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I Only Want to Dance With You

By Zillah Williams

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PROLOGUE

Perpignan, France 1947

The ticket collector at Perpignan railway station spotted the thin, shabbily dressed young man trying to leave the platform unobserved. He ought to challenge this fare evader but knew he would not. Eh bien. He gave a mental shrug. There were many such men these days. After the war, times were hard in La France.
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The young man slipped into the parcels office and hid behind a rack of luggage. He couldn’t risk explaining his lack of a train ticket. That could have resulted in his arrest, as he had no identification papers and had entered France illegally. It would mean prison, and he’d had more than enough of prison. He waited an agonizing ten minutes until he felt sure the ticket collector had returned to his office. Careful to make no sound, he emerged from his hiding place. Then he noticed an exit leading to the street. Cautiously, he tried the door. It wasn’t locked. He let himself out and walked quickly away without daring a backward glance.
The explanation he could have given the railway official was legitimate enough. Once safely on the train for Perpignan, he had been unable to keep his eyes open. As sleep overtook him he was only vaguely aware of the man who shared his carriage standing over him, and when he awoke it was to find the man gone—along with his train ticket and wallet. All he had left in his pocket were a few Swiss silver coins, his passport, and a handful of nuts and raisins. Now, without money to pay for transport for the remainder of the journey into Spain, he would be forced to cross the Pyrenees on foot.
The mountainous terrain held no fears for him, however. He’d been familiar with the Pyrenees from boyhood. What did worry him was his weakened physical condition, the result of over two years in prison.
Perhaps he would reach his destination by tomorrow, but he thought not. Yet he had to try. Skirting the town, he set his face toward the mountains. Although physically weak, hope was high in his breast as he began the climb. Soon he would be reunited with his father.
He met few other travelers along the way. A group of cyclists coming from France passed him with their heads down, legs pumping hard. Passengers in a car heading for Perpignan gave him a cheerful wave as they went by.
He ate sparingly of his supply of nuts and raisins as he walked, rationing them to make them last as long as possible.
As he climbed higher, a clammy mist came down. A cow, half-hidden in the fog, stared at him mournfully. Once, he startled a group of deer, which fled into the safety of a nearby wood.
He forced himself to walk until the light began to fail. When he could no longer see the road ahead, he chose a place among the trees, sheltered from the wind, to spend the night. He ate the last of his nuts and raisins and then slept soundly until he was awakened at daylight by a cold rain.
The second day of his journey was miserable. The sun shone only fitfully. Gusts of wind slowed his progress and showers of rain soaked him to the skin.
It was mid-afternoon when he descended the slopes of the mountains into Spain. Summoning his last ounce of energy, he ran to the border guard and embraced him, pleased beyond measure to be back on Spanish soil.
Unmoved by this display, the guard asked to see his passport. He studied it in silence with a puzzled frown.
“Your business?” he asked, looking up.
“I am going to my father in Barcelona.”
“Where have you come from?”
“I have come from Russia.”
The guard jerked his head toward the guard post. “Come with me.”
The weary young man was taken to an office and kept waiting until evening when an official came to interrogate him. The problem, it seemed, was that his passport was old—pre-Civil War—and bore a Royalist stamp. After a lengthy interrogation and several phone calls, he was told his passport showed him to be a supporter of the old régime and that he was a spy. He was put under arrest. Hunger, combined with emotional and physical exhaustion, overcame him, and he passed out.

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