Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/4

red faded. The city awoke; yellow lights in the corner-cafes falling into sections. Split by the gray of the Seine like by a silver etching, right bank, left bank, rich and poor, laughter and tears.

Overhead Spring breezes driving from the south, spread the fragrant air evenly from Auteuil to the Louvre, to the Bourse, to the Halles, up to the hilly Belleville where the alarm clocks stood silent this morning, because it was Sunday, and it was Spring.

Old ladies and ragged children were peddling flowers. The mounting scent of rich smelling muguets penetrated the cracks of broken windows, spreading unrest among men and women.

"Florissez vous mesdames et messieurs," the hawkers called gaily, "Vingt sous le bouquet! Florissez-vous!"

In her attic room on the rue de Belleville, where each door leads to a one-room apartment, Anna Parness was shocked into sudden wakefulness by a nightmare. She had been climbing a rocky hill way back in her Polish village, a boulder broke loose, she lost her grip and plunged into space. Now she was blinking at the room, at the rain flecked window panes, at the silent alarm clock, slowly recollecting her senses. Then she turned, buried her head in the pillow seeking desperately to creep back into the dream of her childhood. But Eric now in possession of her thoughts, checked every possible path.

Eric, the German, the apostle of the herrenfolk.

Anna drew the blanket about her. Strands of rich black hair lay against the white of the pillow.

He wants me to go to bed with him, she cried inwardly.