A TIME TO FLEE is a collection of four true stories of UNSEEN WOMEN OF COURAGE during the Second World War in Europe.  The book came into being, because the author met these women who mentioned a unique experience that sounded like an interesting story.  Annie spoke of spending the end of the war in a wine cave in Budapest. Isabelle’s friend spoke of her French Resistance experience, saying, “Someone should write that woman’s story.” Ene spoke of leaving her village in Estonia on an old fire engine.  Margret fled Romania in a train car.

”While the countries of origin are different, the women face similar dangers.   ANNIE is a teenager in Budapest as  the holocaust escalates from wearing yellow stars to moving all the Jews into a ghetto.  Annie’s mother, Rose arranges for herself and her two daughters, Annie and Vali, to hide separately in Buda.  They are arrested, escape and hide again.   They witness the last days of fighting between the Russians and the Germans in Buda.

ISABELLE is staunch French patriot who marries and then joins the Resistance along with her husband, Pierre.  After their son is born, their involvement grows and they escape capture by the Gestapo.  At the Resistance headquarters on a farm outside Lyon, they once again face danger when their leader is arrested.  They hide in Lyon as the war ends. 

JOA and Paul, with daughter ENE flee Estonia and begin their refugee journey, wandering homeless about Germany.   They face hunger, illnesses, always a step ahead of the feared Russians.  They sleep in fields or stay at camps. At their last camp, they live with other Estonians. This story is told from both a mother and daughter perspective.

MARGRET flees Romania with her baby son and her parents in a freight car.  The cold and difficulty of finding food make the days on the train perilous.  She is reunited with her husband in Germany.  They face dangers in Czechoslovakia and an even greater danger in Austria, at a Russian border crossing.

Betty J. Iverson is a nurse by training, but writing is her first love.  She has a Bachelor of Science degree in Health Science from California State University at Hayward.   In her first book,  TABEA’S STORY, her interest in World War II stories increased and she researched the history of that era.   She has narrowed her writing to stories about women and has interviewed all her subjects.  She has the uncanny ability to sense a story and the interviewing skills to unearth amazing events.  She lives in Moraga, California with her husband, Ted.  Three of their four children and two grandchildren live nearby, while one son and family live in southern California

people who lived on the farm, as well as any delivery people who happened to show up at the farm this morning.   There was even a neighbor who had picked this inopportune moment to come by.   All of us stood around uncertainly.   I wanted to sit down, but the young soldier kept all of us  standing.

 We heard moans and shouts from upstairs where Jacques Octave shared his bedroom with his mistress, Cherie.  I noticed she was standing in the dining room with the rest us, her face ashen with fear.  I trembled as I heard the sound of water running and muffled screams of pain from our leader, who was  apparently in the bath tub, being interrogated.  Between shouted questions, I imagined that the soldiers were pushing hot or cold rods down his throat, a frequent interrogation torture.   Another well-known method was to plunge the prisoner’s head under water and then hit his head with a stick to bring him back to consciousness.  If the Gestapo did not get the answers they wanted,  they hit the prisoner over and over again.   Next I heard loud slaps and the sound of blows to his head.  Octave’s moans became fainter and fainter, and then I heard nothing for awhile.  I felt faint and began to sway.  Pierre moved closer and supported me on his chest.  His expression was grim.  I  had never seen him look so afraid.

The young soldier guarding us was a Frenchman in a German uniform.  He was part of a legion of volunteers who had offered to work with the Germans.  (This police military organization was created in 1943 for those Frenchmen who chose to work with the Gestapo.)  He was pacing back and forth between the table and the fireplace.  As he paced,  he grabbed apricots from the large basket on the table where they had been placed to dry, chewed them up and spit the pits into the fireplace. I was aggravated and glared at him.  I thought his behavior was  rude and condescending, at the very least.

Next, the soldier commanded us put our hands over our heads, except for me because I was pregnant.  A farmer’s wife fainted, and the soldier relented and allowed us to sit on chairs or on the floor, against the wall.  I sank gratefully into a chair, and settled  Marc on my lap.  He did not whimper, which was surprising to me since he had not had any breakfast.  His eyes were still wide with fear, and he clung to me.

A well-dressed man, obviously one of the lieutenants of the Lyon Gestapo, came in and began asking questions, while the young Gestapo Frenchman looked on.  “Where is Marc?”  he asked, as he came to each of us in turn.  Everyone shook their heads or said they had no idea who he was talking about.

I knew he was referring to Marc, (Sarigue)  the agent who had come to warn us yesterday, but I decided to play my dumb role when he came to me.  “Marc?  “ I said.  “Why he’s right here sitting on my lap.”  In that moment I felt that I could defend myself in any situation either by being arrogant or stupid, whatever the situation warranted.  I was no longer paralyzed by fear.  I could change my demeanor in an instant. By now, I had had enough of these traitorous Frenchmen and wanted to give them a hard time.

My interrogator was not amused.  His response was to glare at me and  tell all of us  to stand up again with our hands above our heads, facing the wall.  This time he included me.  I gently stood Marc on the floor in front of me and he wrapped his arms about my  knees.  I moved a little in an effort to see what was happening.  Marc peeked through my legs and appeared to be fascinated by the soldier’s shiny guns on his belt.  I stood quietly, vowing to avoid encouraging the rage of  this man again.   I whispered to Pierre, “Before they leave, do you think they’ll shoot us as we stand here, facing the wall?”

 The lieutenant remarked that we had entirely too much liberty and he would put our noses to the wall.  He then walked around the room and chose a person at random and made accusations.  When that person didn’t react, he moved on to the next one.  When he came to Gyp, she also didn’t react, even though he grabbed her glasses off her nose and  ground them under his foot.

Suddenly,  Francoise walked into the dining room and sat down.  She was accompanied by another  soldier. “Why are you interrogating these people,” she asked.  “They don’t know anything.  They’re all refugees from Paris, who came to the country so they could have food and live a little better.  See that young woman over there,” she said pointing at me.  “She’s pregnant,  and she was starving in Paris.”

Her intercession helped our situation.  Yet,  I suspected that Francoise had led them to the farm, a traitorous thing to do.  Why had she done it?  Was she angry with Octave?  When the Nazis arrested her, had she traded us for her freedom?