4:30 a.m.  When Marcelle awakened that day, it had been another beautiful June morning. The cool air that swept into the small open window held the scent of jasmine and the promise of early summer. She crawled out of bed and inhaled the sweet fragrance.  She peeked out through the blackout shades to see if the sun would be rising shortly. It was too hard to imagine that Paris had entered into this nightmare. How could it possibly be?Paris has never looked lovelier!

By 11:30 a.m., Marcelle and her roommate, Gené, had packed their bags-only one per person—and had been waiting for the train to take them to Bordeaux. Since 5:30 a.m. In fact, their entire Citroën crew was congregated outside the Gare d’Austerlitz station. Standing on one leg, then the other, sitting on their belongings, shifting back and forth, all were waiting. Unfortunately, they were not alone. A mass of a thousand others surrounded them, all waiting for the same trains.

But now the heat of mid-day had become unbearable and there was nowhere to go. As the sun beat down, the hopeful passengers began shedding their jackets, hats, and sweaters, as they had layered for the trip.

Gené, not able to stand still, insisted on checking for the train, yet again. Marcelle folded her jacket in quarters, placed it atop her valise and sat down. Her job was to hold their place in line. Time and time again, Gené returned with no new information, saying “Le train qui a été retardé!” Well, Marcelle knew the train was delayed! Every fifteen minutes or so, the station master had been screeching, ‘Nous vous prions de nous excuser pour ce retard!’ We apologize for the delay!

Through the din and confusion, families clustered together. Haggard mothers chastised their errant toddlers while desperately clutching crying babies and belongings to their chests. Marcelle thought of her small son, Thierry, who she had left with the nurses until she could send for him. At least, he wouldn’t have to face this madness. He was much too sensitive to endure this noise.

The piercing voice of a young woman jolted Marcelle to her senses. She looked up. The woman was asking for help with her students. She was a teacher from a nearby girls’ school and had arrived with one hundred orphans and was desperate to get her young girls on board the first train leaving Paris.

“They must be saved,” she cried out. “They have to go first! They have no one left!”

A voice near Marcelle called out, “Are they Jewish?”

The teacher blanched, shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. She dared not answer that question. After much deliberation the station master, frantically pulling his hair, escorted the young girls inside the station as hundreds of others pressed forward to join them. The teacher, frazzled by the experience, sat despondently weeping on someone’s forgotten luggage.

“I will never see them again,” she cried, “and I don’t even know where they are going.”

Placing her hand on the sobbing woman’s shoulder, Marcelle asked, “What about you? Aren’t you going with them?”

“I have no pass from the school to leave. I have no idea what I will do now.” She looked wildly about her. “There must be children left in Paris to teach—somewhere.”

Before Marcelle could respond, the teacher, as if crazed, stood up with tears streaming down her blotchy face and disappeared into the crowd.

Remaining on top of her own suitcase, Marcelle fingered her evacuation pass. Only defense factory employees were given these passes and were allowed to leave the city. She questioned whether or not she should leave, but knew in her heart that, at the age of 22 and a single mother, this was her only opportunity for employment. She sent up a prayer once again to her beloved Sainte Anne d’Auray to watch over her son and return her soon to take him with her.

The day turned into evening and the final train came, loaded up and left the station. Hundreds, thousands, who had been patiently waiting at the station, had been left forlornly behind. Marcelle and Gené picked up their bags and returned to their pensione. They now had no other choice. The next day they would do as everyone else was doing . . . join the l’Exode, the walk to Bordeaux.