by Jan Moran
She noticed an elegant woman attired in a couture suit, layers of pearls, and a chic black hat. It was Mademoiselle Chanel, who was known as Coco, the couturière who lived at the Ritz near her rue Cambon atelier, which was now closed. She sucked in her breath. Marie knew her quite well. Did she dare approach her? Averting her face, she decided she would wait as she’d been told.
Suddenly a man brushed past her, his hat pulled low over his eyes. “Follow me,” he said in a low voice.
After a brief backward glance at the Ritz, she began to follow him at a distance. He darted into an alley beside a brasserie, and motioned for her.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” he said, his accent that of an aristocrat.
“Who are you and where are my parents?”
Instead of answering her, the man withdrew a handful of letters from his jacket, with the address of her brother clipped to the top. “The concierge, a friend of your parents, managed to keep these for you.”
“Where are they?” she demanded, concern rising in her voice.
Evading her question again, he motioned to a delivery truck that had slowed to an idle at the end of the alley. “Get in the truck, and you will be transported safely.”
“Where?”
A shadow of sadness crossed his face. “To your family, at your brother’s apartment, but you must hurry.”
Danielle kissed him on both cheeks, then turned and walked briskly to the truck. The door opened for her, she climbed in, and the young man behind the wheel gave her a sharp nod. “Better we don’t talk,” he mumbled, looking away from her.
Danielle glanced at the letters. One was from Abigail, another from Cameron, and two from Jon, all received before Paris had been occupied. Jon had written, just as he had promised. His first letter was confident, but in his second letter he wrote that one of his close friends had been killed and he had written to the parents. What do you say? he wrote, What can you possibly say to ease their pain?
Next she opened Abigail’s letter. She had returned to Los Angeles, and wrote in detail about her charity work. Cameron’s letter held a few words of sympathy for Max, and congratulations on Jasmin’s birth. Danielle smiled at his thoughtfulness.
As they drove, she heard shouts in German from the street outside. How strange it was to hear this in Paris.
She was so anxious to hold Jasmin and to see her parents. A rush of raw emotion engulfed her as memories of Nicky and Sofia and Max flooded her mind. Rubbing her throbbing temples, she closed her eyes, thankful to be so close to the comfort of her parents and Jean-Claude, even though Paris was occupied, even though she dreaded what that occupation meant.
Upon arriving at her brother’s building, she walked upstairs to her brother’s flat, where the door swung open. A neighbor greeted her, a Spanish nurse name Christina. “Danielle? Why, your hair is so dark, I almost didn’t recognize you. Come in,” she said, embracing her.
Danielle returned her embrace. Glancing over Christina’s shoulder, she noticed the apartment was brimming with flowers. A special celebration, perhaps. “Where is everyone?” Christina often watched Liliana when Jean-Claude and Hélène went out.
Christina lifted her hand to her mouth and stared at her.
Danielle put her bag down and shrugged out of her jacket. “Where is Jasmin?”
Christina hesitated. “In Liliana’s room.”
“Good, I’ve got to see her.” Danielle hurried through the hallway and pushed the bedroom door open.
Jasmin was sleeping in Liliana’s old bassinet. Relief surged through her. My baby is safe. She stroked Jasmin’s fine hair and bent to kiss her smooth cheek. She smelled like sweet milk, and Danielle smiled sadly her. She would never know her brother or her father.
Danielle tiptoed out and closed the door. She walked through the hallway, passing the small kitchen. Flower arrangements were everywhere, even by the sink. Everything seems so odd, she thought, massaging her temples. Or is it just me?
Danielle sat on the sofa and Christina joined her, placing two etched crystal glasses and a bottle of sherry on the table before them. “I thought you might like a drink,” said Christina. “Are you hungry?”
Danielle shook her head. “No, just tired. Sherry would be nice, though. Why all the flowers, Christina? Good Lord, there are so many irises it looks as if someone–” Danielle stopped. Died, she started to say. “Did Maman and Papa have a party?”
Christina poured the sherry, then handed a glass to Danielle. “Then, you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Christina spilled the sherry as she lifted it to her lips. “Weren’t you with your uncle in Grasse?”
“Why?”
Christina looked distressed. “Didn’t you receive my telegram?”
“No, I must have just missed it.”
“And you haven’t seen the newspapers?”
“No. Christina, what’s wrong?” Blood drained from her face and her hands suddenly went cold. Irises. The floral arrangements were full of irises.
Christina drained her glass. “Dios mio, you’d better drink your sherry. It’s about your family,” she began, grasping Danielle’s hand. She spoke gently, explaining that there had been an accident, a car explosion, on the day that Marie and Hélène had met her father for lunch for his birthday.
Danielle sat stunned. The words washed over her and an eerie calm set in. She grew cold, and it seemed as if her soul had separated from her body, as if she were watching herself through a shadowy haze in a horrible play. She drained her sherry and swallowed hard. Suddenly, the scent of flowers overwhelmed her with the putrid stench of sympathy. Irises. Funeral flowers.
Christina took a drink of sherry. “The police deduced that the bomb had been intended for your father’s partner, Louis LeBlanc, a Nazi sympathizer.”
Danielle winced and gripped the arm of the sofa.
“Your father and Hélène were killed immediately.”
Danielle gasped as a sharp, vise-like pain seized her chest. No, no, no! she screamed in her mind. “And my mother?”
“Your mother survived, gracias a Dios. It was a miracle. She is in the bedroom resting, though she is not, how do I say? She is not really with us, the shock was too much for her.”
The room swirled around, closing in on her. Danielle gasped, gagging on the stench of rotting flowers. Irises: the flower of condolences, the flower of the dead. Her mind was a rushing torment of emotion. A clock ticked in the kitchen, yet with each passing minute, her life, and those whom she loved, ebbed away. Where would it all end?
Christina poured another glass of sherry. Danielle pressed it to her lips, her hands shaking.
“I’m sorry, Danielle, but there’s more I must tell you,” Christina said. “When your mother was in the hospital recovering, I asked to be assigned to her. The day after the accident, Jean-Claude appeared at the hospital with Liliana and Jasmin. He looked half-crazed,” she said, her eyes widening. “He visited with your mother, then begged me to look after the girls, saying he had something urgent to attend to.”
Christina shook her head, her distress escalating. “Jean-Claude had returned to the apartment, and left a note asking us to care for Marie and the girls until you returned. He told us you were ill and couldn’t travel. He said if you hadn’t returned by the end of the month to wire your uncle Philippe.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” Danielle covered her face with her hands. “Christina, where is Jean-Claude?”
Christina wrung her hands as she spoke, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry to tell you this,” she sobbed. “We found him in the basement. He put a bullet through his head.”
“Suicide?” The word tasted strange on her tongue.
“He left a letter for you,” Christina added, motioning toward a stack of envelopes on the étagère. “Jean-Claude made the burial arrangements for your father and Hélène before he took his life. There’s also a letter marked ‘Urgent.’ It just came for you, hand-delivered.”
&nb
sp; Danielle fought the urge to scream, to snatch Jasmin and race from the flat. But where could I run? Instead, she rubbed her forehead and tried to think clearly. “Maman, my poor dear maman. I wish I’d been here with her.”
“Amazingly, her injuries were minor.” Christina pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed her eyes. “But she’s under sedation, Danielle. I’m afraid the natural defenses of the mind have taken over. She seems oblivious to the tragedy. Most of the time she’s quiet, but occasionally she chatters pleasantly about you and Jean-Claude, or new decorations for the house. In time, she might recover, but it’s hard to predict the outcome for patients after they’ve had a nervous breakdown.”
Danielle nodded, struggling to assimilate the details. She stood and crossed to the window, peering out at the street below. She felt disembodied, as if she were watching the scene in the apartment unfold from a perch high overhead. How could it be?
She blinked back hot tears. First Max, then Nicky and Sofia. Now her father, and Jean-Claude and Hélène. Malheur ne vient jamais seul. Misfortune never comes alone. Did God have no mercy? She heaved a great sigh. But what was done, was done. She couldn’t bring them back. She had no time to cry now. Not anymore. She had the girls to think about. And her mother. Somehow, she found her voice. “Can my mother be cared for at home?” she asked.
Christina nodded.
“Can she travel?”
“I think so.”
Danielle chewed her lip. “And how is Liliana?”
“Pobrecita. She needs you, poor little one. She suffers from melancholia. But she’s young, she’ll recover with your love.”
“As soon as I can, I’m taking them to Grasse.” Danielle glanced around the flat. “I assume there is much to do here.”
“Not really. Jean-Claude mentioned that your parents’ house has already been foreclosed upon by your father’s bank, and that your uncle will handle the remainder of the estate.”
“Of course.” Danielle leaned against the wall, gazing outside the window. The smell of irises was nauseating.
Christine stood. “I really must go. Will you be all right?”
Danielle shook her head. “But thank you for looking after my baby.” Danielle lifted the window sash to air the room. She gulped a breath of air. “Actually, I’ll be better as soon as I get rid of these damned flowers,” she muttered to herself.
After Christina had gone, Danielle picked up the letters. She recognized Jean-Claude’s hasty scrawl and opened his letter.
My dear Danielle, it began. Forgive me, but I cannot live with what I have done. It was a horrible accident, and I was responsible. Philippe will tell you everything. Please look after Liliana for me, and let her know I will always love her. As I do you, my dear sister. May God bless and protect you, Jean-Claude.
His words didn’t make sense to her. How could he have been responsible for the accident? Danielle choked and wiped her eyes. She thumbed through the rest of the letters, mostly from friends of her parents. One was marked Urgent. She remembered Christina had said it had just arrived. She tore it open.
You don’t know me, but I was a friend of your brother.
Danielle sat down.
If you see F.W., tell her someone is looking for her in Paris. She must leave the city without delay. The letter was signed: Françoise.
F.W., Frau Werner. Panic seized her throat. The Nazis were on her trail.
Danielle picked up Jean-Claude’s letter and read it again. Philippe will tell you everything. Is he involved in the Resistance, too? she wondered. And who is Françoise? Danielle’s mind swirled with questions.
But she knew one thing. The Nazis had traced her. Courtesy of Heinrich, no doubt. She prayed that Oscar had been spared.
She glanced at the letter again. We must leave now. Tonight.
But she knew it would be a simple matter of time before she was traced to Grasse. Where could they go? Her head pounded with terror. The Nazis might be watching her even now. She stood and backed away from the window.
Suddenly she remembered Abigail’s letter. She snatched her purse and rifled through it. She ripped open Abigail’s letter and scanned it, taking note of her address. Abigail had once offered to help them if they ever came to America.
That was it, Danielle decided. She’d find a way to go to America, and then to Los Angeles. But how? She bit her lip and thought. Philippe. Somehow, he was involved. Perhaps he could help. Danielle glanced at her bag, still sitting by the front door. If they hurried, they could make the last train.
Danielle strode to the window. There, in the street below, stood young, skinny German soldiers in their green uniforms, shouldering guns. The haricots verts, the French disparagingly called them. The string beans. Were they waiting for her? She yanked the curtains shut.
Danielle hurried to the master bedroom and opened the door. Her mother and Liliana lay sleeping on the bed. Her mother’s hair, normally in a neat coiffure, lay tangled on the pillow; her face had a greyish pallor and looked drawn and lined. Danielle sighed; she hardly recognized Marie.
Liliana stirred. On silent feet, the waif-like four-year-old scrambled off the bed and ran to Danielle. Marie didn’t move.
“Shhh,” Danielle said, and guided Liliana down the hallway to the sitting room.
Liliana hugged her tightly. “My maman and papa went away and they aren’t coming back. Will you be my maman now?” Liliana asked. Her vivid green Bretancourt eyes, the mirror image of Danielle’s, were wide and desperate.
“Of course,” Danielle whispered, smoothing the little girl’s soft blond hair, but the words caught in her throat. She kissed Liliana on the forehead. “You and Jasmin will be my girls, and I’ll take good care of you. First we’ll go to Grasse to see Uncle Philippe, and then we’ll all go to America. Would you like that?”
“If...if you want to.”
“Indeed I do, and you’ll like it, too, once we’re settled. We’ll be safe there, we’ll go to a city called Los Angeles.” She thought of Abigail and Cameron. “I have friends there.”
“Los Angeles,” Liliana repeated. “The angels, like Christina says in Spanish. Is it like heaven? Maman and Papa are in heaven now.” She looked down at her bare feet. “I miss them.”
“We all do. But now we have to make our own little heaven on earth.” Danielle squeezed her eyes shut and hugged her niece. “Liliana, I need your help now. I need you to help me with my mother and Jasmin. You’ll have to be a big girl now. Can you do that? Will you help me?”
Liliana nodded, her face pale and serious.
“Good. There’s no reason why we have to stay here any longer, and it will be so nice to see Uncle Philippe. In fact, they’re harvesting on the farm and you can watch. I thought we’d all go tonight.”
“Tonight? All of us?”
“We’re a family now, Liliana.” Danielle hugged her again. “And I’ll never, never leave you alone.”
When she opened the front door to leave, she saw a note pinned to it. Go to the rear entrance. Danielle quickly herded the girls and Marie down the stairs, where the young boy in the delivery truck met them.
“We’re taking the train,” she began to say.
“You can’t. But I have permission for deliveries to and from Paris.” He motioned for them to squeeze into a shallow hidden compartment. They climbed in, not another word was spoken.
* * *
Early the next morning, Danielle walked into the kitchen and found Philippe at his table drinking coffee.
“I didn’t expect you to be up so early,” he said. “You arrived so late last night, I thought you’d need more rest.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, pouring coffee for herself. She turned to her uncle. “I heard you on your short-wave radio last night.”
He shrugged. “Just a hobby.”
“You were speaking to Paris and Marseilles.”
Philippe raised his eyes to her. “Danielle, we need to talk, and I’d rather not do it here. I called my midw
ife friend, the one who delivered Jasmin. She’s upstairs with Liliana now. She can look after the girls and Marie for a while. I thought we could saddle the horses, take a ride, and speak privately along the way, just like we used to do. Some of your old riding gear is still in your closet. Are you feeling up for it?”
Danielle lifted a brow, and glanced questioningly at him, but knowing her uncle, she replied, “I’ll change right away.”
“Good. I need to check on the receipt of raw material—sandalwood oil—from India. Afterwards, we can look over the fields.”
Minutes later, Danielle came downstairs wearing her old beige riding pants, tall black leather boots, and a black jacket. “I’m ready, Philippe.”
He rose and put his hands on her shoulders. “Good. I know that you are.”
The summer morning shone clear and bright, and as they rode, they talked as they surveyed fields of rose, lavender, and tuberose, the fresh aromas caressing the morning air.
Philippe pulled on the reins of his old bay gelding. “Let’s stop here,” he called to Danielle.
Danielle slowed her dappled grey horse to a trot. They came to a stop on a knoll above the farm and the chateau.
Philippe stroked his horse’s mane. “I wish you could stay for the jasmine harvest.”
Danielle shook her head. “We’ve got to leave. I’m determined to take my family, or what remains of it, as far from Europe as possible. If only you’d come with us.”
“Before harvest is complete? You know better than that, Danielle.”
She frowned. “You’re just like Max, putting business before family. Look where it got us.”
“That was different, Danielle,” Philippe said quietly. “I must stay here.”
Danielle whirled in her saddle. “Why, Philippe? What is it that binds you so to this land that you’d risk your life for it?”
Philippe looked at her. “You’re angry, and that’s good. Anger will give you the strength you need.”
“Philippe, you know I haven’t much time. Jean-Claude left me a letter. He said that you had something to tell me.”
