Lyon
August 29, 1942
Justus had tried to escape the first day he was in the hospital, but his side hurt too much. After the operation, he had awoken with pain throughout his body and a very fuzzy head, confused about where he was. He was young and was recovering quickly, but he still felt weak. The good part about his current captivity was being fed well, thanks to the purees and stews that tasted like heaven to the undernourished boy. It felt like ages since he had eaten hot food or come close to feeling full.
Justus got up carefully and stared out the window of his room. He was on the fourth floor, so the window was not a viable escape route. Then he cautiously opened his door and checked the hallway. A gendarme was sleepily puffing on a cigarette. Just then a nurse turned a corner. The policeman straightened up and began talking with her. He was so caught up in the conversation that Justus easily could have escaped without notice.
By the time the nurse reached his room, Justus was lying back in bed.
“How are you today?” she asked.
“Well, it hurts a little.”
“Quit whining, chum. Your operation happened thanks to the good graces of the French state.”
Her reply took Justus aback. Apparently the nurse saw herself as the defender of the Republic’s public health system.
“Tomorrow you’ll be out of here. They can’t send you back to camp because everyone’s already been shipped off, but they’ll catch you up to your group, and within a few days you’ll be put to work. No more living large like the parasites you people are.”
Justus sat up and met her eyes squarely.
“What do you mean by that?”
The woman frowned, displeased that he had the audacity to retort.
“All you foreigners have come to France to steal our jobs and run our culture into the ground. Now that you don’t have those worthless politicians protecting you, your time has come. The country is crawling with Jews and Red Spanish Communists, but really you’re all just one and the same: leeches.”
Justus did not reply. He knew it was pointless to argue with someone like that. As soon as the nurse left the room, Justus crept to the door to see if she had stopped again to talk with the policeman. She had. He threw on his clothes as quickly as he could, slipped out the door, and sprinted toward the stairs.
The gendarme heard the footsteps and turned to glimpse Justus. He jumped to his feet and tore after the boy, hollering, “You damned fool!”
Justus took the stairs three at a time, feeling the pull of the stitches but knowing that pausing was not an option. On the bottom floor he frantically looked for the exit and ran toward it. He was starting to tire, and the pain in his side was now piercing, but he did not stop.
On the streets of Lyon he ran in the direction he guessed was south. He had been in Lyon before but did not know the streets. He crossed the river and glanced back, dismayed to see the gendarme still following him. Justus feared being stopped by a pedestrian but kept pushing himself on. Twenty grueling minutes later, he found himself in front of a church. He went in, ran to what seemed to be an office, and knocked at the door. A middle-aged man with dark hair and a graying beard opened and studied him with surprise for a moment before ushering him in.
“They’re after me,” was all Justus managed to say between gasps.
“You’ll be safe here,” the pastor said, leading Justus to one of the back rooms as they heard a loud banging at the door.
The knocking continued. When the pastor opened, the gendarme demanded, “Why didn’t you open right away?”
The reverend wiped the policeman’s spittle off his face and calmly answered, “I was praying.”
“A young man came into the church. Have you seen him?”
“I see many people all day long.”
“I’m talking about right now, just a minute ago.”
The pastor shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, you damned Masons. You pastors will be the next to fall.”
“I’m no Mason, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, moving to close the door, but the policeman stuck out his foot.
“I’m coming in.”
“No, you aren’t. This is the house of God and it’s protected by the laws of France. Come back with a search warrant. There are still laws in this country, much to the chagrin of many of you.”
The gendarme’s face puckered in anger, and he wagged his finger in the pastor’s face. “I’ll be back with the warrant, don’t you doubt it. You know what the punishment is for housing a fugitive. And since you’re so keen on the law, I’ll make sure the weight of it falls on your head.”
The reverend closed the door and leaned his back against it. He let out a long breath and then went to look for the boy.
“We’ve got to go; it isn’t safe here.”
The pastor drove to the Amitié Chrétienne offices to see Father Glasberg. Justus would recover for a few more days in the home of Mrs. Lelièvre.
When he was strong enough, Mrs. Lelièvre helped Justus get out of Lyon. She accompanied him by train to Valence, where Justus hoped against hope to find the boys he had met at the Vénissieux camp.