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He heard the irregular snore of the truck's engine, the stamp and shuffle of the prisoners' feet, the background noises of a small town's traffic and people. Had he got away with it?
He looked around him, keeping his head low. In the truck with him were buckets, planks, a ladder, and a wheelbarrow. He had been hoping for a few sacks with which to cover himself, but there were none.
He heard a motorcycle. It seemed to come to a halt nearby. Then, a few inches from his head, someone spoke French with a strong German accent. "Where are you going?" A guard was talking to the truck driver, Lloyd figured with a racing heart. Would the guard try to look into the back?
He heard the driver reply, an indignant stream of fast French that Lloyd could not decipher. The German soldier almost certainly could not understand it either. He asked the question again.
Looking up, Lloyd saw two women at a high window overlooking the street. They were staring at him, mouths open in surprise. One was pointing, her arm sticking out through the open window.
Lloyd tried to catch her eye. Lying still, he moved one hand from side to side in a gesture that meant no.
She got the message. She withdrew her arm suddenly and covered her mouth with her hand as if realizing, with horror, that her pointing could be a sentence of death.
Lloyd wanted both women to move away from the window, but that was too much to hope for, and they continued to stare.
Then the motorcycle guard seemed to decide not to pursue his inquiry, for, a moment later, the motorcycle roared away.
The sound of feet receded. The body of prisoners had passed. Was Lloyd free?
There was a crash of gears and the truck moved. Lloyd felt it turn the corner and pick up speed. He lay still, too scared to move.
He watched the tops of buildings pass by, alert in case anyone else should spot him, though he did not know what he would do if it happened. Every second was taking him away from the guards, he told himself encouragingly.
To his disappointment, the truck came to a halt quite soon. The engine was turned off, then the driver's door opened and slammed shut. Then nothing. Lloyd lay still for a while, but the driver did not return.
Lloyd looked at the sky. The sun was high: it must be after midday. The driver was probably having lunch.
The trouble was, Lloyd continued to be visible from high windows on both sides of the street. If he remained where he was he would be noticed sooner or later. And then there was no telling what might happen.
He saw a curtain twitch in an attic, and that decided him.
He stood up and looked over the side. A man in a business suit walking along the pavement stared in curiosity but did not stop.
Lloyd scrambled over the side of the truck and dropped to the ground. He found himself outside a bar-restaurant. No doubt that was where the driver had gone. To Lloyd's horror there were two men in German army uniforms sitting at a window table with glasses of beer in their hands. By a miracle they did not look at Lloyd.
He walked quickly away.
He looked around alertly as he walked. Everyone he passed stared at him: they knew exactly what he was. One woman screamed and ran away. He realized he needed to change his khaki shirt and trousers for something more French in the next few minutes.
A young man took him by the arm. "Come with me," he said in English with a heavy accent. "I will 'elp you 'ide."
He turned down a side street. Lloyd had no reason to trust this man, but he had to make a split-second decision, and he went along.
"This way," the young man said, and steered Lloyd into a small house.
In a bare kitchen was a young woman with a baby. The young man introduced himself as Maurice, the woman as his wife, Marcelle, and the baby as Simone.
Lloyd allowed himself a moment of grateful relief. He had escaped from the Germans! He was still in danger, but he was off the streets and in a friendly house.
The stiffly correct French Lloyd had learned in school and at Cambridge had become more colloquial during his escape from Spain, and especially in the two weeks he spent picking grapes in Bordeaux. "You're very kind," he said. "Thank you."
Maurice replied in French, evidently relieved not to have to speak English. "I guess you'd like something to eat."
"Very much."
Marcelle rapidly cut several slices off a long loaf and put them on the table with a round of cheese and a wine bottle with no label. Lloyd sat down and tucked in ravenously.
"I'll give you some old clothes," said Maurice. "But also, you must try to walk differently. You were striding along looking all around you, so alert and interested, you might as well have a sign around your neck saying 'Visitor from England.' Better to shuffle with your eyes on the ground."
