While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  “Charlotte,” he whispered. “We’re better than this. I know we are.”

  My heart stopped. His presence was like a physical force pulling me in, and I felt myself swaying toward him. I closed my eyes for a second. For a lingering moment I felt his lips on my forehead. Anyone looking would have thought it a kind of paternal kiss. Only I knew it was much more than that. It was a lover’s kiss.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paris, April 18, 1944

  CHARLOTTE

  “What have you got to be so cheerful about?” Maman snapped at me.

  I realized I’d been humming. Immediately I stopped.

  “You’d better hurry, Charlotte. You’ll be late for work. It’s six thirty already.”

  Now I had a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I leaped out, eager to get to the hospital. And I was no longer hungry; in fact, I’d lost my appetite completely, as though my bursting heart were feeding my hollow stomach. Of course, I told myself to calm down, tried not to let my excitement show, warned myself that he probably talked like this to all the girls he met. But it made no difference. With him I felt like I was stepping out of my skin and into the skin of a more mature, more beautiful woman. The woman I wanted to be. Not only that, he made me feel braver than I’d ever felt before. My heart was stronger—it beat harder. I felt alive. With him I believed I would be ready to stand up for what was right, face dangers I couldn’t have dreamed of facing alone. I wanted to be courageous for him. I wanted to be a better person for him.

  As the Métro sped through the tunnels toward the hospital, I felt my anticipation growing. I looked around at the weary, expressionless passengers, thinking to myself: I have a secret they’ll never know. Though it must have shone out from my eyes. I was on fire with love.

  He was due to leave the hospital today. Excitement ran through my bones. I couldn’t wait to see him outside, in real life. We’d be able to walk together through Paris, through the Tuileries maybe, hand in hand. The thought thrilled me.

  When I came to say goodbye, he was sitting on the bed, still in his pajamas. He hadn’t noticed me yet, and I could tell something was wrong. His face was deathly pale. And there was a Boche sitting in the chair next to his bed. What could they possibly be talking about? Jean-Luc was listening while the Boche spoke. I strained my ears to catch the words.

  “… sabotage… interrogation…”

  Merde! What was going on? The Boche looked very serious.

  Suddenly, he turned around, looking right at me. “Is there something you want, Nurse?”

  “I need to take the patient’s temperature.” I took the thermometer from my top pocket with a trembling hand, holding it out as though it were evidence.

  Jean-Luc looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. Without saying good morning as he usually did, he opened his mouth, ready for the thermometer. I wished I could have surprised him and kissed him, but instead I stepped closer, placing the thermometer under his waiting tongue. The Boche looked on, sighing, as though bored with the whole hospital routine.

  “I thought your patient was leaving today.” He turned to address me.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Then why are you taking his temperature?”

  I hated the Boches who spoke French even more than the ones who didn’t. “It’s procedure,” I lied, concentrating on keeping my tone stable and neutral. “Just checking he hasn’t developed an infection before we let him go.”

  I spoke quietly to Jean-Luc. “You look tired. Will you be all right to leave today?”

  The Boche looked up at me. “He’ll be fine. He just needs to get back to his function now.”

  His function? It made me want to laugh sometimes, the way they talked. I turned away from him, looking at Jean-Luc instead, but his eyes darted around the room, not landing on anything. I spoke quietly, daring myself to be braver than I felt in front of a Boche. “Your leg is only just starting to repair itself. You should be careful.”

  This time he looked at me and nodded, but I could tell he just wanted to get out of the place, whether he was better or not.

  The Boche leaned forward, staring at Jean-Luc. “Indeed you should. Be careful. We can’t afford any more accidents like this. We asked for good workers, not men who can’t even keep hold of a crowbar properly. Maybe it’s your handicap. Your deformed hand isn’t strong enough to be manipulating such heavy tools. We might do better to send you to one of the work camps in Germany, where the work is less skilled.”

  Jean-Luc coughed, dislodging the thermometer. I took it out, shook it, then put it back under his tongue. When I took my hand away, I let my fingers brush the rough, jagged skin that would become his scar.

  The Boche turned his attention to me, narrowing his eyes. “Do you take such good care of all your patients, Nurse?”

  I couldn’t help it—I felt my cheeks burning up.

  He laughed. “Ha, I’ve embarrassed the poor girl.”

  I removed the thermometer dangling from Jean-Luc’s lips without meeting his eyes. My hands trembled as I looked at the reading.

  “So?” The Boche leaned back in his chair. “Is he okay to leave?”

  “Thirty-seven degrees.” I tried to sound assertive. “A little cold, but he’s fine.”

  “A little cold?” The Boche laughed loudly. “I’m sure you can fix that, Nurse.”

  He was enjoying himself, that damned Boche. I had to take control of the situation. Turning to Jean-Luc, this time looking him in the eye, I spoke clearly and calmly. “Once you’re dressed, I’ll bring you the exit papers to sign.” Then I glanced at the Boche. “Goodbye, monsieur.”

  “Don’t go rushing off on my account. I’m leaving.” He turned back to Jean-Luc. “Any more accidents and we might start to question your capabilities.” He paused. “You wouldn’t want that.” He stood abruptly, saluting us.

  We had to salute back; we were in a German hospital. Then we watched as he strode away, his hobnailed boots echoing down the corridor.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Jean-Luc laid his head back on his pillow. “Thank God for that. He wanted to know about my accident.” He paused, looking at me, as though he wanted to say more. “I think you just saved me, Charlotte.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Paris, April 22, 1944

  CHARLOTTE

  We agreed to meet at six o’clock the following Saturday evening. The night before, I couldn’t sleep, excitement and trepidation pumping through my veins, keeping me tossing and turning for hours. And on Saturday itself, my stomach was fluttering so badly I could barely eat. Papa put my lack of appetite down to female trouble, even though I didn’t have any, and eagerly snapped up my food.

  I didn’t know what to wear. I needed clothes that didn’t make me look like an overgrown schoolgirl, so when Maman was out on Saturday morning queuing for food, I went hunting in her wardrobe. There I found a tweed skirt and an old pair of black leather shoes, the soles of which were now paper-thin, the heels completely worn down on one side. I stuffed odd pieces of cardboard inside, hoping I wasn’t going to feel every pebble on the ground through them. Then, using pin nails, I hammered more cardboard onto the lopsided heels and painted them black. The result wasn’t exactly comfortable, but they didn’t look too bad from the top.

  Later in the afternoon, I concentrated on myself. Using a sliver of soap that I had been saving, I washed my hair, adding a teaspoon of vinegar to the bucket of cold water before rinsing it, for extra shine. Then I used the red paint from my old school paintbox to color my lips, fixing it with a smudge of duck fat I found in the back of the fridge.

  At ten to six, I was ready to leave. Thank God Papa was out. Only Maman was there, grating something onto a newspaper at the kitchen table.

  “Maman, I’m going to Mathilde’s now.”

  She turned around to look at me. I felt myself blush under her gaze. I knew she’d noticed the care I’d taken over my appearance.

  “You know I don’t like you out on the streets
in the dark. I think I should walk over with you.”

  “No!” I took a deep breath. “I’m eighteen, Maman, and she only lives two streets away. I can walk there myself.”

  “Isn’t that my skirt?”

  I felt my cheeks heat up. “But Maman, my skirts are too short for me now. They’re above the knee. It’s embarrassing with all those soldiers strolling around.”

  “Hmm, I’ve been meaning to adjust that skirt. There’s far too much material in it. It looks extravagant, not to mention unfashionable.” She tutted, making me wonder which was worse—being unfashionable or being extravagant. “What have you got on your lips? You’ve painted them! I know what those soldiers will think about that. Go and wash it off.”

  I felt my cheeks grow redder but couldn’t resist defending myself. “I just wanted to look nice for a change.”

  “Are you sure you’re only seeing Mathilde? Who else will be there?”

  “No one, just Mathilde and Agnès.” I ran out of the kitchen to get my coat before she could ask any more questions.

  This was ridiculous, I told myself as I left the apartment. I shouldn’t have spent so much time and trouble getting ready. Now I’d just brought unwanted attention to myself.

  But I could feel myself tumbling, like Alice in Wonderland, too curious and delighted to reach out and stop myself. All my thoughts were taken up with him. Everything else paled in comparison; the shortages, the soldiers everywhere, it all meant nothing to me. As long as I had Jean-Luc, nothing else mattered. With him I would conquer my fears and anxieties. I would stand up to my parents and tell them that I could no longer work in a hospital for the Boches. Together we would find strength in each other. I couldn’t wait to see him again. Every word he’d uttered in the hospital felt etched in my memory, as though he’d been setting down tracks in my mind. Tracks I would never be able to erase.

  As I wandered down Rue Montorgueil, I remembered with nostalgia how it used to look, before the Boches arrived. Colorful food markets once lined the street, the smell of warm bread and roasting chickens wafting in the air as men in berets sat outside cafés smoking cigars and discussing politics, while their wives jostled for the best cuts of meat and the freshest fruit and vegetables.

  Now, instead of the smell of bread, the vinegary odor of stale sweat swept along the cobbles—the stench of fear. The noises had changed too. Hobnailed boots marked the passing of time, and between the echoing footsteps a hushed silence breathed its way down the street.

  I liked to stand outside the patisserie, Stohrer, pretending I was back in a time when the windows were full of row after row of freshly baked pains au chocolat, caramelized pains aux raisins, and croissants as light as air. I would inhale the imaginary smell of warm chocolate and fresh pastry. Window-shopping, Maman called it. But if window-shopping was pretending to shop, then what was pretending to window-shop?

  Pretending to pretend. It was what we were all doing. No one knew whom they could really trust. I gazed into the window of the patisserie, trying to breathe more calmly. My stomach rumbled loudly, but I didn’t feel the hunger, only the excitement of seeing him again.

  Then he was there, saying my name. “Charlotte.” He looked so handsome, in a long woolen coat and polished shoes.

  “Bonjour.” My voice came out dry and stiff and I found I couldn’t say his name.

  He kissed me on one cheek and then the other. Not one of those typical air kisses people do as a formality. I felt his lips on my skin, and it sent a spark of electricity through me.

  “Shall we walk?” He smiled his lopsided smile.

  I felt my lips curve with a will of their own until there was a huge grin stretched across my face. I nodded, the words caught in my throat.

  I strolled next to him as he walked with his cane. He was doing very well for someone who had broken his leg only three weeks ago. He reached out his left hand, taking mine. His small deformed hand made mine feel enormous and clumsy, and I wrapped my fingers around it, admiring the way he acted as if it were perfectly normal. His lack of self-consciousness gave him strength.

  “Shall we walk down to Pont Neuf?”

  I nodded. “Oui.”

  “How have you been?”

  “I’ve been missing you.” The words slipped out.

  “I’ve missed you too. I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

  My heart beat faster and I squeezed his hand in mine.

  Abruptly, a couple of soldiers on the other side of the street crossed over to our side. I felt myself tense up.

  “Papers,” the taller one barked.

  Jean-Luc leaned on his cane with one hand while he opened up his long coat with the other, reaching into the inside breast pocket to produce his papers. The soldier snatched them from him.

  “Jean-Luc Beauchamp, SNCF.” His tone was ironic. Then he held his hand out for mine.

  I had them ready and gave them to him without looking at him.

  “Charlotte de la Ville. Eighteen years of age. Do your parents know you’re out?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “With Monsieur Beauchamp here?”

  I nodded, my eyes on the ground.

  “How romantic, meeting up in secret.”

  He looked over at the other soldier, and they laughed. Then he handed back the papers.

  “Have a lovely evening.”

  We carried on down Rue Montorgueil, neither of us speaking till we reached the Saint-Eustache church at the end of the street. Jean-Luc broke the silence. “You know, a Boche once stopped me here and asked me if this was Notre-Dame.”

  “No! What did you say?”

  “I said yes, of course.” He laughed.

  I joined in his laughter and felt my heart lift again.

  “Let’s go inside.” His laughter stopped.

  “Okay.” I didn’t really feel like going into a church, but I could hardly refuse.

  Inside, we wandered around the edge, looking at the alcoves and the tiny candles burning. Jean-Luc put a coin in the box, taking a candle and giving it to me. “Let’s pray for this war to end quickly.”

  I made the sign of the cross, whispering a prayer in my head.

  When we left the church, we headed across the square toward Rue de Rivoli, then crossed the road in front of the large department store La Samaritaine. Pont Neuf was almost empty, and we sat down on one of the circular stone benches overlooking the Seine. I stared down into the dark water, remembering when there used to be traffic on the river. There was nothing now, only dark crescents of waves chopping and crashing into each other.

  “Do you want a drink?” I watched as he dug into his trouser pocket, producing a silver hip flask.

  “What is it?”

  “Try it.”

  I took a small sip. It was rich, and reminded me of family dinners gone by. “Wine! It’s delicious. Where did you get it?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just enjoy it.”

  I took another sip and began to feel less nervous. Everything was going to be all right. He was watching me out of the corner of his eye. I took another sip, this one larger—more like a gulp. Then I passed the flask back to him.

  “I brought something to eat too.” He pulled out a bundle wrapped in paper and handed it to me. I brought it up to my nose, breathing in its smell.

  “Cheese.”

  “Yes, Comté.”

  It smelled so good and my stomach suddenly felt so hollow. Quickly I pulled the paper off and ran my fingers over the perfectly smooth surface.

  “Go on. Eat it.” He smiled at me, putting his arm around my shoulder.

  I bit into it, and it felt like it was the first time I had ever tasted cheese. So creamy, so rich. I took another bite, then passed it back to him.

  He shook his head.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I’m enjoying watching you eat it.” He stroked my cheek. “What are we going to do, eh?”

  “What, now? This is nice, sitting here with you.�
� I leaned into him, my head on his shoulder.

  “Let’s dance.” He jumped up, pulling me with him.

  I dropped the cheese on the bench. “What?” I laughed. “Here?”

  “Yes. Here.” He put one hand around my waist, taking my hand with the other and kissing it. “May I have the pleasure, mademoiselle?”

  “But the pleasure is mine, monsieur.” I grinned.

  And he spun me around, standing on his good leg, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. Gradually we slowed down and I leaned my head on his chest.

  “Charlo-tte,” he whispered in my ear, sending sparks down the back of my neck.

  “Mmm,” I murmured.

  “These moments are precious to me.”

  I stroked his back, leaning farther into him.

  “When I’m feeling low and wondering when this damned war will be over, I just think of you, and it makes me feel… It gives me hope. It lifts me up again.” He kissed the top of my head. Then he put his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me into him. His lips found mine, his tongue flickering over them, pushing them apart. I felt his breath coming harder as our bodies curled into each other.

  A tap on my shoulder made me jump. I turned around.

  “Papers!” A gendarme glared at me.

  As I fumbled in my bag, another gendarme pulled Jean-Luc off to the side.

  “Hurry up!” The gendarme tapped his baton in his palm.

  I held my papers out with trembling hands.

  He snatched them from me, glancing at them. Then he looked up at me, his eyes glinting in the dark. “You shouldn’t be out here on the streets, behaving like a whore.”

  My head spun. I couldn’t find any words.

  “I could take you in for questioning. What’s to stop me?”

  I didn’t know how to defend myself. I glanced over at Jean-Luc helplessly. He was in deep conversation with the other gendarme.

  “Hey, what’s to stop me?” the gendarme asked again, his voice louder this time.

  “It… it’s not curfew yet.”

  “Ha,” he laughed. “Not yet. So hurry home, Cinderella. Hurry home.” He handed my papers back to me.