While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  He smiled, glancing down at his untouched food. “I’ve got my mind on other things right now.” He leaned toward her. “I’ve missed you, Charlotte.”

  The corners of her mouth turned up and her eyes sparkled. “How much?”

  “This much.” He spread his hands out over the table, then raised one, holding it against her cheek. “How have you been?”

  “Well, I’ve missed seeing your smile every day.”

  “And I’ve missed yours. More than you can imagine.” He paused. “Let’s eat.”

  They ate in companionable silence, appreciating the taste of real food.

  “How is it at the hospital now?” He hadn’t meant to bring the conversation around in that direction; the words had escaped his mouth without him thinking.

  He watched the smile fall from her face. “I have to leave. It’s wrong to be there.” She paused. “I just need to get the courage together to tell my parents.” She looked around anxiously as though someone might have overheard.

  “Don’t worry, no one’s listening. But don’t let it make you feel so bad. We’re all complicit, one way or another.”

  “What do you mean?” Her eyebrows came together in a frown.

  “Well, we’ve let them have our food, our wine, our land, our houses. It’s hard—impossible—for civilians like us to stand up to a military presence like theirs; there’s not much we can do alone.” He topped off her glass, though she’d only had a couple of sips.

  “Yes, but we should try and do something, shouldn’t we?”

  He nodded. “You know where I work, don’t you?”

  “On the railroads.”

  “Yes, but do you know where?”

  “Not exactly. I… I don’t think you told me.”

  He rubbed his eyes, then looked around the brasserie. No one new had come in, and the two old men had gone, leaving just the other couple several tables away; they seemed more interested in each other than anything else anyway. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I work at Bobigny, the station for Drancy—the camp from where they deport all the Jews.” He took another swig of wine. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he continued. “Charlotte, they’re deporting them by the thousand, and we don’t know where they’re sending them.”

  “Aren’t they going to work camps in Germany?”

  He shook his head. “I think they’re taking them somewhere far away and then… they’re getting rid of them.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I didn’t mean to talk about it.” He put his head in his hands.

  She reached out, touching his hand. “Tell me what you mean.”

  He wondered whether to go on. Maybe he should just keep it light; he could talk about her, flatter her, like he’d done in the hospital. It had been fun, but there were more pressing things on his mind now. Time was running out for such frivolities. He looked into her dark brown eyes, wishing they could have a different conversation.

  “They’re cramming them into cattle wagons—as many as they can squeeze in. And then they’re shipping them off. No water. No food. Someone told me he’d heard one of the Boches boasting that they’d managed to get more than a thousand on the last train.”

  He watched the color drain from her face.

  “I can’t do it anymore, Charlotte.”

  She shook her head as if trying to shake the knowledge out. “But it’s not possible. Why would they do that?”

  “Shh.”

  The waitress walked by. “Tout va bien?”

  “Yes, thank you. Could we just have a carafe of water, please?”

  “Of course.” She turned on her heel, walking away.

  “Don’t worry, she didn’t hear anything.” He paused, lowering his voice and leaning farther toward Charlotte. “Why?” He laughed cynically. “Because this is war, and the Jewish immigrant is their enemy.”

  “But they’re taking French-born Jews too now, aren’t they?” She leaned forward, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes darkening. “I wish I could do something.”

  The waitress came back with their water. She looked pointedly at their half-finished plates.

  “Merci, madame. Could we have a little more wine, please?” Jean-Luc held out the empty carafe.

  She snatched it from him. “Bien sûr.”

  He watched her as she disappeared behind the bar, then he turned back to Charlotte. “We should finish eating.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

  The waitress crept up on them this time, planting the carafe on the table without a word. Jean-Luc poured himself some wine. Charlotte’s glass was still full. Abruptly she picked it up and gulped it down as though it were water, then put her empty glass back down and set to work on the cold croque monsieur, cutting it up into little squares, her fingers gripping the knife and fork tightly. He watched her knuckles turn white.

  “Charlotte,” he whispered. She didn’t answer; just carried on cutting the toast up into tinier and tinier squares. He reached out for her pale hand. She snatched it back as if he were about to burn her. Then he heard a small choking sound and saw her shoulders hunch forward. Grabbing the napkin off the table, she buried her face in it.

  He stood up, moving over to her side of the table, taking her in his arms. “Let’s leave.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Paris, April 29, 1944

  CHARLOTTE

  Once out of the collabos’ brasserie, I began to feel better. It must have been the wine making me overemotional like that. I needed to calm down, but my head was spinning, my thoughts all mixed up. Jean-Luc kept his arm tightly around me, using his other for the cane. It made me feel safer. But no one was safe. No one. For a while we walked in silence, my sniffles gradually subsiding. Soon we found ourselves on Rue Saint-Denis.

  “Come on. Let’s go in here.” He took my hand, pulling me into a bar. I didn’t want another drink; my senses were out of control. Mixed feelings of loss, guilt, and longing swirled through my head. I didn’t know what I might do next.

  But he ordered wine for us both.

  And I drank it.

  We sat on stools at the bar—it was cheaper to drink there, and anyway there were Boches with their women at the three tables behind. I stared at them for a moment, taking in the dark uniforms of the men and the bare legs of the women; they’d drawn thin lines down the backs of them in a sad attempt to make it look like they were wearing stockings. Honestly, who did they think they were kidding? And why did they bother? They thought it looked classy, I guess. Classy! I bet the Boches thought they looked classy too in their smart uniforms. It was all so false. I felt sorry for the women, faking it for the Boches. I hoped they would manage to steal favors in return for giving nothing more away than a superficial smile and a false laugh.

  I turned back toward Jean-Luc, my head spinning. I gazed into his warm brown eyes that weren’t exactly brown and sensed a stirring inside me, like a magnetic force pulling me toward him. There was nothing false about him. He was good. I felt myself toppling toward him, my hands landing on his knees. Straightening my spine and removing my hands, I looked him in the eye again. But it only made me feel even more unsteady.

  “Charlotte.”

  I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of my name on his tongue.

  “I think you’ve had too much to drink. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I should take you home.”

  “No!” I laughed, surprised at the sudden determination in my voice. “I like it here. Let’s have some more wine.” This time I fell right off my stool into his arms. Tilting my face up, I saw his lopsided smile. That was what did it. His smile. I pulled myself up, putting my arms around his shoulders. And I kissed him. It wasn’t a soft kiss like his had been. It was a furious kiss. A desperate kiss. I wanted it to transport me. Far away.

  Whistling and laughing interrupted us. I felt him pull away. The Boches were clapping. I h
eard one say, “Now that is a proper French kiss.”

  Jean-Luc threw some coins on the bar and took my hand. “Let’s go.” He was mad, I could tell. I’d embarrassed him.

  Once outside, he pulled me around the corner. Then he dropped my hand and I heard his cane fall to the ground. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight. His lips found mine, and I could feel his breath coming hard. He tasted of salt, like the sea. Like freedom. I don’t know how long we stood there breathing into each other as though we were in fear of drowning, our hearts pounding. When his lips finally left mine, I just wanted to sink into him and forget the rest.

  “Charlotte,” he whispered in my ear. “Let’s run away together.”

  It was all I wanted right there in that moment.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Paris, April 30, 1944

  CHARLOTTE

  “I’d like you to meet him.” I knew it was crazy, but if I was going to run away with him, I’d like them to at least know I was running away with a good man.

  Maman stared hard at me. “It’s not the right time, Charlotte.”

  “I can’t change the time! I didn’t start this war!”

  “Charlotte, that’s enough. We can’t have him for lunch. You know we barely have enough food for the three of us, let alone another.”

  “That’s okay, Maman. He can come for a fake coffee in the afternoon; we can pretend it’s goûter.”

  “Maybe he’ll bring something.” Papa turned around in his chair. “I bet he has contacts, a young lad like that, working at Drancy. He must know how to get hold of stuff.” The word “collabo” wasn’t mentioned, but it hung there, unspoken.

  I’d known they wouldn’t want him for lunch and had wisely told Jean-Luc to come at four. No one ever had anything to do at four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, and Clothilde didn’t work on Sundays. My invitation had surprised him, and after he’d accepted, it surprised me too. It was an impulsive idea, and I must admit I was beginning to question my motive. Was I trying to prove something to my parents? Show them that I was no longer their little girl? Or maybe I just wanted to annoy them by bringing home a railroad worker, knowing full well the importance they put on education and class.

  “It would only be polite to bring something,” Papa continued, interrupting my thoughts. “I expect he’ll be wanting to impress us.”

  All they ever thought about was food. Food. Food. Food. Weren’t there more important things at stake here? I turned my back on them both, wandering over to the kitchen sink, looking out the window into the courtyard.

  “Why was he sent to a German hospital?” Maman spoke to my back.

  “I don’t know.” I turned around. “Probably because he’s working at Drancy.”

  Papa pursed his lips.

  “I’m working at a German hospital, aren’t I? What’s the difference?”

  “Less of that tone, Charlotte.” Maman looked at me with narrowed eyes.

  Jean-Luc came on the dot at four o’clock, the buzzer making my heart race and my stomach churn. Papa opened the door, shaking hands formally. Maman stood there, her arms folded across her chest.

  He held his hand out to her while I held my breath.

  Slowly she unfolded her arms, extending a hand toward him. Then he turned to me, and I held my hand out before he could kiss me on the cheek. It felt ridiculously formal, but I didn’t want him to kiss me in front of my parents. I caught his smile and felt my cheeks redden as I smiled back.

  For a few seconds we stood there as though we weren’t sure what we were supposed to do next. Then Jean-Luc opened his bag. “I’ve brought something.” He rummaged through it, finally lifting up a package wrapped in newspaper. “Saucisson.”

  The atmosphere immediately lightened. The saucisson didn’t look so great to me—pinky gray and shriveled—but Maman’s eyes lit up as she took it from him, putting it away for later.

  “Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

  Papa laughed loudly. “Coffee! It’s ground acorn, like it is for everyone else.” He turned toward Jean-Luc. “Let’s go and sit in the living room. Bring the coffee in, Béatrice.”

  I followed them into the living room, leaving Maman to prepare the drink. Papa settled down into his armchair, while Jean-Luc and I sat on the couch. I dismissed the urge to take his hand, instead looking at Papa to see how he was going to start the conversation. But he leaned back in his armchair as though distancing himself. Jean-Luc leaned forward.

  “Charlotte took great care of me in the hospital,” he said.

  Papa took a moment to reply. “Yes. She told me you had an accident.” He paused. “At Drancy.”

  “Coffee.” Maman walked into the room holding a tray with three cups and some kind of biscuit I didn’t know we had. I couldn’t help wondering why she wanted to impress him, but I decided to take it as a good sign.

  “Merci, madame.” Jean-Luc took his cup and saucer and a thin biscuit. “Yes,” he continued. “I’ve been working at Drancy for… for two months now.” He looked down at his feet, his cup balanced on his leg. Slowly he took a sip, looking at me over the top of the cup.

  “You’re a railroad worker.” Papa’s words sounded like an accusation rather than a question.

  “Yes, and I’m a nursing assistant.” I blurted the words out before thinking, but I hated the thought of them making him feel inferior.

  “We know that, Charlotte.” Maman’s voice was soft and quiet, as though she were talking to a child. “Everyone has to do what they can in times of war.” She turned to Jean-Luc. “How did the accident happen?”

  “I was working on one of the lines when a crowbar flew up, hitting me in the face. And when I fell, I broke my leg.” He paused. “It was a stupid accident.”

  Papa raised an eyebrow as if in agreement about that.

  “Yes.” Maman looked at him. “That’s quite a scar you have there.”

  His hand flew to it, touching its puckered edges. I imagined its roughness under my fingertips.

  “How long have you been working for the SNCF?” Papa lifted his cup to his lips. I hoped he was going to be nice.

  “Since I was fifteen.”

  “You left school at fifteen then?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “Before the baccalauréat?”

  “Yes.” Jean-Luc looked away.

  I felt embarrassed about Papa’s insinuation—leaving school before the baccalauréat meant one was condemned to a life of manual labor or menial work. An awkward silence filled the room.

  “So.” Papa put his cup back down. “What do you do at Drancy?”

  I cringed and glanced over at Jean-Luc. His face reddened.

  “I help maintain the lines.”

  Papa coughed and Maman looked down at her drink. More silence followed. I searched in my head for a way to break it.

  “Jean-Luc says there are lots of trains leaving from Drancy.” I looked at Papa. He raised an eyebrow. “They’re deporting the prisoners from there,” I continued.

  Papa stared at me with stony eyes. Maman froze, her cup midair, and Jean-Luc shunted along the couch toward me. The atmosphere grew thick.

  “Charlotte is right.” Jean-Luc broke the silence. “Many trains are leaving now. Sometimes with a thousand prisoners on board.”

  “A thousand?” Papa paused. “On one train?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “How can they possibly get a thousand on one train?”

  Jean-Luc shrugged his shoulder. “They must pack them in.”

  Maman continued to look down at her fake coffee. I knew only too well how she hated this kind of conversation.

  “Where are they taking them?”

  “Somewhere in the east, I think.”

  Papa blinked. “Well, they’ve been arresting thousands, and they must be deporting them somewhere. The east would make sense. Poland, I imagine.”

  “Yes, most likely.” Jean-Luc glanced at me. “But what happens to them?”


  “What happens to them?” Papa frowned.

  “Yes. I know they are crammed in cattle cars, standing room only.” Jean-Luc’s voice took on a more assertive tone, and I felt anxious about the direction the conversation was turning so quickly. “And I’ve seen… I’ve seen the platform after the trains have left. It’s… it’s a mess.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there are things… things that belonged to them—books, hats, suitcases, children’s toys. I think they must have to force them onto the trains—”

  “Children’s toys?” Papa interrupted.

  Maman frowned at him. “You know they’re taking the children too.” She paused, looking at me. “Remember the huge round-up when they took whole families to the Vélodrome d’Hiver, nearly two years ago now?”

  Papa put his cup down on the tray and leaned back in his chair again. I looked over at Jean-Luc, hoping to make eye contact, but he was staring down.

  “Bien,” Maman started. “I hope this winter will be over soon.”

  Jean-Luc looked up with his cup halfway to his mouth. “It’s an awful job.” He put the cup back into its saucer. “I don’t know if I can keep doing it.”

  My heart beat hard against my ribs. I hadn’t wanted him to be that honest—that direct with them.

  Papa whispered, “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m aiding the Boches in their work, aren’t I? I’m helping them deport people to God knows where, just because they’re Jewish.”

  “Why? Why did they make it a crime?” I blurted out, wanting to break the tension.

  Papa looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “They’ve been taking jobs from French citizens. And they tried to control our economy, just like they did in Germany.”

  “That’s not even true!” Jean-Luc put his cup on the table with a thud, brown liquid sloshing up. “It’s all propaganda.”

  “Who are we to know? Are you a politician? Do you understand economics?” Papa paused, staring coldly at Jean-Luc. “You’re just a laborer.”

  “I know wrong when I see it.” Jean-Luc glared back at him.

  “Do you? And what are you going to do about it then, young man?”