When, in a cacophony of connecting rods, pistons, brake shoes, and bursts of steam, the train slowly drew up at the platform, there was a mad rush for the doors in search of seats, since the young men leaning against the windows, having got in at Saint-Nazaire, had announced that there wouldn’t be enough for everyone. While the sentries were fully occupied in restoring discipline by giving gruff orders, he slid down with his suitcase between two cars, worked his way beneath the couplings, and crept under the other train. Lying flat on his stomach across the railroad ties, his heart beating frantically, for an eternity of seconds he awaited the shouts and hysterical activity that would certainly ensue if his escape had been noticed. Every time a whistle blew to signal the departure of a train, he tightened his grip on his suitcase, ready to spring, reproaching himself for having loaded it down with so many books, although not for a single moment did it occur to him to abandon it. As the minutes passed and the normal frenzy of the occupants sounded no more alarming than usual, he began to crawl forward a few yards, all the time keeping a watch on the feet clomping along the platform above him. Even more than a pair of boots, what he dreaded to see were the four paws of a German shepherd, whose nose would certainly have condemned him, whose fangs would have torn him to pieces. But neither boots nor dog appeared. All that was to be seen through the narrow gap between the bottom of the carriage and the edge of the platform was the heartrending procession of miserable substitutes for shoes. Old, worn-out, patched-up shoes, complete with wooden or cork soles, or even with a bit of carpet. He himself, in preparation for his getaway, had made a deal with the postman, who got preferential treatment, and had acquired a pair of sturdy leather shoes. He had remembered a remark made by a prisoner who had escaped from a stalag: “The secret of an escape is shoes.”
For the time being, though, a blacksmith’s apron would probably have served his purpose better, as he made his way along under the train, bumping his suitcase over the ties in front of him. Another thing he feared was that the train above him would pull out. He could imagine the tragicomedy of the scene, with him on all fours in the middle of the rails, his pathetic surrender and its terrible consequences. What could he pretend to be looking for? The cigarette butt story wouldn’t work a second time. But anyway, this was it, this was the end of his disappearing act: a slight jolt, an imperceptible gliding movement — though his temporary shelter hasn’t budged. A comparison of the position of the wheels with a fixed point is enough to reassure him: it’s the train transporting the forced laborers that is pulling out, on the other track. And he aims a relieved little smile at the ties and axles: the contingent bound for Germany is leaving without him.
By now he has reached the end car and, flat on his stomach, takes stock of the situation: cars waiting or abandoned on a siding, a railwayman pulling up a lever at the points, some workmen chatting by a shed, a contemplative seagull perched on a rail, sparrows hopping up and down. The track on this side crosses the west side of the town. If he were to walk along it, with that wire fence between the station and the avenue, he could hardly escape notice. Should he cut through the marshaling yard to get down to the river? Too many pitfalls, and he would be almost certain to come across a patrol. Wait until it gets dark? Without a secure hiding place, he wouldn’t like to bet on his chances until then. All that remains is the station. And he leaves his cover, bending double as he crosses the rails, as if his great height made him too conspicuous, pausing, crouched down under the end of the platforms, risking a glance, but still squatting there on the lookout for the arrival of a train that would allow him to melt into the crowd of passengers. Dusting off his overcoat to improve his appearance, he notices that it has lost a couple of buttons, one of which has taken a bit of cloth with it. There are greasy patches that refuse to come off, and he even adds a bit of blood to them, which to his great surprise comes from his hand. While he is examining his wound, a few drops of rain fall on his open palm. He looks up. The sky has taken advantage of his sojourn undercover to muster up some dark, heavy rain clouds, which precipitate a splendid deluge. The master of the elements is generous: the rain, which reduces people’s ardor, will be an invaluable ally. The watchdogs aren’t going to look twice, being more interested in finding shelter.
The rain is now pelting down on all sides, creating a halo of vapor above the steaming locomotive, which has just appeared around the wide curve. It seems to be trying to find its way among the points, and then passes within a few inches of him, spitting sparks. He nimbly hoists himself up on the platform and is soon just one of a group of passengers. In spite of his fears, he doesn’t stand out too much in his shabby getup. War doesn’t make it any easier for people to buy new clothes, and some have great difficulty in disguising their destitution. He is even amused at the way the women have drawn a thin pencil line over their tea-tanned calves to simulate the seam of imaginary silk stockings. But his anxiety grows when he notices several people staring at him, as if his new condition of a man on the run had branded a star on his forehead. “I’ve had it,” he says to himself, and he feels an icy liquid piercing his heart. He walks more slowly and, to keep up his courage, lights a cigarette. When the flame reflects his face in a train window, he realizes that what had caught their attention was the streak of black oil covering his nose. The very thing for daytime camouflage.
The exit toward which the crowd of passengers is moving is under strict surveillance. In view of the increasing number of assassination attempts and acts of sabotage, the German police, backed up by the recently created militia who, so it is rumored, are even more to be feared, have intensified their control with the frenzy of lost causes. For the tide is beginning to turn against the upholders of the new order. He can see them barring the exit, suspicious, touchy, irritable, impatient, checking papers, opening bags and suitcases, and for no apparent reason picking on one man, who casts a fearful glance around him, and pulling him to one side. Should he cut across to the station restaurant? He has to be on his guard against plainclothes policemen and informers who lean on the bar pretending to be unconcerned but then suddenly abandon their drinks and start following you. Arrests of this type, muttered conversations have reported, are the most pernicious, because they also affect the friend who is hiding you, and sometimes lead them to pick up a whole Resistance network. As he catches sight of the waiting room, he remembers a Latin translation from his school years where a crafty shepherd spirits away some oxen by pushing them out of a cave backward, which causes some incredulity in their owner, Hercules maybe, who is misled by their footprints. But that would mean passing the ticket collector in the opposite direction. So he goes up to him and, covered in confusion, putting on his Planchet act, explains that he doesn’t know the time of his connection at Angers for Sable, changing at, that’s just it, he’s forgotten where: could he possibly go back to the information office? “Make it quick, then,” grumbles the official, irritated that he doesn’t know the answers by heart.
In the waiting room, apart from the passengers actually waiting, there are quite a few passersby who, caught in the shower, have hurried in to dry, still out of breath from their little sprint, wringing out their hair and shaking their overcoats. Others, crowding into the doorway, are waiting for the sky to clear and indulging in inspired comments: “The English are at it again,” someone hazards, while the rain buckets down even harder on the cobblestones.
The tall young man with the suitcase has worked his way into the front row, deaf to the protesters standing on tiptoe watching the vagaries of the sky over his shoulder. He shivers in the moist breeze brought by the shower and pulls his coat collar tighter around his neck. The stream flowing in front of him, a former branch of the Loire recently filled in to prevent spring floods, seems to have reverted to its original state. The running water glistens like a great river, froths up in the gutters, and rushes down the gratings into the drains. It is as if the rain has the deserted town at its mercy and has brought it to a standstill. The comments become rarer, more laconic, everyone is plunged into pleasant contemplation. A kind of inner peace is achieved. The tall young man has taken off his glasses and is rubbing the top of his nose. He can be seen to be of two minds about whether to put them on again but then slips them into his pocket. Why does he need to see clearly in this murky atmosphere? The haze that now surrounds him seems to keep danger at arm’s length, to attenuate it, like the massive towers of Anne of Brittany’s castle, which he can see in the distance through the mists. And, benefiting from what might be taken for blind confidence, the ultimate negligence, he suddenly dives out into the cover of the liquid canopy.