Travelers' Tales Paris (41 page)

In German, he ordered the Gestapo to take me away and to ship me back on the next train.

I was taken to a small room where three French
gendarmes
sat at a small table playing cards. The guard propelled me towards them and in an accented French told them to push me across the red line as soon as possible. They interrupted their card game and looked at me with professional interest, trying to place me in some criminal category. What was this well-dressed young man up to?

One of them, not unkindly said, “Sit down and relax. It will take some time for the Germans to fill out all their forms. They love paper work. There isn't a train north until tomorrow anyway. You will sleep in our jail tonight.”

Ever since my arrest I had lived in a state of disorganized terror as if I'd been thrown overboard in a vast ocean full of man-eaters. I was desperately paddling to stay afloat while dozens of other prisoners were clinging to the sides of a boat. They were torn away, one by one, by the attacking sharks. Sitting in the boat, which flew the swastika, drunken soldiers amused themselves, pushing men, women and children over the side. I was living a nightmare.

The benign attitude of the French
gendarmes
reassured me. It changed my outlook from terror to simple fear. It is astonishing what a kind word can accomplish in a desperate situation. The
gendarmes
ignored me and returned to their noisy game. In about an hour, a German brought my suitcase and handed the policemen a manila envelope. I asked the sergeant if I could get some cigarettes out of my bag. He nodded yes. I opened it. I could tell that it had been searched, but both loaves of bread appeared intact. My spirits soared from despair to hope. Everything was not lost. My luck was changing; with courage, imagination, and determination, I might
escape the sharks. When the card game ended, the
gendarmes
added their score, exchanged money and then turned towards me. I offered them cigarettes and asked them if it was possible for us to stop and buy some food on our way to the jail.

“If you have money to pay for it, we'll gladly take you to a restaurant.”

“If it's OK, I would gladly buy drinks and dinner all around.”

They looked at each other, but they didn't answer. One of them escorted me out, through a back door, down an alley to a closed restaurant. We entered through the kitchen. It was empty except for the owners. We were finishing our first drink when the other two
gendarmes
showed up. I called for more drinks. We enjoyed a five course dinner with bottles of expensive wine with each course; then cognac and more wine. I told them that I was an American student trying to reach Paris prior to returning home. My arrest was a total mistake. I am sure that they didn't believe me. We played cards and drank until midnight. Naturally, I lost heavily. Since it was past curfew, the jail was closed and I was such a grand fellow and model prisoner, they decided that I should take a room upstairs; drunk as I was they said that they were certain that I wouldn't try to escape. Afterwards, hugged by the comfort and warmth of a feather bed, I decided that the odds were so poor that I could run away in the middle of the night, without papers, in a strange town crawling with Germans, that I planned to wait until daybreak before making my move. I fell asleep and dreamt of Paris.

Next morning, shaved and dressed in my tweeds, I was ready to step out onto the wet pavement when one of the
gendarmes
showed up. He seemed surprised that I was still around. They must have really thought that I was a spy. Mustering all my courage, I asked him if he carried a gun. No, the Germans didn't trust him, he was armed with a night stick and a whistle. If a prisoner tried to run away, his orders were to try to restrain him and to blow his whistle to alert the German and French police to come to his aid. Outside, the rain had stopped but had been replaced by a cold gray
fog, the kind that chills you right through to the bone marrow. I took an envelope filled with currency and put it in his hand.

“I'd appreciate it if you could give me my passport and wait a couple of hours before blowing your whistle.”

He put the envelope in his tunic pocket, handed me my passport out of the manila folder, opened the door, pointed down the hill towards the railroad station.

“That is the way south. Keep off the paved roads, try the fields. If you get caught tell them that you knocked me down and overpowered me. Good luck.”

The streets were deserted, I walked across the Marne canal without seeing anyone. When I reached the railroad tracks, I entered the plowed fields slippery with brown clay. The fog was thicker around the waterways and the going so tough that I doubted that any patrols would venture into the countryside that morning. I stumbled along keeping the barely visible railroad lines to my right. From time to time, I stopped to rest and to listen to the sounds around me. I heard voices, dog barks, train, car and wagon noises. I was floating in a sea of fog with everything near but out of sight. Once, I was stopped by a canal. I didn't panic, I backtracked alongside it and crossed the water at a railroad bridge which was left unguarded. Around noon, the fog eased a little. I had reached the outskirts of a small city. It was the town of Tergniers, a rail center with squat houses huddled around the station. Since leaving St-Quentin I hadn't been challenged by anyone, my luck was holding. Before entering the town, I sat down and changed to a clean pair of shoes from my suitcase. I left my muddy ones in a culvert and, nonchalantly carrying my suitcase, I walked into the station. The platform was full of German soldiers. When a train with a Paris destination ground to a noisy stop, everyone including me jumped on board.

Struggling with my suitcase, I walked through the first class section until I located a compartment with an empty seat. All other seats were occupied by young officers. They helped me heave my coat and my bag onto the rack. They spoke to me, I answered
“
Guten tag. Jawohl
....” and smiled a lot. I intimated that I was Flemish, “
Flemmisch Sprechen. Deutsch Verstehen
.”

Looking around, I noticed that all the signs in the car were in German. God. In my haste, I had jumped on a troop train which had originated in the Fatherland. My traveling companions mistook me for one of their civilian surrogates—a collaborator. They couldn't have treated me nicer; having exhausted most of my vocabulary and before I could arouse any suspicion, I had to find a way out—not the toilet this time. A steward playing a glockenspiel stuck his head in the compartment and announced the second seating for lunch. I followed him to an ornate dining car. He thrust a reservation book at me to sign in. I wrote something illegible followed by the street address of a hotel in Antwerp. He waved me to a small table for two; except for some ladies, I noticed that I was the only civilian there. I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible by looking out the window. The sun had finally broken through the mist. At a large table opposite mine, four German officers in full dress, their tunics covered with iron crosses, ribbons and medals were lingering over their desserts and plotting the train's itinerary
on a map. They observed the countryside with binoculars and talked about having traveled through there before. I overheard them say respectfully “General.” When the train reached Compiègne, the place where the armistices in 1918 and 1940 had been signed, they laughed and called for champagne. The General stood and proposed a toast. Everyone in the dining salon stood, including me. He noticed that I was raising my water glass so he directed the steward to bring me some champagne. On command, we toasted Germany's victorious armies. As the only person not in uniform, I realized that I stood out like a sore thumb and expected the worst. Should the General try to talk to me, I was finished. When he stood up to leave, he directed the waiter to bring me two half-filled bottles of white wine and some cake from his table. I stood up, bowed and said, “
Danke Schön, Herr General
.”

He gave me the Nazi salute, “Heil Hitler.”

I responded in kind. When I sat down, I was pleased with my performance. My Heil Hitler to the General certainly impressed the rest of the diners who cast furtive glances in my direction. I really must be important for the General to take notice of me. The waiter brought the menu and I ordered sausage and red cabbage in my most guttural Flemish. The dining room was full and there were some officers waiting to be seated but because of my short acquaintance with my host I was allowed to savor their best Rhine wines and eat their gourmet food at my leisure like a privileged member of the Master Race. Had I been dressed in shabby clothes, worn muddy shoes and sporting a two day's growth of beard, I would be traveling on a train going in the opposite direction to a certain death. Clothes make the man; this morning I was haggling with a French policeman for my freedom and now I was dining in the German senior officers' salon. My long walk and the dangers I had faced sharpened my appetite; I did justice to the meal and the chocolate cake, the first chocolate that I had tasted in months. The waiter brought a box of cigars and a brandy snifter. He opened the box and I selected one as he poured me a half glass of Courvoisier from the General's bottle. When I reached for a lighter, he gave me a light and I lit the cigar like an expert. I gave him a couple of
hundred francs for his trouble. For my taste I find Courvoisier a little sweet—not enough oak. I prefer a more robust Cognac, but this being wartime and given the circumstances I must learn to make do.... The cigar was Dutch Sumatra perfect, it built a wonderful cone of ashes. The train rattled through the last miles of our journey. I smiled with contentment and a young lady two tables away smiled back. I hadn't meant to smile at her, it was a reaction to my change of fortune; happiness like misery is easily transmitted. I was jettisoning my anguish every mile that I traveled away from St-Quentin and towards Paris. Here I was in the midst of my enemies, enjoying their hospitality while in my bag I carried 150,000 stolen marks. I went from the depth of despair to the heights of elation. Paris was not only my destination, it was my destiny. When we reached the drab industrial approaches to the city, the train slowed and I decided that it was safe for me to return to my seat. The rail lines around the Gare du Nord were guarded by anti-aircraft batteries. When the train stopped, all the military personnel were allowed on the platform. When I tried to exit, my passage was blocked by military policemen. I looked out the window and saw the reason why. The huge glass and steel building was festooned with swastikas. An honor guard stood at attention facing the train. A band played “
Deutschland Über Alles
.” The General and his staff reviewed the troops, saluted them, then the honor guard changed formation, and the band attacked a lively march tune as they goose-stepped out of the station. The General and all the troops followed, then me, whistling and marching in step, carrying my precious yellow leather suitcase towards freedom and the Paris boulevards.

I soon learned that the General who unwittingly helped me achieve the first stage of my escape was the new military governor of Paris.