The Seven Letters

by Jan Harvey

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, pushing it away. ‘I’m fine, it was just a dizzy spell. Please, there’s no need for you to – I don’t know what happened.’

  ‘Are you pregnant?’ he asked. She was taken aback by his audacity.

  ‘No,’ she shook her head. He smiled, he knew he’d shocked her. When, eventually, she stood up straight and was looking up at him, he said: ‘I am very remiss. Let me introduce myself, I am Fritz Keber.’

  ‘I am Françoise Favelle.’ He was looking at her so intensely she had to dip her eyes. ‘I’d better go now,’ she said. ‘I mustn’t be out too long.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the Marais, I have some sewing materials to collect, I’m a seamstress.’

  ‘Ah, I see, well maybe I should walk you there.’

  ‘Oh no, honestly, I’ll be fine.’ Thoughts rushed around her head, this was not as things should be. This was a Boche, the enemy.

  ‘I insist. Come, take my arm and I’ll walk you. The fresh air will do you good. You probably have mild agoraphobia, they don’t let you out of there very often, do they?’

  ‘No, that is, I’m not–’

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘I’m not as confined as the others.’

  ‘Because you’re a maid?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I clean and sew and follow orders.’

  ‘Well, we all have to follow orders from someone.’ He offered her his arm, and she took it, not least because she still felt so strange. As she started to walk she realised his car was following slowly behind, the driver watching them impassively from behind the wheel. ‘So tell me, what is it like working for Madame Odile? I suspect she is strict, yes?’

  ‘Yes, she is, very, she actually makes me shake with nerves.’

  ‘She’s a pussy cat really,’ said Keber. ‘I’ve known her for quite a long time.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I was a student in Paris. I renewed our acquaintance after we arrived here.’

  ‘She’s a real businesswoman,’ said Claudette. She was feeling a reassurance by being on his arm and the strength of him so close to her. A man in a suit walked towards them and averted his eyes, but as he passed by, his arm clashed with Claudette’s. It was hard enough to bump into her, but not enough to stop her; Keber didn’t notice.

  ‘Which shop are you going to?’ he asked as they stopped to let a woman pushing a baby in a pram go past. Claudette hesitated, not wanting to get anything wrong.

  ‘I don’t know the name, it’s on the Rue Trésor.’

  ‘I know the one, a tailor’s shop, it was run by a Jewish family.’ He seemed to wait for her to speak, but she didn’t. ‘We sent the family away last year, it’s now owned by a woman called Cécile Flaubert who was very grateful for the new premises to work from. You see, we are already making the lives of the French better.’

  Claudette kept her eyes fixed on the street ahead. She was hoping for signs to tell her where she was and how far she would have to walk with Keber. On the other side of the road two Frenchmen were cleaning a wall of graffiti with two German soldiers standing behind them, rifles over their shoulders. Claudette tensed.

  ‘The Parisian is a strange creature,’ said Keber. ‘They fight not with guns but chalk and paint. We’ve lately arrested a most famous graffiti artist and he’s in prison with seven of his friends.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’

  ‘Some very bad things,’ replied Keber. ‘But let’s not talk about them, let’s talk about Madame Odile again, she has always fascinated me. Do you know what she used to do for a living?’

  ‘No. I have no idea.’

  ‘She was a prostitute, exactly like her ladies, she worked in the Chabanais. Do you know it?’

  Claudette shook her head.

  ‘That’s how she got all the ideas for her rooms. I’ve never seen anything like the Chabanais, the rooms are spectacular, the women utterly exotic. Your house runs a close second, though, but it is so slick and ordered by comparison. And, of course, it is all German and no French, which is by far more preferable, even if the French are film stars and notables.’

  Claudette looked at his face, it was beautiful. His jaw and chin were strong, defined, and his bearing upright, well bred, gentlemanly, but he spoke exactly as she knew he would; he was a Nazi first and foremost.

  ‘What about you?’ he turned the conversation in on her so swiftly she had no time to prepare herself. ‘Tell me about you.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell, my brother Jacques and I were brought up on a farm. Our parents left in the Exodus and have not come back.’

  ‘And, do you know where they are?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want me to make enquiries?’

  ‘No, there really is no need,’ Claudette replied a little too quickly.

  ‘Really? You don’t know where they are and you don’t care?’ He looked down on her, his eyes immediately trying to fathom her out. He had stopped walking. After a moment he took out a leather bound notebook from his jacket. ‘Here, write their names in here, I’ll find out for you.’ He handed her a pencil and the book.

  She hesitated.

  ‘Go on, I can trace them for you.’

  ‘I’m not sure, I –’

  ‘You’re worried I’ll have them shot or something?’

  ‘No, I, it’s just.’ Claudette realised that she couldn’t remember Françoise’s father’s name. He was studying her, looking intently at her face. She raised her head, remembering Yves words, “Remain silent while you think, give nothing away.” At the same time she was trying to remember the name, Jérôme, Jeannot, it began with a J, but it was gone from her mind. Jean, was it Jean? This is why Jacques told her to say it all over again and again. And, what if he made enquiries and found out they didn’t exist? Keber was working her out already. He lifted her chin, cupping it in the space between his thumb and fingers and stroked her cheek softly with his index finger. Then, slowly, he put his other arm around her back and pulled her to him. She let the hand holding the notebook drop down, dangling away from her body and lifted herself to meet his kiss. He pressed his lips against hers, the pressure hard. She felt a need to give in to him, to feel the strength of him holding her. When he let her go, he took the notebook from her and closed it. His eyes fixed on her as he slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘I wanted to do that the other day when I saw you on the stairs,’ he said. Claudette stared at him in disbelief. ‘There,’ he said, still looking into her eyes whilst pointing along the road. ‘That is the shop you are looking for.’ Claudette stepped back from him but she was transfixed, he was still staring at her too.

  ‘Thank you,’ her voice faltered, she felt unable to think straight.

  He waved to the driver of his car and, as it rolled forward and stopped alongside him, he climbed in. The driver was staring straight ahead. It pulled away and she stood perfectly still watching it disappear, not believing what had just taken place.

  A globule of phlegm hit her cheek at that precise moment. She put her hand up and wiped off the green-yellow slime. The man was walking hurriedly away from her head down and hands in his jacket pockets. She pulled out her handkerchief and mopped it up, her stomach churning.

  ‘Whore,’ said a woman under her breath as she walked past, her eyes fierce.

  Claudette walked quickly along the Rue Trésor, the pavements were narrow. Peeling, torn posters and police warning notices plastered every spare inch of wall. Some of the people who scuttled by were wearing yellow stars. There were women walking boldly on the arms of Nazi soldiers, men turning to eye her up, all of them could see her clothing was clean, new, expensive.

  The shop had dark blue peeling paint and grimy glass. The materials in the window, bales of floral cotton and fine intri
cate lace looked wrong, too bright. The bell rang as she entered and a woman came from the rear of the shop.

  ‘Good day,’ she said, with an unconvincing smile. There was tension in her jaw, it was as if she felt guilty for being there. Claudette could understand why. ‘I am here to collect an order for twelve Rue Ercol.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ the woman replied calmly. ‘You need to go upstairs.’ She pointed towards a narrow door at the back of the shop. ‘It is through there, and up.’

  Claudette felt her heart beating fast. She reached the top of the stairs and entered a small room – it smelt stale and musty. Yves was sitting at a square table surrounded by unpacked boxes and skeins of material wrapped in brown paper. He stood up immediately and threw his arms around her, pressing her so tightly to him she didn’t think she would be able to breathe.

  ‘Oh Claudette,’ he said, almost sounding like he might weep. ‘I’m so glad you’re safe and it’s so good to see you. I can’t tell you how good it is, truly.’

  ‘It is good to see you too, Yves, how is everything?’ They both sat down at the table opposite each other. He was staring at her as if they had been apart for years and not weeks. She saw that he had lines on his forehead and under his eyes dark circles, his lips were cracked and his chin rough with stubble. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No, not really, it’s hard at the moment,’ he said starkly. ‘I’m on the run. We took down a communications line and things were left behind, by mistake. I think they know who I am. I’ve got false papers and accommodation is being found for me, but I have to stay here until I’m able to move on.’ He looked at her, as if he were taking her in for the first time. ‘You look amazing.’ The words gave her a thrill. He cast his eyes over her, taking in the hair and nails, the dress, the shoes. ‘I didn’t expect you to look like this. Your hair –’ He reached up and touched the side of her head, her skin felt sensitive under his fingers. She wanted to take his hand in hers but she thought of Giselle and how she must never give anything away.

  ‘I’m surrounded by the most glamorous women you can imagine,’ she told him brightly. ‘It rubs off!’

  ‘Well you look wonderful.’ He was gazing at her as if he didn’t believe she was real.

  ‘Did you know that I was going to work in a whore house when you sent me here?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

  ‘Well, I have to tell you, it gave me a real shock.’ She tried to look indignant but it was impossible, because being with Yves always made her feel so much better.

  ‘I know, I understand,’ he said. ‘But it’s vital, we must do anything it takes. Count yourself lucky you’re not sleeping in the forests, the prettiest thing I’ve seen for weeks was a boar.’ She sniggered. ‘I’ve missed that laugh,’ he said. ‘You know you’re my oldest friend, don’t you, especially now that Vincent…?’ The thought warmed her heart, the fact he said it meant that their relationship was solid and real.

  ‘How is Giselle doing?’

  His face darkened. He looked down at his hands, balling them together in a white knuckled fist. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘We can’t find her or Louis, there has been no word.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I truly hope she’s all right, Yves.’ She meant it, she knew what family meant to him. ‘Have you any idea at all?’

  ‘None. They say the south is more dangerous than here and God knows it’s bad enough here.’ Claudette leaned across and placed her hands on top of his. He unclenched the fists and took her fingers in his.

  ‘I only hope the Allied Forces can act quickly now. It feels like the whole of France has capitulated, no one is fighting except us and we’re too few and far between. I was hoping for better.’

  ‘How are Mr and Mrs Gabin?’

  ‘Broken, hearts and minds. She has had a nervous breakdown. He is devastated.’

  ‘Did you find out who it was?’

  ‘No, whoever gave us away is still active.’

  ‘And my parents?’ Claudette felt a lilt in her voice, her pulse quickening.

  ‘They are fine, some people wanted to know why you’d gone so suddenly, especially after Vincent, but mostly people don’t want to know anything in case they have the Boches come knocking. If you don’t know, you can’t tell.’

  Claudette felt suddenly homesick, for her parents, for Vacily and the lake and the flat, uncomplicated countryside, but not, it was suddenly clear to her, for her former life. She pictured the piles of mending dropped off at the door, the dresses and skirts she made from rough, course materials, cheap linens and cambric. She had seen so much more here in Paris already. ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘I think perhaps not,’ he said flatly. ‘One way or another, because they’re looking for me I will have to disappear for a while, assume a new identity. I’m going to head south to see where Giselle is.’ He gulped, Claudette saw his Adam’s apple moving, he was holding back his emotions. One day, she hoped, one day she might find someone who loved her as much as Yves loved Giselle.

  ‘Look after yourself, Yves, please. And find Giselle, you were made for each other.’ He looked suddenly weary and quite miserable.

  ‘I hope I can,’ he said, ‘I hope I can.’

  ‘You will, and when you do send me a message.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding. ‘I’ll be sure to. Oh, I forgot, another thing you should know, Joubert is in Paris. He’s been forced into working as a labourer for the Boches. I don’t know where, but you never know, your paths might cross.’

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Clemence and Yan took two hours for lunch but Matt and I kept working. We made a good team. He knew exactly what he wanted and was a real perfectionist. I watched him working on the close details of the furniture to show how well it had been made, asking me to move this prop or that light to create the perfect shot.

  In coffee breaks I thought we might talk, but he worked through. The day was long and we finished after seven. I was exhausted and was thinking of a hot shower and an evening watching rubbish TV in my room with a bottle of wine from the local Super U. ‘Fancy dinner at that café we walked past?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said a bit too quickly. ‘Shall I meet you in reception at eight?’

  ‘Great.’

  The waiter pulled a chair out for me, the café was heaving, we had the last table. The waiters were rushing from the restaurant to serve a covered seating area on the opposite side of the pavement. They swept past us taking orders on winks and nods. Menus were placed in front of us with a practised flourish.

  ‘It’s going well,’ said Matt, allowing himself a long breath. ‘We’ll be finished by tomorrow afternoon at this rate. How do you fancy a touristy day on Thursday?’

  I was really pleased, it cheered me up immediately; Matt was back.

  ‘No strings, yes?’

  He wasn’t coming back.

  ‘Right, yes, of course,’ I was hiding my face in the menu.

  We ordered the fish of the day, sole and fondant potatoes and a bottle of Sancerre. There was cigarette smoke all around us, the raw smell of tobacco mixing with exhaust fumes and the hot musky scent of the city. ‘Could we ring Daniel, do you think? It would be good if we could go and see him together, if you don’t mind helping me, I’m not sure if he speaks any English.’

  ‘Got the number?’ he asked.

  A fire engine sliced through the traffic, red with yellow lines along the side. It edged its way through a sea of green lights on top of taxis. I felt in my bag for my notebook and flicked it open, holding out the page where I’d written Daniel’s number for him.

  ‘I’ll go over to that street, where it’s quieter,’ Matt told me. ‘Back soon.’

  I watched him as he dialled and stood talking, the sheen on his black leather jacket catching the lights around him. His hair fell down over his fa
ce. I liked that about him and the way he talked and frowned, then his face would light up and his smile was radiant. I really liked that about him too.

  He came back, slid into his seat and looked apologetic.

  ‘He’s just leaving for the airport.’

  ‘No!’ I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘He’s going to be in Prague until Friday.’

  ‘Friday morning?’

  ‘Evening. Connie, I’m sorry, I should have called him last night when you asked me to, I was just –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Peeved.’

  ‘About what?’ I asked as the waiter placed our sole down in front of us. Of course I knew why he was peeved.

  ‘It’s just I thought you and I, well I thought there was a spark between us. Then you cooled right off and didn’t get in touch.’ He sipped a glass of wine, and reached for the pepper mill, but put it back unused. I had to put him out of his misery.

  ‘When I met you, I really thought you were lovely, in spite of the circumstances and everything. The problem is –’.

  I then reached for the pepper, used it a tiny bit and put it back. ‘I had… that is, the last relationship I was in ended really badly.’

  ‘Was he a shit?’ Matt asked.

  ‘He dumped me and really hurt me. He had always been controlling but in an insidious way, you know drip, drip. When he left me he made sure I was reduced to nothing emotionally and I realised he had drained me of feeling.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said Matt. ‘And I’ve come over the same way?’

  I couldn’t believe he could think that, not for a second. ‘No, absolutely not.’

  ‘Well, thank goodness for that,’ he said, taking another, longer sip of wine. ‘Just for a minute there –’

  ‘No Matt, don’t be daft, you’re lovely. I’m the one with the problem here, not you. I took so long to get over that relationship, I didn’t feel like I could have another one for ages.’