The Seven Letters

by Jan Harvey

  He leaned across the table. ‘I do understand, I had a clingy girlfriend once and Dave was quite controlling too.’ I could imagine the girlfriend, but the one called Dave? ‘My dog, remember my dog?’ he said, pulling a face.

  ‘Your dog was controlling?’

  ‘Oh yes, it was all “it’s food time; it’s walk time; it’s food time.” Great licker, though.’ He smirked. That was when I burst out laughing. How could I think Matt was anything like my ex? They were chalk and cheese. ‘What would happen if I promised not to control you in any way?’ he said earnestly and with a smile.

  ‘That might work. It means letting me eat chocolate on my terms and not telling me what to wear or telling me that I’m not intelligent enough to participate in conversations at business dinners.’

  ‘Right, understood,’ he said. ‘Should I be making notes or something?’ We both laughed and from that moment, I felt a weight lift off me, the burden of worrying.

  ‘Can we take things slowly?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, a simple yes, and then he reached over and touched my hand. I felt the solid weight of it over mine and I felt everything was going to be all right.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The men were dead.

  They lay flat against the pavement, eyes glassy and wide open, faces grey. The buckets of water were turned over and the brushes they had been using were lying across the road. They had been shot in the back and the blood that had seeped across the backs of their shirts formed ragged wet patterns in the cloth. Claudette tried to avert her eyes but she was drawn to the scene, to the dead men and the fact that people were passing by and not looking, not wanting to see, avoiding all involvement.

  She hurried on, remembering the way she had walked with Keber. There was a café with green painted woodwork, a German eating onion soup with a sophisticated French woman. A grey horse, its head hung low, stood in the shafts of a cart piled high with wooden cases of wine. Two men were unloading and taking the cases into the café. They weren’t talking, their faces looked strained and uneasy.

  Claudette watched them just a bit too long as she walked by. The German saw her and looked around, his eyes questioning. She hurried away and reached the house at five o’clock, she could never have believed she would be so happy to get back safely. She put her parcels of fabric by the kitchen door and ran straight upstairs to change. When she came back down to the kitchen, Jacques was lighting the stove with great difficulty.

  ‘I hate this bastard and it hates me, bastard,’ he was saying as he struck another match and began a long diatribe of offensive words about chores and hard work. Finally it lit and he stepped back. Claudette took the folded paper out of her handbag and handed it to him. He took it to the corner of the kitchen and held it up to the light.

  ‘Where did you find it?’ he whispered.

  ‘Nannette’s room.’

  ‘Very good, I’ll pass it on.’ He stuffed it into the pocket of his gilet. Perrine arrived and, pulling her headscarf off, she placed a basket on the table.

  ‘I got the medicine, the doctor said he’s due for the monthly check tomorrow anyway.’

  ‘Are you ill?’ asked Claudette.

  ‘No, Eva is, she has a fever and earache.’

  ‘Shall I take it up?’ Claudette offered.

  ‘Oh, would you, that would be lovely, my feet are aching. I’ve walked miles. I’ll make you a lemon tea and then I can get the vegetables done for tonight.’

  Claudette took the brown bottle and a spoon up to Eva’s room on the second floor. She knocked, but the reply was muffled. Eva was in bed, the covers pulled tight around her. Her teeth were chattering and she was wet with perspiration. Claudette made her sit up, plumping up her pillows. She was tiny; her face, without make-up, was childlike, the skin soft and clear of blemishes.

  ‘Here Eva, I have medicine for you.’ Claudette spoke softly as she poured it onto the spoon and lifted the girl up to sip it. ‘You poor thing, you are really unwell, aren’t you?’

  Eva nodded. ‘I have to be better, Madame Odile says I will lose her valuable income if I don’t get well.’

  ‘Forget Madame Odile,’ Claudette put a hand onto Eva’s forehead. ‘You are nowhere near well enough to work. Perrine says the doctor’s coming tomorrow for the monthly check. What’s that?’

  ‘He examines us all for the clap and crabs,’ Eva told her. ‘He’s very nice, the only French man allowed to see us at all. Don’t tell anyone, but he takes messages for us and sometimes he asks about the clients. We all think he’s with the Resistance.’ She sipped the water Claudette had poured for her, her large, grateful eyes dominated her face.

  Claudette looked around the room, it was decorated in pale pink. There was a day bed against the window set with pink satin cushions, a bookcase full of children’s books and a large white rug. Under the window was a box of untouched toys. She stood up and went into the bathroom where she ran a pink facecloth under the cold tap and brought it back to place on the girl’s head. Eva was perspiring, her nightdress was wringing wet. ‘Let’s get this off,’ said Claudette. She pulled it over Eva’s head, the cotton was thin and sodden. Claudette pulled a new one out of the armoire. She turned back to the girl who looked even smaller and utterly vulnerable naked. She was flat chested, her body was scrawny, the bones of her back prominent through the pallid skin. As Claudette dropped the new nightdress over her head it was like handling a small bird.

  ‘How old are you, Eva?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘How old really?’

  ‘I told you, sixteen.’

  Claudette waited.

  ‘Fourteen. But you mustn’t tell anyone, promise me. Only the doctor knows, and he says he won’t say anything.’

  ‘Do your parents know where you are?’

  ‘They’re dead. They were sent away, first to Drancy and then somewhere else.’

  ‘Are you Jewish?’

  ‘Please don’t ask.’

  ‘Oh Eva, is that why you don’t eat with the others?’

  The girl nodded. ‘I go down and take the leftovers before you clear it all away, if I can. Sometimes Nannette brings me something.’

  ‘Does your exclusive know?’

  ‘No, and if Madame Odile knew she’d…’

  ‘Eva, you’re playing a very dangerous game.’

  The girl closed her eyes, a silvery tear brimmed on her lower eyelid. ‘I’ve lost everyone, every single person I knew was taken in the first round up. I don’t care any more.’

  ‘Don’t they ask for papers?’ Claudette was astonished.

  ‘No, they ask for your body and what you can make it do for them. I was very popular and now my exclusive pays a lot of money for me.’ Claudette put the lid on the bottle and filled the glass with fresh water. She mopped Eva’s brow and ran a finger over her cheek. ‘If you need anything, just ring, Perrine or I will come.’

  ‘Thank you, Françoise.’ Eva’s voice was as thin as her tiny body. She was exhausted. Claudette left the door ajar and went downstairs.

  ‘Eva is really ill, and she’s very thin,’ she told everyone in the kitchen. ‘Madame F, can you do a broth for her?’

  ‘Yes, of course, poor child.’

  ‘That’s all she is, a child,’ Claudette said with an accusatory look at them all. ‘A poor child.’

  ‘We’re all of us caught up in this,’ said Jacques. ‘At least she’s safe and warm and she gets fed in here.’

  Claudette felt unconvinced. ‘Which one is her exclusive?’

  ‘Rechtstein, I told you, remember?’ Perrine said over her shoulder as she peeled potatoes over the sink.

  ‘The one who organises the exportations?’

  ‘Yes, evil bastard.’ Jacques was making sure he spoke loud enough that Madame F. could hear
him. He shook his head. ‘Bastards, all of them.’

  Claudette picked up her mending, her eyes focussed on the needle going into the fine lace of a pair of knickers. They were intensely beautiful, a true duck egg blue, torn along one seam.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Matt and I were walking along the banks of the Seine, the Alma tunnel on our left its Flame of Liberty catching the car headlights in the gathering dusk. ‘I really do think that’s the only true memorial to her, you know,’ I said as we crossed over and looked down at the tributes and photographs in Spanish, French, Polish and three undecipherable languages. There were tatty, faded pictures of her; dead flowers; a once pink, now grubby grey teddy bear, and graffiti scratched into the stone. Everywhere the name: Diana, Diana, Diana.

  ‘Have you seen the fountain in London?’ asked Matt.

  ‘Yes, I saw it when it was new, for me it has nothing of her about it. Trust the French to come up with a ready made one that still catches the mood so well.’ We watched as a man, wiping back tears, placed a note down on the base of the statue and backed away with reverence. We left him to his thoughts and walked through the city, its purring nightlife a blend of cigarette smoke, hot pavements and the excitement of chatter.

  ‘I love Paris,’ said Matt as we stopped to gaze out across the Seine. ‘I could live here.’

  ‘So could I,’ I agreed, and the sharing of this small fact felt, all at once, significant. Paris, the most romantic city of them all and I knew why. Even I could leave the countryside for Paris.

  A Bateau-Mouche was floating serenely down the middle of the river, the reflections of her lights glittered in the dark water and a singer’s fine operatic voice drifted towards us on the breeze. ‘I’ll take you on that on Thursday,’ said Matt. ‘My way of saying thank you for your help this week.’

  ‘There’s no need, I’ve really enjoyed myself, and I’m being paid.’ I said this in spite of the fact there was nothing I would have liked more.

  ‘There’s every need,’ said Matt. He turned to face me, his eyes catching the twinkling city lights, as if Paris was inside his soul. He kissed me, his lips brushing softly against mine. I felt the whole world spin around me, cascading colours, bright stars, everything.

  ‘Oh Matt,’ I whispered. I kissed him back and never wanted it to cease. His hand was on my neck, stroking his fingers through the hair at the base of my head.

  ‘Let’s go back to the hotel,’ he whispered in my ear. We walked, hand in hand and suddenly the world felt right, everything seemed have fallen into place.

  ‘What a shame,’ I said. ‘After finally getting to Paris we’ve missed Daniel, I knew I should have called ahead.’

  ‘We don’t have to miss him, we could stay on until Saturday, or even Sunday, it’s no problem.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ll leave a message on his answerphone,’ Matt said and he squeezed my hand.

  Outside my hotel bedroom I stopped. Matt, I could tell, was guarded, expecting me to turn cold on him. ‘I’ll go if you’re not ready,’ he said. I kissed him and opened the door, leading him inside with my hand. He pushed me against the wall, his kisses falling on my neck. I felt the weight of him against me. He took off his jacket and we both fell back onto the bed. I was so hungry for him and he for me, his mouth was finding mine, his hands undoing my blouse. I felt the recurring fear rising, but it was distant and I knew I could keep it at bay. I willed it to keep away and he must have sensed it because he whispered: ‘I will look after you.’

  I knew he would.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Lilia’s face was pressed against the tiled floor of the bathroom, dark rings of smudged mascara around her eyes. She was unconscious.

  ‘Help me lift her,’ said Jacques, as he strained under the dead weight of her. Claudette caught hold of the limp legs and they laid her on the bed.

  ‘What is it? Is she ill?’ she asked.

  ‘No, she’s drugged up to the eyeballs, this happens all the time.’ Lilia had her chemise and knickers on, the ones Claudette had repaired weeks before. The duck egg blue was almost the same tone as her skin.

  ‘I’ll get Madame,’ said Claudette.

  ‘No, don’t, she doesn’t need to see this.’ Jacques said sharply. Lilia’s eyes opened at the sound of his voice. They were glassy, staring like a dead fish.

  ‘Get the doctor,’ Claudette told him. ‘She’s going to die.’

  Jacques looked at the girl lying as still as a statue on the silk bedspread and then hurried out of the room. Suddenly the body arched and sharp smelling saffron yellow liquid was vomited all over the silk spread. Claudette rolled Lilia over onto her side so that she would not choke. Then she remembered her little brother all those years ago and the way her mother had dealt with his sickness. She had loved him so much whilst Claudette found the stench of sickness made her retch. She had been unable to cope; perhaps she hadn’t loved him enough, not as much as her mother loved him.

  ‘Lilia, Lilia, you are all right, Lilia.’ She tried rubbing the girl’s hands. ‘Lilia, you’re going to be all right, just stay with me.’ She went into the bathroom and ran cold water on a flannel, placing it over the damp forehead. Then she retrieved a cloth from the cleaning cupboard and mopped up the vomit.

  Lilia was groaning. Her words came but they were sporadic and unintelligible, until she said very faintly; ‘Save him.’

  ‘Who, Lilia?’

  ‘Save him.’ The words were barely formed.

  ‘I’ll take over here, Françoise.’ It was Madame Odile, cool, unflappable. ‘Well done, Françoise, you’ve turned her over, it’s important that she doesn’t choke.’

  She leant forward and placed one hand on Lilia’s brow, taking her pulse with the other. Then she cupped her fingers around the lean chin, looking hard into the unseeing eyes.

  Claudette stepped back as Madame Odile took Lilia’s hand in hers. She was praying, eyes shut, the words on her lips soundless. There was a loud stillness in the room, no sound in the house. Somewhere very far away the strain of a classical refrain could be heard, a piano being played, but it was from another building in the street. Claudette hesitated at the threshold of the open door. She heard the faintest whisper, it was so quiet it vied against the soft sound of the faraway music.

  ‘Don’t die, don’t die my little one, don’t die, my beautiful sister.’

  Claudette didn’t dare breathe, or move. Madame Odile was whispering softly, then she began to hum a gentle lullaby. Time in the room was suspended, unreal.

  After what seemed an eternity the doctor arrived. He was an old man with pince-nez glasses and a round face. He carried a leather medicine bag and he was wearing his stethoscope over his three-piece suit, as if he’d been interrupted during the examination of a patient. Claudette mutely pointed into the bedroom as first the doctor, then Jacques, rushed through the door. Nannette arrived and Claudette saw her exchange a look with Jacques, covert and with only the slightest of nods between them. She carried on upstairs to floor five.

  Perrine arrived, running headlong up the stairs to say that an ambulance was on the way. Suddenly the room was all activity and orders, but Claudette was staring at Madame Odile, her face drained of colour, standing by the bed. She was crossing herself.

  That evening Claudette was sewing in the kitchen. One of her own woollen stockings was stretched tightly over the darning mushroom as she mended worn patches. The nights were drawing in.

  Madame F was sitting by the fire, her head nodding towards her ample bosom. Jacques was sitting opposite on his old armchair, staring into the fire. Marie was finishing scrubbing pots in the scullery and Perrine was reading. Sunday, and the few precious hours after lunch when they were free of chores, had come to mean a great deal. Claudette was imagining her kitchen at home, her father reading at the table, her mother would be
making greengage compote at this time of year. She missed them very much, but there was no way to make contact, she knew that. Then she thought of Yves and whether or not he had found Giselle and Louis.

  The door at the top of the stairs opened, groaning on its hinges. Then there were footsteps on the stairs, the rhythmic clicking of heels on stone steps. They all turned to look and Jacques scrambled to his feet. It was Madame Odile. She looked older, her face always aloof and unreadable, was edged with strain.

  ‘I simply wanted to say thank you for your help with Lilia. Because you acted so promptly, all of you, she will be fine.’ She coughed. The words that followed were masking her emotions, her self-discipline was walking a tightrope. ‘Thank you all.’ She paused again. ‘I would like you all to take Wednesday afternoon off and I will pay you all double your wages this week.’ She nodded and withdrew, backing away. Then she added: ‘Naturally, this is all absolutely confidential. That, I hope, does not need saying twice.’ With that she was gone.

  ‘Well,’ said an astonished Madame F. ‘When was the last time Madame came down here, what a turn up for the books.’

  ‘Wednesday off and double wages, she must think very highly of Lilia.’ said Perrine. ‘Mind you, she’s always been a favourite.’ Claudette looked from one to another, waiting for someone to point out that Lilia and Madame Odile were sisters.

  ‘Lilia was the first one, the first she recruited,’ said Jacques. ‘She started before I was taken on.’

  ‘Is it true Madame Odile was one too?’ Claudette asked.

  ‘One what?‘

  ‘One of the ladies.’

  ‘Oh yes, she worked at Le Chabanais, it gave her all her ideas for this place,’ replied Madame F.

  ‘And the money to buy it and do it up?’ asked Claudette.

  ‘She inherited it, I think you’ll find, some say she’s a widow.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’ Jacques interjected.