by Alex Amit
“Okay,” he calms down and sits, looking at me with a look of disappointment, “we’ll see what to do with her.”
“Okay.” I also sit down and continue to report everything I know to him, lowering my eyes and concentrating on his fingers on the table, thinking how it felt to touch them the last time we’d met.
“Take care of yourself,” he tells me as we say goodbye.
“Do not worry about Claudine,” I say goodbye to him, and touch his palm for a moment. “She will not speak.”
But in the days to come, she never stops laughing at my big nose, even though my nose is small.
Claudine 1922-1943
“Monique, I need you,” Claudine calls out through the hustle and bustle of noon, and I leave the baking pan I’m cleaning in the back room, wiping my hands and walking over to her.
“Yes?”
“Please take care of these two gentlemen.” And I freeze in my place.
The Boulangerie space is full as usual, with German soldiers filling up the room with German jokes mixed with cigarette smoke, but my attention is on the two men standing in front of me. They do not wear uniforms, but long leather coats as they stand by the counter, waiting just for me.
“Yes, please?”
“Are you Monique?” The shorter of the two asks me, in good French.
“Yes.” For a moment, I get confused while the tall one looks at me.
“Can you help us?” My fingers start shaking.
“Yes, please?”
“May we have two butter croissants and two chocolate croissants, please?”
“How did you know my name?”
“From your friend, she called you and told us.” The tall one smiles at me, causing me to shiver.
After they leave and the glass door slams behind them, I escape to the back room, unable to stop scrubbing the baking pans forcefully, even though the boulangerie is still full of soldiers and Simone asks me several times to go out and help. What will I tell Philip the next time we meet?
“What happened to your fingers?” A few days later, I sit down in front of him in the basement, placing my hands on the old wooden table.
His hand tries to grab my scratched fingers and examine them, but I hurry to remove my hands from the table, placing them in my lap.
“What happened to your hand?” I look at his hand on the table.
“It’s nothing.” His palm is wrapped with a dirty bandage, and I notice the bloodstain.
“How did it happen?”
“It’s not serious, how are you? What happened to your fingers?”
“It’s just scratches. Does your hand hurt?”
“It’s a pain, but it looks a lot worse than it is. What information did you bring with you?”
“Not much.”
On my way back to the east bank, I wonder if I did right by not telling him about the two strangers in the long leather coats, or that every night, when Claudine and I part, she calls me Monique Moreno with a smile. Should I have told him?
It’s probably just my imagination which makes me so tense.
“Let’s go to a different place, let’s go to Husman Avenue.” Claudine tries to persuade me to join her on an evening walk, while we both wait for Martin to lock the bakery’s iron back door.
“I don’t know.” I’m afraid to deviate from our routine.
“Come on, let’s do something different; the evenings are warmer, and maybe there are new clothes in the storefronts.” She goes on, and I don’t want to tell her that I have no clothing ration tickets, nor money to buy what the shops on the boulevard have to offer.
“I don’t like the spring fashion; it’s boring.”
“This whole war is boring. I wish it were all over.” But she gives up, and we are heading on our way down the avenue, walking side by side.
“Maybe you should think again about going with a German officer?” she asks me as several soldiers pass by and stare at us.
“I don’t think I could do that.”
“The pilot won’t give up; he keeps inviting me, and not just him. They are so impressive in their medal-decorated uniforms.”
But my attention is given to the newsstand and the boy leaning in the corner. He is hanging the newspapers in his usual way, even though only a few days have passed since my last meeting with Philip.
“What did you say?”
“That they are very polite when they invite me out, even when I refuse.”
“But they are our occupiers; they can decide when to be polite and when to behave less politely.”
“You don’t have to be afraid of them; no one can guess about you, even though your nose might cause a big problem.” She takes my hand and laughs.
I know she doesn’t mean to hurt me, but I don’t know how to make her stop; anyway, I have to go now, the kid at the newsstand is waiting for me.
“I’m sorry, I completely forgot, I promised Lizette that I would help her.”
“Don’t you get tired of her asking things from you? You should stand on your own,” she complains when we kiss goodbye.
“I have no choice; I owe her.” I kiss Claudine on both cheeks and turn around, heading to the newsstand.
My eyes search for the boy at the back of the newsstand, but he is not there. The newspapers hanging outside are lined up perfectly, the man inside the stand is sitting sleepily, and as much as I look around and down the street, I can’t see him.
“Two newspapers, please.” It’s a sign of danger, my hands are shaking while I’m paying the man.
“Mademoiselle, you took one or two newspapers?”
“Two.” Why is there a dark vehicle standing in the corner?
“You paid me only for one.”
“Sorry, I apologize,” I hand him more money. “Where is the boy?”
“Which boy?”
“The kid who’s always in the back here, arranging the newspapers.”
“Theirs is no kid here; I’m here alone.”
“Never mind.”
“Are you okay?”
Stay calm, stroll down the avenue. How come the vendor at the newsstand doesn’t know the kid? Carefully examine all the passersby. Why are they looking in my direction? Do not stop walking, has there been something unusual lately?
Where’s Claudine? I must find her; we’ll keep on walking together as if nothing happened. I’ll tell her I got confused and that we can continue strolling down the avenue.
The man with the long coat, have I seen him before? What does he have in the suitcase he is carrying in his left hand? And the young man in the corner standing next to his bike, why is he looking in my direction? Who are the two people running towards the crowd gathered at the end of the street? What is going on there?
I must keep walking as if nothing has happened, cross the street to the other side. All the people are crowded around something, a few of them are kneeling on the sidewalk. A woman is lying in the road, wearing low-heeled cream-colored shoes; Claudine has low-heeled cream-colored shoes.
“A vehicle passed at high speed and hit her,” a woman in a greenish scarf speaks excitedly as she describes what happened to the policeman while he writes down her words in his notepad. “He did not stop at all, luckily I noticed he was approaching, he almost hit and killed me too.”
As I get closer to her, I must use my hands to push myself through all the people surrounding her, moving them by force. Carefully I lean over the hard asphalt, ignoring the policeman’s request not to gather and not listening to all the talking above my head.
Someone put a coat under her head, and someone tried to arrange her hand, which is lying at an unnatural angle, but it does not seem to bother her anymore. Her eyes remain open to the sky with a look of misunderstanding, and through my tears I see a man’s hand reaching to her eyes, slowly lowering her eyelids.
The painted figures from the New Testament watch me from the church ceiling with an inquisitive gaze, as I raise my head and study them. While trying to identify th
eir names, I wonder if they will start shouting that I do not belong here, nor does the simple coffin painted with dark varnish and placed in front of me.
I have no idea how I got home that day, whether on the metro or by foot, crying and stumbling on the pavements shaking under my feet. I do not even remember if it started to rain or if there was a chilly evening breeze. The only thing I couldn’t forget were the sirens of the approaching ambulance, and the policeman cried out: “Do not gather, anyone who has seen how this happened will approach me, all the rest, please leave.”
Churches scares me; at least this one doesn’t have threatening demons like in the Notre Dame Cathedral. Demons screaming at me from above that it’s my fault she’s dead.
Because of me, we did not go around the shops as she wanted, because of me we delayed those few seconds when we parted on the sidewalk, and I went to look for the child near the newsstand. If I had only accepted her offer, none of this would have happened. We would have left the boulangerie by now, waiting for Martin to lock the back door and strolling hand in hand, like every day.
“You are to blame,” the nightmares had shouted at me last night, waking me up with screams of black bats biting me and hurting my body.
Few people came to the ceremony, and the church is almost empty, befitting days of war and scarcity. Some women in black, some hunchbacked old men holding walking sticks made of decorated wood, Simone who smiles at me even though everything happened because of me, Martin the chef, dignified without his white apron, and that’s it. Not a single man that loved her, not a single man she loved. Not even the pilot arrived, nor any of those soldiers in grey-green uniforms, the ones who would chat with her in a very polite way. They must be wondering why the glass door is locked today, and they cannot enjoy the pleasures of the French capital, crispy croissants, and a woman behind the counter to flirt with.
“They don’t know who the driver was,” Simone is whispering to me. “A policeman came this morning and informed me that they don’t have the car number.” She is trying to hug me. “It’s such a pity; she was a lovely girl.”
“I am so sorry,” I say voicelessly to the simple coffin in front of me, looking up at the ceiling paintings of Jesus and the Virgin. Maybe they will forgive me for not walking with her down the avenue, as she’d asked.
“Monique, come and help me for a moment.” I hear Simone’s call in the back room.
“I’ll be right there.” My fingers place the baking pan in the sink, and I’m wiping my hands, hurrying to help her serve the German soldiers.
“Go, I’ll wash it,” Martin offers to help. Since Claudine died, everyone has tried to treat me more nicely, even Simone. But her expressions of affection seem to me like a wolf dog’s attempts to restrain herself from a passing rabbit, making me wonder when she will not be able to hold back and return to scolding me.
Where is the boy? Why did he disappear that day?
Although I’m not supposed to stop at the newsstand, I can’t resist myself. My fingers run across the line of German army magazines, showing a picture of a new airplane on the cover, while I’m pretending to concentrate on the photography and looking around for the boy. Why has he not been there since? I can’t ask the seller.
“May I help you?” he asks, waking up from his sleepy gaze.
“Do you have cigarettes?”
“Do you know that according to government regulations, women are not allowed to smoke?”
“Yes, it’s not for me.”
“Counterfeit?” He lowers his voice.
“No.”
“The real ones are very expensive.”
“How much?”
“25 francs.”
I take the imaginary sum out of my wallet and put it in his palm. With a swift motion, he puts a blue pack in my hand, taken out of some hiding place, returning to his indifferent stance at the stand.
I have nothing to do with those cigarettes, and I hold the box in my hand, intending to throw it into the nearest bin. But I change my mind at the last second and push it deep into my bag, maybe one day I will use them. The people who pass me look curiously at the young woman standing in the street, wiping her face with her hand.
“Can I offer you a handkerchief?” I hear a man’s voice and look up.
“No thanks.” I continue on my way, walking around the street corner where I last saw her, I can’t return to that place.
The cafés on the Champs Elysees are still full of soldiers and their girlfriends, and I stand as far away as I can, trying not to hear the talking and the laughing around the tables. If some stranger calls my name, I will ignore him this time. Those two women walking ahead laughing remind me of the both of us. I cannot stand the avenue anymore; I have to get out of here.
Finally, I find the entrance to the metro, stepping down into the tunnel. The metro’s darkness will embrace me, an escape from the cafés and the street.
Standing in the corner of the dim platform, I can examine the coming train, searching for the right car to get into, but a gang of running German soldiers arrives and push their way in just before the doors close.
“Mademoiselle, will you show me the city?”
“Mademoiselle, choose me. I am much more handsome. Nice to meet you, Max.” He reaches out a hand.
“Don’t choose him; Max replaces his girls all the time. You should choose me.” Another soldier is reaching out.
But I lower my eyes, staring at my leather shoes, the ones that Lizette bought me, trying to avoid looking at their leather hobnail boots.
“She’s a spoiled impolite Frenchwoman who doesn’t like talking to handsome German soldiers,” I hear one of them say to his friends in German. “She should thank us for saving her from Stalin’s clutches. If we weren’t here, she’d be speaking Russian by now.” He keeps on talking, while my head is down and I say nothing, watching their hobnail boots getting closer. But finally they get away from the spoiled impolite French girl, walking to the other side of the metro car.
The creaking sound of the metro on the railway breaks the silence, while the rest of the people in the carriage watch me and say nothing, a dark grey mass of people who stood back and watched the German soldiers harass me and did nothing. My hand holds the metal rod tightly for support, and my fingers are becoming white from the effort. “Trocadéro,” the white sign at the station appears, I have to get off.
At the platform, I stop for a moment, letting all the German soldiers get out of the metro car and go on their way outside, trying to avoid being crowded among them. I can still smell their tobacco on my way out, and hear them in the distance. The breeze in the corridor allows me to breathe, but when I go up the stairs into the square, they are all over me again.
The surface is crowded with soldiers, walking as tourists of victory, talking loudly and waving. Some of them are holding a camera or a Parisian girl, taking pride in their new purchase during a short stay in the city of pleasure.
I turn my gaze away from them, unable to watch their uniforms and the swastika flag stuck at the top of the Eiffel Tower, and I approach the older woman standing at the corner of the square. She is wearing a dirty coat and stands hunched, selling flowers to the soldiers and their girlfriends.
“How much will a flower cost me?”
“For you, it’s free, my girl.” But I insist on paying her.
“May a loving man give you a flower,” the older woman whispers to me as she hands me the flower and receives the coin, holding it carefully in her wrinkled fingers.
“Don’t cry, my girl, he will arrive one day.” And I’m fighting the urge to hug her, turning my back and walking away.
The small cemetery is hidden behind the high wall overlooking the square, and it takes time for me to find the narrow entrance gate. I walk along the break in the wall until my eyes notice the small metal gate that creaks open under my hand. But I remember how to find the fresh grave. My steps slow down as I approach, placing the flower on the marble headstone.
&n
bsp; “This is for you, my girl, may a loving man give a flower to you,” my lips whisper to her when I sit down next to her.
“You know, Simone treats me much nicer, even though it’s clear she prefers you to me.” I smile at the letters engraved in the stone.
“And your pilot doesn’t come anymore, at least I haven’t seen him, but the boulangerie is always full of new soldiers, surely you could find someone else to invite you for a walk on the boulevard, buying you mint ice cream.” I dry my tears slowly.
“There are many new armored and engineering soldiers in town. I have to memorize their unit numbers; it’s for Philip. You do not know him yet; I promise to tell you about him the next time we meet.” But the boy from the newsstand, I don’t have the courage to tell her about him.
Before I say goodbye, I promise to visit again as soon as I can, heading to the small cemetery gate and on my way home, to Lizette.
But even the night talks with Lizette don’t help. Time after time, I almost slip when I try to explain to her why I left Claudine in the street, looking for reasons and finally going silent. She must never know what happened that day, but the thoughts do not stop, making me feel so guilty. It did not happen because of me. It happened because of the boy who’d disappeared. It happened because the driver ran her over; it happened because Simone delayed us for a few minutes in the boulangerie before we left.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Monique, this is Marie; she’s going to replace you at the dishes. From now on, you’ll work with me behind the counter.” And I stop for a moment at the entrance, leaning on the glass door and watching the very excited new girl who is standing still.
“Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand and take her to the back room, guiding her through the list of chores that have been my responsibility until now, and finally handing her the old apron used for washing the baking pans, taking the clean white one from the hanger. The one that has been hanging around for days, waiting for Claudine.
