“You read it?” Surprise dawned on Madame Kahn’s face.
“I loved it.” But the Nazis would hate the book with its Jewish heroine—and the author who wrote it. “You are friends with Saint-Yves, right? He talks about you.”
“You know my Saint-Yves?” A broad smile erupted.
“I do. He’s a dear. I owned a bookstore in Paris—Green Leaf Books.”
Madame Kahn gasped. “I always wanted to visit, but my English—it is poor.”
“You would have been more than welcome.”
“I can see that.” Madame Kahn’s smile held uncommon warmth. “Tell me, do you have a place to stay?”
“I was going to ask at the legation.”
“Here.” She opened her purse, pulled out a notepad, and began writing. “This is where I’m staying. There’s a vacancy. It’s clean and safe.”
“Thank you.” Lucie took the piece of paper. “How can I ever repay you?”
Madame Kahn’s smile tipped to one side. “How about some English lessons?”
“Gladly.” In a few blocks, Lucie’s new friend went her way, and soon Lucie and Josie arrived at the legation.
A line stretched around the building—refugees hoping for visas to America. Lucie’s heart ached for them as it had for the refugees at the US Consulate in Marseille.
Bypassing the line felt rude, but Lucie didn’t need a visa. She approached the guard at the door, showed her precious passport, and was admitted. A gentleman at the front desk pointed her to the department she needed.
In the office Lucie went to an available clerk. “Good day. My name is Lucille Girard. Do you have a message for me?”
“I’ll check, ma’am.”
Her heart beat in wild hope for a word from Paul, but the clerk returned empty-handed. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. May I leave a message for Mr. Paul Aubrey? He’s an American citizen.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The clerk slid a piece of paper and an envelope to her.
In her note Lucie told Paul when they’d arrived, where they were staying, and her plans to find passage. Then she pressed a lipstick kiss to the paper and had Josie give her father a candy kiss.
After she slipped the note in the envelope, she gave it one last kiss. “Soon, my love,” she whispered.
44
BAYONNE, FRANCE
THURSDAY, JANUARY15, 1942
All the waiting and tedium had come to an end. Paul slumped in his seat, a laborer in cheap clothing, as the train pulled into Bayonne near the Spanish border on the Atlantic.
That morning a young woman with the code name of Denise had roused Paul and three RAF airmen and hustled them on to a southbound train.
The railway personnel had barely glanced at their papers and had given Denise knowing nods. Thecheminotswere among the first to resist the Germans.
Denise sat three rows ahead of Paul to his right, and the Englishmen sat behind him.
The train chuffed into a station with a peaked roof. After it stopped, Denise retrieved a suitcase from the overhead rack. Paul gathered his satchel and followed at a distance, not looking back to check on the airmen.
Paul followed Denise down the platform, through the station, and outside into cool, clear air. A wide road passed creamy buildings decorated with shutters and awnings in reds and greens.
