While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  “You know Marc has left?” Agnès sucked on her licorice, looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

  “But he’s Catholic.” My heart beat faster. They couldn’t have taken him.

  “No, silly. He’s gone to join the Maquis.”

  “No!”

  “Didn’t he come and say goodbye to you?”

  I liked Marc, and Agnès knew it. I shook my head. They looked at me, eyes soft with pity.

  “Don’t worry,” Mathilde said. “He didn’t say goodbye to anyone. We only know because his mother met my mother when they were queuing for food. She’s really upset, of course. The Boches kill them if they find them.”

  I wondered how she could say such things so casually. “Well, at least he’s doing something.” I paused, collecting my thoughts. “Don’t you want to do something?” I looked from one to the other, but was met only by blank stares.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Agnès finally said. “I’m not running off into the hills to join the Maquis. They’re living wild, sleeping outside. Can you imagine?”

  “But at least they’re trying, aren’t they? They’re doing what they can.” I wanted to defend them.

  “I think they’re very brave.” Mathilde added, “I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t be any good to them anyway; I’d give away all their secrets the moment I was arrested.” She shuddered. “The Boches do horrible things to them if they catch them.”

  “Imagine having to carry a hidden message. I’d be a nervous wreck.” Agnès spoke quietly.

  I let out a breath. “Me too. But if someone asked me, I think I’d want to try.”

  “Have you heard from Jacques?” Agnès asked abruptly, changing the subject.

  Jacques had disappeared one night last month. He’d already been excluded from the Sorbonne because of his Jewish roots, and Mathilde had been passing him notes from other students, but the last time they were supposed to meet, he hadn’t turned up. We heard later that he’d been rounded up and taken to Drancy.

  “I wish I’d asked him to come and stay with us.” Mathilde sounded subdued.

  “It would have been too dangerous.” Agnès reached out, touching Mathilde’s elbow. “If they’d found him at your place, they would have taken you and your family away too.”

  “I hope we can still be friends when he comes back.” Mathilde’s voice cracked, and I understood her distress. How many times had we stood by while our neighbors and friends were deported to God knows where? We all felt complicit in some way, though we never voiced it. After all, what could we do?

  “Did you hear about the man who shot a Nazi in Printemps?” Agnès changed the tone of the conversation again. She always seemed to hear about things before anyone else. Working in the boulangerie probably helped; people talked while queuing two hours for bread. We looked at her, waiting for more. “Yes, in broad daylight, on the ground floor, where they sell the handbags.” She waited a minute for us to take it in. “He knew he’d be arrested and executed for it, but he still did it.” She paused. “Isn’t that brave?”

  “But French prisoners were shot in retaliation,” Mathilde said. “Do you think it was worth it?” She stood up from the armchair. “I’m not sure.”

  I thought for a moment. “I think it just upsets the Boches and makes them behave more badly to the rest of us.”

  “I agree.” Mathilde looked at me. “It’s not by killing random Boches that we’ll win the war.” She slumped back into her chair.

  “I’ve heard de Gaulle is trying to get an army together in England. One day they’ll come and help us fight the Boches.”

  “We should be ready for them when they come.” I wished there was something I could do.

  “Ready?” Agnès laughed. “I’ll be ready all right. More than ready!”

  “I’d like one of those handbags in the shape of a gas mask.” Agnès changed the topic again.

  Mathilde smiled. “Yes, they’re just the thing, but they’re very expensive.”

  “And I’d like to get my hair put up in a turban.” Agnès touched her loose wavy hair. “They look chic, but my mother won’t let me. She says it looks peasant-like.”

  “Well, you have to do it properly and then set it off with a nice pair of earrings.” Mathilde seemed to be enjoying the way the conversation was going, but I wondered how we could be talking about hair and fashion at a time like this. It all seemed so trivial, so pointless. Were we girls really that small-minded? The thought depressed me.

  “Did you know that Madame Clermont from the pharmacy is seeing a Nazi?” Agnès changed the subject again.

  I nodded. I’d heard the rumors.

  “He’s SS,” she added in a conspiratorial tone.

  “That’s disgusting.” Mathilde spat the words out, her eyes lit up in fury. “That woman deserves to die.”

  Agnès stood up and moved over to the piano, opening it and hitting a key hard. She started to play “Mon légionnaire.” Mathilde stood too and joined in, leaning on the piano, but I wasn’t in the mood for singing that evening.

  Suddenly Agnès stopped playing. “Charlotte.” She turned to look at me. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why are you working in a hospital for the Boches?”

  I felt my cheeks burn. “For your information, they’re not all Boches; quite a few of them are French, actually.”

  “Yes, but they’re collabos, so it’s the same thing really.”

  “I think it’s worse,” Mathilde chipped in. “They didn’t have to join up, did they? They chose to.”

  “Maman got the job for me. She wanted me to work,” I said, ignoring the last remark. Mathilde always saw everything as black or white.

  “Your mother? But I thought she hated the Boches.”

  “Of course she does. But she said caring for the sick was a good occupation for young women during wartime.” I imitated her bossy voice, and they laughed.

  “But you shouldn’t!” Mathilde looked at me with cold eyes. “You’re an adult. You don’t have to do everything she tells you to do.”

  I stared back at her, thinking that she had a point there; I should start making my own choices.

  “I thought you were going to the Sorbonne after your exams. I thought you wanted to study literature. You did so well in your baccalauréat.” Agnès closed the piano with a thud. It sent a shudder through me; Maman had taught me how to close it gently, without a sound.

  “Yes, I really miss studying.”

  “Well, you can read on your own. You don’t need to go to the university for that, do you?”

  “It’s not the same. There’s more to a book than just the words on the page.”

  Agnès shrugged.

  “Anyway, there doesn’t seem much point at the moment.”

  “I know what you mean,” Mathilde agreed. “It feels futile to be studying when people are being arrested and killed.” She paused. “Maybe your mother’s right.”

  “Yes, Maman said she doesn’t see any reason to carry on in education when the future’s so uncertain, and anyway, the extra ration tickets are more useful.” I paused. “Education is a luxury we can no longer afford.”

  “Is that what your mother said?” Mathilde frowned.

  “No, it’s what I said.”

  “Funny, isn’t it, though? When you’re so wealthy.”

  “Morally speaking, I mean.”

  Mathilde’s frown grew deeper. “Morally?”

  “Well, we have other priorities right now, don’t we?” I hoped I hadn’t offended her.

  “Yes, but what can we do?”

  Agnès stood up and sighed, as though bored with the conversation. “I don’t know about you, but I’m always hungry.” She patted her flat stomach. “It keeps us slim, though, doesn’t it?”

  “Too slim.” My stomach rumbled as if in agreement.

  “We had lamb last Sunday!” Agnès leaned forward, whispering. “Maman pawned her pearl necklace, and she got it on the black market—it was Papa’s birthday.”
<
br />   I felt a line draw itself across my forehead. “My mother doesn’t like to use the black market.”

  “But she doesn’t mind you working in a Boche hospital? My parents would never let me do that.” Agnès’s eyes narrowed. “Make sure you stay out of trouble.”

  I stared back at her, wondering what she meant.

  “You know what soldiers are like. They’ll do anything for…”

  “For what?” Mathilde asked.

  “You know.” Agnès touched her nose with her finger, looking at me with knowing eyes.

  Just then Maman walked in with some fresh tea. “Bonsoir, les filles.”

  Immediately we stopped slouching and sat to attention, straightening our backs.

  “Bonsoir, Madame de la Ville,” Agnès and Mathilde chorused.

  She poured the tea through a strainer into the porcelain teacups. “Earl Grey.”

  “Merci, Madame de la Ville.”

  I sighed, waiting for her to leave the room so we could resume our conversation. But she didn’t look ready to go, standing there in her tailored suit, nipped in at the waist. I wished I had a nice suit like that instead of the loose frocks she made for me. I guess she thought I was still a child.

  “How is your mother?” She turned to Agnès, a frown of concern creasing her usually smooth forehead.

  “Fine, thank you.” I felt Agnès tense up. Her mother used to be friends with mine, but then something had happened. Something to do with the war and the black market. “I’m still helping out at the boulangerie, when there’s some bread, that is.”

  “Yes, the queues just seem to be getting longer, don’t they?” She turned away from Agnès. “And how are your studies going, Mathilde?”

  “Fine, thank you. Well, I mean it’s not always easy at the moment; some of the courses have been canceled.”

  Maman nodded. “You have your books, but it’s not the same, is it?”

  “No, especially not for science.”

  “Yes, of course.” It looked like Maman had forgotten what Mathilde was studying.

  “Bien, I’ll leave you girls to it then. I’ll come back at eight so you’ll have plenty of time to get home.”

  “But Maman, that’s only in an hour. They don’t live that far away.”

  “No point in taking extra risks.” She turned on her heel and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Don’t worry, Charlotte,” Mathilde spoke sympathetically. “My mother likes me to get back well before curfew.”

  “Charlotte.” Agnès looked at me with concerned eyes. “Really, you should be very careful working in a Boche hospital. I’m surprised your parents let you. Some people might get the wrong idea.”

  “What do you mean?” I felt my heart beat faster.

  “Well, you know. They might think you’re collaborating.”

  “No!”

  “You know what people are like.”

  “Stop it, Agnès! Everyone knows Charlotte’s not like that.” Mathilde’s eyes shot daggers at Agnès.

  “Of course not! We’ll stick up for you.” Agnès stood, smoothing out her dress, looking at the painting on the wall. “Is that a Picasso?”

  “Yes. Maman got it last week.”

  She took a step nearer to the painting. “It’s very avant-garde. He’s not allowed to show his work now, you know. The Nazis say it’s degenerate.”

  “Degenerate?” Mathilde laughed. “Who’s degenerate here?”

  “It must have cost a fortune.” Agnès continued to stare at it.

  “It was a gift.”

  “A gift?” She raised an eyebrow. “Your mother must know some interesting people.”

  I stared at her, wondering what she was really thinking.

  Chapter Twelve

  Paris, April 5, 1944

  JEAN-LUC

  Two days later, Jean-Luc was tucking into his breakfast of toast and butter—they had butter!—when the stationmaster came looming into view. “Bien, bien. What have you done to yourself then?”

  Automatically, his hand flew up to the bandage on his face.

  The stationmaster stood awkwardly, glancing over at the empty bed Kleinhart had just left. He must have gone to the bathroom.

  Jean-Luc pushed his toast aside, his appetite suddenly gone.

  “No, no. Finish eating. I’ve just come to see how you’re getting on and to ask you a few questions. Do you mind…?” The stationmaster motioned with his hand that he wanted to sit on the bed.

  “Of course. Please sit down. There’s room.” Merde! He should have prepared himself for this. How was he going to explain himself?

  Step one: don’t appear nervous.

  He brought his toast back to its place in front of him, forcing himself to take a bite, but it was cold and dry now as he mashed it between his teeth.

  “It seems they’re looking after you well.”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s your leg?”

  “A fracture to the femur. It should heal soon.”

  “That’s good to hear. It was most… unfortunate.”

  Jean-Luc frowned. It seemed like something of a deliberate understatement. “I’m… I’m not sure how it happened.”

  “No. It was after you were struck in the face. One of the Bo… I mean the German soldiers… one of them, well, he thought he needed to correct you.”

  “Correct me?” His heart thumped hard against his ribs.

  “He thought you’d made a mistake.” The stationmaster paused. “Well, he was right in a way, wasn’t he? That piece of track was perfectly straight. I checked it myself the day before. What were you doing with the crowbar?”

  Jean-Luc fumbled around for the right words in his head. Step two: have answers prepared.

  “It was… The tracks weren’t quite straight. I needed to bring one of them back in.”

  “Back in? But you dug the crowbar into the other side.”

  Just then the young nurse appeared. “A visitor? How nice.” She smiled at them both. “I just need to take your temperature, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  But Jean-Luc didn’t want her to go and leave him alone with the stationmaster. He opened his mouth, lifting his tongue slightly, ready to receive the thermometer. He was relieved to find that he was unable to continue the conversation while he held the glass tube under his tongue.

  Lying back on the pillow, he watched the nurse chatting to the stationmaster. He was vaguely aware of them discussing rationing, and he wondered how they’d got on to that.

  He tried to concentrate again on his reply to the question about the crowbar.

  Step three: stay focused and consistent with answers.

  She pulled the thermometer out from under his tongue. “Thirty-seven and a half,” she announced proudly, as if his temperature were solely due to her efforts. “I’ll be back for your breakfast tray in a few minutes.”

  “She’s pretty.” The stationmaster winked at him as soon as she left. “You’re better off here than in Drancy.” He paused. “So, was it worth it?”

  “What?” A piece of dry toast had wedged itself in Jean-Luc’s throat. He coughed, until the stationmaster had to hit him on the back. “What do you mean?” he asked when he got his breath back.

  “What do I mean?” the stationmaster repeated. “Well,” he leaned closer, so that only Jean-Luc could hear him, “what were you thinking of?”

  Jean-Luc stared at him, his eyes growing wide with fear.

  The stationmaster came even closer, so close that Jean-Luc caught a whiff of the coffee he must have had earlier. “Listen, a German inspector is coming to see you soon. He’ll ask the same question: What were you doing with that damned crowbar? What will you answer?”

  He was giving him a chance! He was on his side and he was helping him find a way out. A wave of relief washed over Jean-Luc. The stationmaster was a comrade.

  “Listen, tell him what you just told me—that the track needed straightening out to bring it into line with the adjoining
one. But don’t get nervous or appear hesitant. Lucky for you, it rained later that day, and the hole you dug got messy. By the time he looked at it the next day, it wasn’t possible to see where you’d started from. It could work. You have a clean record.” The stationmaster paused. “Whatever he says, just stick to your story.”

  Just then, Kleinhart came back to his bed. He glanced over at them. “What’s this? Last rites?”

  “No, just checking on our worker here. But he should live to tell the tale.”

  “Let’s hope so. He needs to see that nurse again.” Kleinhart laughed.

  How Jean-Luc envied his easy privilege. No one was going to come and ask him difficult questions.

  After the stationmaster’s visit, Jean-Luc was left with a feeling of constant anxiety, a knot of fear growing in his stomach. But the days went by without the inspector appearing. Kleinhart sometimes tried to make conversation, the unspoken rule being that it was on his terms, and only when he was in the mood.

  “I like France,” he declared one morning as bread and ham were laid out before them.

  Jean-Luc had learned to wait till he was asked a question before speaking, so he just nodded.

  “You know why?”

  He guessed this was a rhetorical question, so he continued to wait.

  “It’s the way everything is so damned good. Delicious wines in excess, gorgeous women, beautiful artwork. We don’t have any of that in Germany. Just work, work, work. Everything so hard. We never had time to sit back and enjoy ourselves like you can here. Creating, dreaming. I’ve always loved France.” His blue eyes dug into Jean-Luc, as though hoping to uncover something.

  Jean-Luc concentrated on keeping his expression blank.

  “You got a girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “And why not? There’s plenty of girls out there with no men. A good-looking lad like you shouldn’t have a problem finding one.”

  “Well, I’m at Drancy all week now.”

  “Hmm, not the best place to meet girls, is it? But what about here? Some of the nurses are very pretty.”

  Jean-Luc felt his cheeks redden.