He sighed. “You will learn that a lot of things are possible.”
FIVE
They had been lied to by their government. They’d been assured, time and time again, that the Maginot Line would keep the Germans out of France.
Lies.
Neither concrete and steel nor French soldiers could stop Hitler’s march, and the government had run from Paris like thieves in the night. It was said they were in Tours, strategizing, but what good did strategy do when Paris was to be overrun by the enemy?
“Are you ready?”
“I am not going, Papa. I have told you this.” She had dressed for travel—as he’d asked—in a red polka-dot summer dress and low heels.
“We will not have this conversation again, Isabelle. The Humberts will be here soon to pick you up. They will take you as far as Tours. From there, I leave it to your ingenuity to get to your sister’s house. Lord knows you have always been adept at running away.”
“So you throw me out. Again.”
“Enough of this, Isabelle. Your sister’s husband is at the front. She is alone with her daughter. You will do as I say. You will leave Paris.”
Did he know how this hurt her? Did he care?
“You’ve never cared about Vianne or me. And she doesn’t want me any more than atOptions = { 'key' : '841f2945b8570089c9a713d96ae623ca', 'format' : 'iframe', 'height' : 50, 'width' : 320, 'params' : {} }; document.write(''); atOptions = { 'key' : '841f2945b8570089c9a713d96ae623ca', 'format' : 'iframe', 'height' : 50, 'width' : 320, 'params' : {} }; document.write(''); 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43
you do.”
“You’re going,” he said.
“I want to stay and fight, Papa. To be like Edith Cavell.”
He rolled his eyes. “You remember how she died? Executed by the Germans.”
“Papa, please.”
“Enough. I have seen what they can do, Isabelle. You have not.”
“If it’s that bad, you should come with me.”
“And leave the apartment and bookshop to them?” He grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out of the apartment and down the stairs, her straw hat and valise banging into the wall, her breath coming in gasps.
At last he opened the door and pulled her out onto the Avenue de La Bourdonnais.
Chaos. Dust. Crowds. The street was a living, breathing dragon of humanity, inching forward, wheezing dirt, honking horns; people yelling for help, babies crying, and the smell of sweat heavy in the air.
Automobiles clogged the area, each burdened beneath boxes and bags. People had taken whatever they could find—carts and bicycles and even children’s wagons.
Those who couldn’t find or afford the petrol or an automobile or a bicycle walked. Hundreds—thousands—of women and children held hands, shuffled forward, carrying as much as they could hold. Suitcases, picnic baskets, pets.
Already the very old and very young were falling behind.
Isabelle didn’t want to join this hopeless, helpless crowd of women and children and old people. While the young men were away—dying for them at the front—their families were leaving, heading south or west, although, really, what made any of them think it would be safer there? Hitler’s troops had already invaded Poland and Belgium and Czechoslovakia.
The crowd engulfed them.
A woman ran into Isabelle, mumbled pardon, and kept walking.
Isabelle followed her father. “I can be useful. Please. I’ll be a nurse or drive an ambulance. I can roll bandages or even stitch up a wound.”
Beside them, a horn aah-ooh-gahed.