Read Online 300 Days of Sun by Deborah Lawrenson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deborah Lawrenson
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not strut around shouting, but they call him the Plainclothes Dictator. The place is mined with fifth columnists ready to spring into action when the word is given. No one knows which way it will go. Howâs the accommodation, by the way?â
It was thanks to Ronald that they had made it at all. Thanks to Ronald, too, that they had an attic room at the Hotel Métropole on Rossio Square in the center of town. In the sudden influx of refugees, rooms were not easy to find.
The Bartons replied simultaneously.
âItâs great,â said Michael.
âA touch cramped but OK,â said Alva.
âThe Métropole is expensive and full of Nazis. Just so you know,â said Ronald. âBut keep hold of the room until you find your feet.â
T he journey had started in Paris, or in Rome, or in New York, depending on how far back you wanted to go. At the end of 1938, Michael Barton was bureau chief for Associated Press in Rome; thirty-Âseven years old and considered a safe pair of hands. He was in wire contact every day with reporters who were watching what was happening in Germany and it wasnât good. In newspaper terms, that wasnât necessarily bad, but it meant he needed to get in closer. Leaving Rome was more of a wrench for Alva. For two years she had been cheerful in its sunny chaos, had loved the connection with her Italian blood. But she trusted her husband. When he told her he was transferring to Paris, she didnât question his judgment.
Even after war was declared, there was no sense of panic outside the news agencies. In the capital, the French seemed dismissive of any threat, determined to ignore it with the same disdain they used for oafish tourists. For Americans in Paris not much seemed to change: the bars and bookshops, the theaters and restaurants and dance halls were full; the couture houses were busy. No expense was spared by their French hosts to give sumptuous private parties: fancy dress parties, black and white balls, winter festivals. If you hadnât been there in the spring of 1940, you wouldnât have known that the City of Light lost none of its gaiety and fabled April beauty that year. Plenty of Âpeople were still kidding themselves that everything would be all right, and wealthy and well-Âconnected American expatriates knew they could always buy their way out of trouble.
It wasnât until June, when the German army strolled into France with a contempt for the Maginot Line worthy of a Parisian waiter, that Michael told his wife it was time for them to get out.
âWhere to?â
âWherever we can get to.â
A million goodbyes were being said. The only talk was of travel plans. No seats were available on trains; the railways were full of troops. There was a private bus going to Bordeaux. Bordeaux was a port. If they got there fast enough there were bound to be ships sailing into safe territory. Someone had a neighbor who had chartered this bus, word had spread, and the Bartons paid double to take the chance, carrying what precious possessions they could, leaving most behind at a hotel where Michael trusted the concierge.
The bus left the Quai Voltaire with not a spare inch between passengers, including many children and several dogs as well as luggage. The air was stifling, even with every window open. There was always one child crying. The smell of warm bread and cheese mingled with engine fumes and dirty diapers was
nauseating.
It was just as well they hadnât a child of their own, Alva told herself, and for the first time she felt glad. They had no one but themselves to worry about. At least they had transport. All along the dusty roads was an unending procession of Âpeople moving south, carrying all that they could, pushing their possessions in carts and barrows. She found herself watching out for the children, as they sat mutely on sacks or struggled ahead on foot.
At Tours, they stopped in a line of traffic. The driver
It was thanks to Ronald that they had made it at all. Thanks to Ronald, too, that they had an attic room at the Hotel Métropole on Rossio Square in the center of town. In the sudden influx of refugees, rooms were not easy to find.
The Bartons replied simultaneously.
âItâs great,â said Michael.
âA touch cramped but OK,â said Alva.
âThe Métropole is expensive and full of Nazis. Just so you know,â said Ronald. âBut keep hold of the room until you find your feet.â
T he journey had started in Paris, or in Rome, or in New York, depending on how far back you wanted to go. At the end of 1938, Michael Barton was bureau chief for Associated Press in Rome; thirty-Âseven years old and considered a safe pair of hands. He was in wire contact every day with reporters who were watching what was happening in Germany and it wasnât good. In newspaper terms, that wasnât necessarily bad, but it meant he needed to get in closer. Leaving Rome was more of a wrench for Alva. For two years she had been cheerful in its sunny chaos, had loved the connection with her Italian blood. But she trusted her husband. When he told her he was transferring to Paris, she didnât question his judgment.
Even after war was declared, there was no sense of panic outside the news agencies. In the capital, the French seemed dismissive of any threat, determined to ignore it with the same disdain they used for oafish tourists. For Americans in Paris not much seemed to change: the bars and bookshops, the theaters and restaurants and dance halls were full; the couture houses were busy. No expense was spared by their French hosts to give sumptuous private parties: fancy dress parties, black and white balls, winter festivals. If you hadnât been there in the spring of 1940, you wouldnât have known that the City of Light lost none of its gaiety and fabled April beauty that year. Plenty of Âpeople were still kidding themselves that everything would be all right, and wealthy and well-Âconnected American expatriates knew they could always buy their way out of trouble.
It wasnât until June, when the German army strolled into France with a contempt for the Maginot Line worthy of a Parisian waiter, that Michael told his wife it was time for them to get out.
âWhere to?â
âWherever we can get to.â
A million goodbyes were being said. The only talk was of travel plans. No seats were available on trains; the railways were full of troops. There was a private bus going to Bordeaux. Bordeaux was a port. If they got there fast enough there were bound to be ships sailing into safe territory. Someone had a neighbor who had chartered this bus, word had spread, and the Bartons paid double to take the chance, carrying what precious possessions they could, leaving most behind at a hotel where Michael trusted the concierge.
The bus left the Quai Voltaire with not a spare inch between passengers, including many children and several dogs as well as luggage. The air was stifling, even with every window open. There was always one child crying. The smell of warm bread and cheese mingled with engine fumes and dirty diapers was
nauseating.
It was just as well they hadnât a child of their own, Alva told herself, and for the first time she felt glad. They had no one but themselves to worry about. At least they had transport. All along the dusty roads was an unending procession of Âpeople moving south, carrying all that they could, pushing their possessions in carts and barrows. She found herself watching out for the children, as they sat mutely on sacks or struggled ahead on foot.
At Tours, they stopped in a line of traffic. The driver
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