by Jan Moran
“I do.” He cleared his throat. “It’s about the accident.”
“What more is there to say?” Danielle’s words tasted bitter in her mouth. “It’s over. Nothing can bring them back.”
“Your brother set the bomb.”
Danielle’s mouth opened, and at first, no words came out. Had her uncle gone mad? “That’s preposterous.”
“You knew Jean-Claude was working for the underground.”
Danielle gasped. “But, but how did you know?”
“I recruited him.”
Danielle slumped in her saddle. “No, Philippe, don’t tell me you are behind this.”
“I want you to know what happened, the reason behind it, and why Jean-Claude took his life.”
“Does it matter now?”
“Someday it will matter to Liliana, and you must tell her that her parents died for a noble cause.” He touched Danielle on the shoulder. “I share your pain, Danielle. Their blood is on my hands. If I have the courage to live with this, then you must have the courage to listen and try to understand.”
Danielle steadied her horse. “Go on.”
Philippe went on to tell her how fervent Jean-Claude’s beliefs had been, how he had helped hundreds of refugees to safety, and how he had developed a specialty in explosives. “He was quite good with his hands.”
Danielle nodded sadly. “He would have made a fine surgeon. He always wanted to save lives.”
“Yes, and he succeeded. He saved many lives, Danielle. Unfortunately, his last mission went awry. Françoise, his partner, gave me the details. Your parents and Hélène were not supposed to have been in that car. The target was LeBlanc and another board member. They succeeded with LeBlanc, and it has crippled the flow of funds into fascist coffers. Jean-Claude accomplished part of his mission.” Philippe’s eyes grew moist. “But he could not live with the knowledge of what he had done to Hélène, Marie, and Edouard.”
“Why do you tell me this now, Philippe?”
“Because Françoise wanted to meet you and give you her condolences in person.” He motioned beyond them on the path. An attractive woman with short henna-red hair stepped from the bushes and walked toward them.
“You’re Françoise?” Danielle’s tone was clipped.
She nodded. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. Your brother and I often worked together, and he never would have endangered your family. He was a careful man. A man of high principles.” Tears swelled in her eyes. “We all miss him. I just wanted you to know that if you need my help, I’m here.”
“Françoise arranged your traveling documents to Poland,” Philippe said. “And arranged your passage here.”
“Come closer.” Danielle’s voice softened and she reached down to shake her hand. “Then you have already helped me. And thank you for the warning yesterday.” She turned to Philippe. “You’re both to be commended. You’re quite brave. Are there many of you?”
“Quite a few,” Philippe said. “But we always need more people, more money, and more arms.” His steady gaze held Danielle’s. “We must all fight this war, Danielle, each of us in our own way. My place is here. What do the Nazis want with an old perfumer in the country? They have no immediate plans to occupy the south of France. We can endure the Vichy government. We can help people get out of France through Marseilles, Toulon, and maybe Portugal. We’ll weaken their forces. And eventually, reclaim our country.”
Danielle asked, “Do you really think you’ll be successful?”
Françoise spoke quietly. “We succeed one person at a time. We are committed to freedom, as was your brother.”
“Well, he’s free now, isn’t he?” Danielle bit her lip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. First my husband and my son, then my family. And my mother–—I fear she’s not long for this world, either. All I have now is my daughter and my niece....” Her voice trailed off and she frowned, her gaze transfixed on the neat rows of flowers that stretched beneath them toward the horizon.
Suddenly, her path was clear, and she knew what she needed to do. It is time now. Danielle lifted her chin and straightened in her saddle.
“I have seen the destruction in Poland,” she continued. “I have seen villages destroyed and innocent people murdered. I can only imagine that it is the same in Holland and Belgium and elsewhere. And I refuse to remain on this God-forsaken continent, to be terrorized by Hitler’s racist regime. I’m moving to America, for my girls and my sanity. For our freedom. Still, I am one of you,” she added, her resolve hardening with determination. “I shall never forget you, and I promise that one day, I, too, will aid the Resistance.”
Philippe smiled at her. “Bravo, I believe you will. Now, about getting you out of France. We have an idea.”
* * *
The next evening, under the cloak of midnight, Danielle, along with her mother and the girls, boarded a fishing vessel in Marseilles bound for Lisbon. When they reached Portugal, Danielle followed Philippe’s directions and found a ship sailing for New York. She paid an enormous price to book passage for the four of them. Philippe had given her some money, and she had taken her mother’s jewelry from Paris, but Danielle knew their funds wouldn’t last long.
Danielle stood by the rail at the bow of the ship, holding Liliana’s hand and Jasmin in her other arm. Marie sat behind them, rocking, a vague expression on her face and a blanket around her shoulders. Danielle tried to shake the trepidation she had about their crossing, and her horrible memories from the year before.
The sea churned under turbulent skies as the great ship cast off. The wind howled and whipped her hair wildly about her shoulders. Danielle braced herself against the elements, her expression resolute. As a sharp prick of salty spray spattered across her brow, she thought of Max and Jon, and her feelings for both of them, then recalled the vow she had made to Philippe and Françoise.
And as she did, she thought of Heinrich and his heinous crimes of war. She thought of her family, of the loved ones she had lost. They were casualties of war, all of them. She glanced at her mother and the girls. Especially the living.
But I will never concede defeat.
She lifted her chin to the wind, the damp teakwood and salty algae smell of the sea filling her mind with exhilarating possibilities.
Part II
America
16
Danielle stood in the middle of a squalid one-room apartment near downtown Los Angeles. The rank smell of rancid grease and human feces hung in the air. She wrinkled her nose. Fried food and diapers, Danielle thought, pinpointing the aromas. Only the price of the room was right.
She remembered the French francs she’d exchanged that morning, and how few U.S. dollars she’d received in return. She swallowed her pride and turned to the landlord of the Bradley Arms building. “It will do.”
The landlord chomped on a cheap-smelling cigar and held out a beefy hand. “Cash,” he said in a loud voice. “In real money, American. The green stuff.”
Does he think I’m an idiot just because I have an accent? She opened her purse, counted the bills, and handed him the exact change.
He raised his bushy brows, scratched his belly through his undershirt, and counted the money out loud. “The rent is due weekly, paid in advance.” He raised his voice again. “If you’re more’n one day late, you’re out. Understand?”
“Perfectly.” And does he think I can’t understand English unless spoken at high volume? She held out her gloved hand. “May I have the key please?”
He fished into his pocket and produced two grimy keys. A smirk spread across his face as he handed her a key. “I’ll keep the other one.”
“Fine.” Danielle sniffed. Note, change the lock. She dropped the key in her purse and snapped it shut. “That will be all, thank you.”
The landlord shuffled out the door, muttering to himself.
Danielle let out a sigh of relief and bolted the door after him. She removed her black felt beret, peeled off her wh
ite cotton gloves, and rolled up the sleeves of her black and white checked cotton blouse. “A good cleaning and airing is all this place needs,” she said to herself, though she had her doubts.
She forced open a warped window. The sounds and smells of the busy street two floors below wafted in. A cacophony of foreign languages rose on the wind, some Asian, some Eastern European. Pungent spices Danielle recognized as dominant in Indian and Mexican cooking punctuated the breeze as it lifted the faded gingham curtains from the wooden sill.
She had chosen this room because it was relatively spacious and could accommodate all of them. The space wasn’t an apartment really, but a large single room. Sparsely furnished, it contained only the bare necessities: a bureau, three lumpy beds, and four rickety chairs. A single sink and an old icebox were all that marked one corner as the kitchen.
She found a rusted can of soap powder in a cabinet. Tackling the sink first, she scrubbed until the battered porcelain approached an acceptable shade of white. She fashioned a kitchenette in the corner behind a screen, with a table that would double for food preparation and dining.
At last, she surveyed her handiwork with grim determination. It’s not much, but it will have to do, she thought.
* * *
“Here we are.” Danielle stepped out of Abigail’s Packard automobile in front of the Bradley Arms building. She peered up. The eaves were peeling, the white brick dirty. A radio blared from an open window. With little Jasmin in her arms, and Liliana and Marie trailing her, she started up the steps.
Abigail’s mouth dropped open. “Danielle, you can’t be serious. You can’t live here.”
Danielle’s neck grew warm and she swung around, acutely embarrassed. “It’s what we can afford for now.”
“Good Lord, had I known—”
“Abigail, please. We’ll be fine.” Danielle reached for the front door and went in. “Our room is on the second floor.” The carpet underfoot was threadbare, the banister rickety, the walls smudged with hundreds of dirty handprints. Danielle shuddered. “Liliana, don’t touch anything.”
Abigail took a bundle of sheets and towels and pillows that she no longer needed from the car and picked her way up the stairs.
Danielle swung open the door to their room. “This is it, our new home.”
Liliana sniffed and made a face. “What’s that smell?”
Danielle hurried to open the window. “We’ll take care of that odor soon enough.”
“I should hope so,” Abigail said. She glanced behind her. “Danielle, where’s Marie going?”
“Mon Dieu!” Danielle whisked past Abigail into the hallway, Jasmin still in her arms. Her mother had taken to wandering away on board the ship. “Maman, Maman?” She spotted her at the end of the hall. “Maman, come this way, this is our room.”
Marie turned slowly, her eyes vacant, her hair in disarray. Danielle grabbed her by the arm and led her back into their room to the bed. “Here, sit down and rest. I’ll make a nice cup of tea for you.”
Marie made no reply.
Abigail put down her bundle and reached for the baby, a wistful look crossing her face. “I’ll take Jasmin while you see to your mother.”
“Thanks, Abigail. Have a seat, I’ll make tea. There’s a kettle here somewhere.” Danielle bit her lip and bent to search through the cabinet. Extracting the kettle, she filled it with water and put it on the hotplate.
Abigail sat at the table, her expression sympathetic. Liliana scrambled onto a chair next to her. “Danielle, I wish you’d let me help you. Jon said to make sure you were comfortable. Why, this place—”
“This will be fine, Abigail. I don’t want to talk about it.” And she didn’t want to talk about Jon. She felt so conflicted about what she felt for him, while she was still grieving for Max, and now, for her family. Danielle turned from the hotplate and her heart sank. She’d snapped at Abigail, who was only trying to help. But after three days at Abigail’s small, though posh home in Beverly Hills, she knew she’d have to find other lodging. “Forgive me, Abigail.”
Abigail waved her hand. “You’ve had a long journey, Danielle. Crossing the Atlantic, the train across the states, moving your family. I know it hasn’t been easy. If it’s money you need, I can help.”
“No, I can manage, thank you.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Danielle was sorry. She sounded just like Max. Charity, that’s what he had called people’s kind-hearted attempts to help them. A rush of guilt tore through her. Now she understood how Max had felt.
The pot began to whistle. Danielle removed it from the hotplate, measured out tea, then poured boiling water into chipped cups she’d found in the cabinet. She sat down, glad to be off her feet. Abigail was right, the journey had been exhausting. But I’ve no time to rest. Her funds were running out fast. And I certainly can’t afford the luxury of pride. Reaching across the table, she touched Abigail’s hand. “Maybe you can help me find a job.”
Abigail’s eyes lit up. “As a matter of fact, I spoke to a friend, Clara, who owns an exclusive boutique on Wilshire Boulevard. All the celebrities shop at Clara’s.” She blushed. “And she’s expecting you tomorrow.”
* * *
The next morning Danielle awoke with the sun. She bathed and dressed in a brown tweed suit the London Women’s Society had given her. For a moment, she wished she had brought some of her mother’s chic couture clothes from Lanvin and Lucien Lelong, but they’d left Paris so quickly that all she’d had time to take was her jewelry. She dismissed the thought, thankful they’d managed to escape at all. She trailed a fresh floral perfume she’d created along her neck and wrists, honeysuckle and freesia with a touch of bergamot, she thought quickly, then hurried to prepare her family for the day.
She made breakfast, and Liliana helped her feed Jasmin. Liliana had celebrated her fifth birthday on board the ship. She had proven herself a calm, capable helpmate during their arduous journey.
“Make sure your grand-mère doesn’t leave the apartment, Liliana.” Danielle glanced at her mother, who sat smiling vaguely at her over a cup of coffee. She handed Liliana a piece of paper. “Here is our address, and the phone number of where I’ll be. You must keep it with you at all times.”
Liliana nodded and Danielle’s heart lurched. At that, there was a knock on the door.
Danielle opened it to a petite Mexican woman in a brightly embroidered cotton dress, which Danielle instantly admired for its detailed handiwork. Her dark hair gleamed in a tight glossy bun, and the most delicious aroma of roasted peppers and maize surrounded her like an exotic culinary aura. “I hope I’m not too late,” the woman said with a warm smile. “I had to get my children off to school.”
“You’re just in time, Anna.” She had met the woman yesterday, and had instantly liked her. The woman had agreed to look after her mother and the girls while she was out. After all, she thought wistfully, Maman is in no condition to be left alone. I hope she’ll be better after we’re settled.
As Danielle opened the door to leave, Marie called out to her. “Are you and Jean-Claude going to school, Danielle?”
Danielle sighed in resignation and gave Liliana a sad smile. “Yes, Maman. I’ll be back soon. You must not go out today. You need to stay home with Anna and rest.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine,” Anna said.
Danielle checked Jasmin’s diaper once more, then gave Liliana a hug. “You’re my big girl, I’m counting on you.”
Half an hour later, Danielle stepped off the bus outside of Clara’s boutique. Although she had worked in her family’s business, she had never applied for a job. Her heart beat so loudly she feared Clara would hear it, too. She opened the heavy, beveled glass door to the shop.
A smile spread across her face. Abigail had mentioned that Clara had once lived in Paris. And it’s quite evident, Danielle thought, feeling very much at home. The shop was a replica of a fine Parisian boutique, from the Savonnerie rugs and crystal chandeliers, to the Louis XV marquetry reception desk
. Extravagant clothes and precious accessories were displayed like fine art.
Clara appeared at the top of the curved staircase. “Bonjour.”
Danielle stared, momentarily awestruck.
Clara was tall and tanned. Her platinum hair curved over one eye, and fell in soft waves to her shoulders. She commanded the room, her gold bracelets clinking with each step. She moved with assurance and vitality. Amethyst chandelier earrings sparkled against her neck, and a silk jacquard scarf was draped across one shoulder, the long fringe trailing the stairs. “You must be Danielle,” she said, as she descended the stair.
Feeling self-conscious, Danielle glanced in the mirror. Her tweed suit was hopelessly outdated. Her dyed brown hair lacked luster, and her face, devoid of makeup, was alarmingly pale. She looked up at Clara, certain she had heard the glamorous woman make a small clucking noise under her breath.
Danielle stood tall and lifted her chin, determined to show herself well and prove herself worthy. She met Clara’s eyes in the mirror. And then Danielle saw Clara glance at her brilliant emerald and diamond wedding ring, which she still wore on her left hand. Clara cleared the last step and held out a manicured hand in greeting, a smile curving her lips.
“Bonjour,” Danielle said, shaking her hand.
They spoke a little, first in French, then in English. Clara seemed surprised. “You speak English beautifully,” she said to Danielle. “And I love the perfume you’re wearing.”
“Thank you, it’s one I’ve made.”
“Abigail told me you were a perfumer.”
They continued talking, and in a brisk, businesslike manner, Clara outlined the hours, work, and wages. “I’ll give you a try, but first, you must see Esmeralda, my head seamstress. She’ll have something for you to wear.”
“But I’m sure I have–”
“No, you don’t.” Clara looked at her directly in the eyes, and Danielle felt herself blush. “And I’m sure you wore your best outfit to interview today. Just follow me.”
Clara burst through a set of rear double doors. She introduced her to Esmeralda and spoke Spanish to the stout Mexican woman. Clara turned to Danielle. “Be here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”
