God Speed the Night Read Free Page B

dying, the houses with their tall chimneys lolled against one another, the limestone yellowing, the roof tiles askew. Only the cathedral stood in high and serene arrogance, a Gothic invader where the Romanesque had ruled in humbler dignity. Once in his student days, before he had taken his certificate in architecture, Marc had wanted to visit St. Hilaire cathedral. Now he doubted he would ever see more of it than this glimpse from a train window, and it no longer mattered a whit to him.
    The train, having only gained a little speed, slowed down again. He was better able to observe what he was sure was the Old Town. The cobbled streets were narrow, twisting into one another, and the two-story buildings hunched over the streets vaguely suggesting old men at chess.
    The train rattled across a viaduct and abruptly they were in the station yard. The sweat went cold on Marc’s back. Nazis were everywhere, green uniforms and black.
    “What does it mean?” Rachel whispered.
    Everyone was asking the same question.
    Marc studied the soldiers. There was something strange about them, something in their stance, in the quality of their alertness; he realized what it was. They were more concerned with a crowd of people outside the fence than with the train and its arrivals.
    “It will not concern us,” he said to Rachel.
    The train ground to a halt, the aftersounds of steam and air pressure like a vast sigh. Everyone pressed toward the platform. The passengers were ordered by the police, military and municipal, to proceed single file into the station building. Marc tested their vigilance by moving up alongside Rachel. He was ordered back into line. A few steps further on he bent down and, on the pretense of retying his shoelace, looked to see beneath the train to what lay beyond the tracks. A cement parapet. He tried to inquire of a French policeman why the people had gathered outside the fence. They were mostly women.
    “Move on, monsieur. Move on.”
    When all the passengers were out of the train, a civilian official came down the line with a megaphone and spoke to a section of the arrivals at a time: “Messieurs—mesdames, will those with harvest work permits kindly step out of line?”
    Rachel glanced back at Marc. He shook his head. They no longer had such permits. He watched the straggle of workers, men and women, fall out and follow the official to where two policemen were waiting. They entered the building by the baggage entrance.
    The line moved ahead at a snail’s pace, an ominous sign. The nuns and the children were taken from the line, the children now helping with luggage that weighed more than themselves. They were taken forward, but when some minutes later Marc and Rachel drew near the building, both nuns and children were still on the platform. They were being questioned in French and in German: the children’s papers showed them only to be the adopted wards of the nuns. It did not satisfy the Germans.
    Marc shut his mind to them. He was coming close to a window. The waiting room was milling with people because of the delay at the other end. A taller man than most, Marc saw over their heads to the courtyard doors where yet another inspection was to be got through, this time both luggage and papers. He had seen enough of the Gestapo in his time to recognize them among the inspectors. And he had been told that St. Hilaire was a “safe” town. Perhaps it was if they could reach it, but there was no safe passage through the station exit for them. But neither was there escape except through the building. Marc calculated their best chance to lie in the confusion of numbers. He pressed Rachel forward as they approached the door, forcing her to force the woman ahead of her. He had only managed to wedge himself inside the station when guards came up and sealed off the entrance until those inside the building were processed.
    Rachel’s face was the color of old newspaper. Marc maneuvered her toward a window as far as