they can help us?’
He didn’t reply, simply turned his head away again.
‘Leave him alone,’ Guy said. ‘He needs to rest.’
But I couldn’t help thinking that now was absolutely the time we needed the help of the Resistance most of all, and we had no way to contact them. No way of even knowing where they were. In the darkness of that night as I tried to sleep, I even wondered if the Resistance existed at all.
The following day we decided to go and find more food. Sylvie wanted to hunt out more painkillers for Alain. She was down to the last few aspirin, and she didn’t want to use more morphine when he didn’t need it.
‘Are you still in pain, Alain?’ she asked him. ‘Is your shoulder hurting?’
Alain made a face. ‘A little.’
Sylvie nodded. ‘I will get medicine,’ she said. ‘I will go to see Jacques.’
On the street parallel to the library was a tiny tabac, run by Jacques – a Jewish man.
He, of course, hadn’t been allowed to trade since the Germans arrived.
His children had gone with their mother, fleeing France for safer places – though I wasn’t sure where.
But we had given him books to read, and Guy had helped him board up his broken windows, and so when we first went into hiding, it was Jacques we turned to for help.
He had a shop full of tins of food and other non-perishable goods. It had been a real lifesaver.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Guy said. He looked at Alain, who was – I had to admit – looking much better. He’d eaten some food and he was sitting up in bed.
‘Will you be all right?’ he asked Alain. ‘We won’t be long.’
Alain nodded.
Guy gave his leg a pat under the thin blanket and Alain caught his hand and pulled him into a hug. It felt significant, though I wasn’t sure why.
Curfew was close and it was getting dark now – I felt safer leaving the library in the dim light – and it was raining, so Guy and I huddled under an umbrella. Sylvie pulled her hat on, right down over her ears, and we hurried off. Jacques had no aspirin, but he had made chicken soup.
‘How did you get chicken?’ Guy said in astonishment.
‘Not a whole chicken,’ said Jacques. ‘A tiny bit of chicken. It is mostly rice, I admit. But it is good. It is healing.’
My eyes were hot with tears as I thought about this man, who had nothing, making soup to make us feel better.
We weren’t gone long – less than an hour certainly. Guy and I locked the door behind us, while Sylvie took the soup to Alain. But when we headed back to the basement, she was waiting at the top of the stairs, looking sick with worry.
‘What is it?’ I said. ‘Is Alain? Is he …’
Guy let out a moan of anguish. He pushed past Sylvie and down the stairs and I followed, my heart pounding.
But Alain wasn’t dead as I’d feared. On the contrary, he had clearly felt much better. Because he was gone.
‘Where is he?’ I said, looking round in shock and surprise. ‘Alain?’
Guy ran upstairs again and I heard him calling Alain’s name – quietly but urgently.
‘So we were right,’ Sylvie said in a bleak undertone. ‘Alain is not a hero. He is a coward.’
‘What if he tells someone we are here?’ I said. ‘Do you think we need to leave?’
Sylvie nodded. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Let’s talk in the morning.’
But Guy did not want to talk. He did not want to eat. Or sleep. He wouldn’t try the chicken soup and the following morning he still refused to discuss moving on.
‘Alain will come back,’ he said firmly. ‘He will come back.’
I looked at Sylvie and shrugged. We were at a loss.
Later that day, I was upstairs on lookout duty.
It was grey and cold and I shivered as I sat by the window, looking down on the street.
I was watching but I wasn’t paying attention – not really.
Instead, I was thinking about what to do.
We had to leave this basement, and we had to leave soon.
We had to go somewhere safe. Somewhere out of the city.
I needed to get Guy away from the library, the memories of Alain and the risk of the Nazis.
Down below, movement caught my eye. Four people were walking along the street.
Two men and two women, carrying suitcases.
They looked like they were trying to find a specific place, and they paused beside the library, gazing up at the building.
Concerned about their odd behaviour, I knelt on the window seat, my eyes fixed on the group below.
One of the men walked ahead, to the archway that led to the library’s courtyard.
He beckoned the others and they all went into the yard and out of sight.
‘Shoot,’ I breathed. As quickly as I could, I ran down the main staircase and into the basement where Guy was sitting listlessly on the bed.
‘Where’s Sylvie?’ I asked. He shrugged. ‘There are people here,’ I said.
Now he looked more interested. ‘Resistance?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. They looked like …’ I paused, trying to make sense of what I’d seen. ‘They looked like tourists.’
‘Que se passe t-il?’ Sylvie appeared in the room, carrying a jug of water. ‘What is happening?’