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have their identity cards checked again by German sentries, they sat down on the stone platform to wait. Madame Lucien Jacques had given them a lunch of tough meat sandwiches and a bottle of wine. It was steaming hot, and they longed for water, but discovered that the water from the fountain at one end of the platform was not drinkable. The express was late, and it was nearly four in the afternoon before it thundered into the station. The coaches were completely full, and they were immediately assaulted by the same furious crowd of baggage-laden travelers. This time only Roy managed to get a tiny space in a compartment, while Jim and Marcel had to squeeze with a dozen others into the long corridor that ran down one side of the car.
    Ten minutes after leaving, the French police came past. Roy felt perspiration on his forehead as a gendarme in the corridor touched his cap with one finger and leaned into the compartment. Another policeman checked the standees outside. The man at the door glanced hard at Roy, but returned his identity card without a word. Then he spoke to Marcel by the window in the passageway. His tones were low, yet excited. Marcel, in turn, immediately began whispering to Jim.
    Something’s about to break, Roy thought. If only I could understand what’s going on!
    The whole compartment was interested now; the two soldiers beside him with their guns between their feet; the old man with the waxed mustachios; the ancient lady at the window, with the voluminous skirts and the black velvet band round her neck; the worker with the beret; the young girl with the wicker basket on her knees, all of them. They understood what Roy did not.
    Then Jim leaned over him into the compartment. “Gestapo! The Germans are following down the car below to check on the French police. They’ll want your identity card. Whatever happens, don’t talk.”
    Suddenly the ancient lady in the far corner leaned toward Roy across the seats.
    “Vous!” She was pointing at him. “ Vous! Spik French?”
    Roy had been told by the Intelligence Officer at the base a dozen times that if brought down in France he was to obey the orders of the Resistance. The orders of the Resistance came through Marcel, and they were that he was not to talk. So he did not talk. He simply shook his head.
    Instantly the old lady began to make weird motions. She beckoned to him, she spread out her skirts, while the soldier next to him seized his arm and pointed toward her. Roy neither understood what they wanted nor what he should do. Then there was a scream, a horrible scream far down the car, a scream that rose above the noise and the jolting of the train; a woman’s cry, tragic and lonely.
    The whole compartment sat tense, listening. Then Roy was pulled and hauled over their feet toward the old lady beside the window. She motioned to him to get down, put her hand on his shoulder and yanked him to the floor. Extending her skirts, she enveloped him completely. From the young girl next to her she grabbed the wicker basket and placed it in her lap, just above Roy’s head.
    From the corridor outside came the sounds of a scuffle, harsh German tones, and the sobbing of a French woman as she was led from the car. Next Roy heard a sharp, short command in a guttural voice, and he could guess that they were all handing over their identity cards. The old lady’s hand was on his shoulder, steadying him, patting his arm gently. He knelt there, desperately uncomfortable, his knees sore, his head hurting where the old lady pressed the wicker basket into his neck. The pain in his leg became acute again. His whole hip began to ache intolerably; it seemed impossible to stand his cramped position any longer. Then finally the harsh German voice moved to the next compartment.
    The old lady waited a minute, moved the wicker basket off his head, lifted her skirts, and Roy climbed out, red of face, clenching his teeth as the pain stabbed up and down his leg. He squeezed into his