A café stood on the corner, the outdoor tables abandoned in the cold. Lucie slipped through the door and strolled leisurely through cozy interconnecting rooms as if looking for a friend.
An empty room. Lucie ducked inside and fished in her bag for her black turban. She twisted up her hair and tugged the turban in place. Then she yanked off her coat and turned it right side out.
A commotion in the front of the café. Heated voices. Stomping feet.
Lucie kicked her bag under a table that hadn’t been cleared, plopped into a chair with her back to the door, and raised a half-empty coffee cup.
“Did a woman run in here?” Wattenberg’s voice drew near.
“Non. I saw no one running,” a man said, probably a waiter.
“Black coat, light brown hair. She runs with her toes out to the side.”
Lucie didn’t look up, but what Parisienne would? To the German soldiers, the city wasParis sans regard, Paris without a glance, and Lucie would pretend no rock-monsters polluted this café.
“This is the last room, monsieur,” the man said. “Why don’t I show you the kitchen?”
Wattenberg’s heavy footsteps came to a stop behind her, and Lucie took a sip of someone else’s cold ersatz coffee, praying, willing her breath not to betray her.
“Yes.” Boots stomped away. “Show me the kitchen.”
Lucie’s breath blew waves in the dark brew, and the cup tinkled in the saucer as she set it down with trembling hand.
The kitchen door slammed.
Lucie snagged her bag from under the table and sashayed out with a nonchalant expression, forcing her feet to walk in parallel.
She slipped outside and strode down to the boulevard Saint-Germain, her pace quick but not so quick as to call attention to the woman in a green coat and black turban.
The first place the police would search would be the Odéon Métro station. Lucie had to get there first.
She turned onto the boulevard. Two policemen hurried toward her, blue capes flapping behind them.
Lucie’s step hitched, but an innocent woman didn’t fear the police, so she kept moving.
“Green Leaf Books,” one policeman said to the other. “Rue Casimir-Delavigne.”
They were coming for her, but Lucie gave them a benign smile and walked on past.
The Métro, at last. She trotted down the stairs, bought a ticket, and found the platform for the number ten line, melting into the crowd.
Each minute passed as if slogging through mud, and Lucie clutched her bag to her stomach.
The number ten line led to Gare d’Austerlitz, the station for all southbound trains. Would the police realize she was trying to escape from Paris, not just within Paris? If so, they’d alert the train stations. And she had to show her papers to buy a ticket.
“Hurry, hurry,” she muttered.
Finally the train pulled into the station. Staying in the middle of the crowd, Lucie stepped onto the train and found a seat. A copy ofJe suis partoutlay on the seat, full of hateful fascist lies.
Lucie grabbed it to toss it to the floor, but then raised the filth before her face, sitting tall as if she didn’t care who saw her.
The doors closed, and the train pulled away.
Her eyes slipped shut in relief, but she was far from safe.
40
The crowds at Gare d’Austerlitz oppressed, impeding Paul, and police stood in pairs throughout the main hall, watching.
