The Last Time I Saw Paris

by Lynn Sheene

  By the next Friday, June 14, the radio said units of the German Sixth Army marched from the north into Paris. It was a quiet morning in the shop, and Madame and Claire froze when they heard a low rumble. They watched people stream toward avenue des Champs-Elysées.

  “What is it?” Claire said, her chest tight.

  Madame Palain just shook her head.

  “I’ll see.” Claire hurried along behind the crowd.

  The sidewalks lining the avenue were filled with people. Claire pushed her way forward into the mass as far as she could. She heard, or more felt, a rhythmic pounding. A collective gasp; a silver-haired man ahead of her cried out. Straining to see, Claire scrambled up on the base of a streetlight. She turned her head toward the Arc de Triomphe.

  A line of Nazi soldiers, as far back as she could see. Led by a horseman, their grey uniforms impeccable, rifles slung over their soldiers. Marching like machines, their hobnailed boots rang out like a massive hammer battering the asphalt street.

  As she watched, a bloodred flag was unfurled from the top of the Arc. At its center, a massive black swastika flapped in the breeze. The man standing near Claire’s feet turned away from the parade, tears streaming down his face. Feeling sick, Claire jumped from the base and headed toward the store.

  “They are here,” Claire said as she entered the shop.

  Madame turned back to her roses. “Bring me the dried greenery from the back. Supplies will be a challenge. You will need to learn how to use more fill to accentuate fresh blossoms.”

  Paris still stood, Claire thought the florist meant. They would outlast this.

  She worked a full day then crawled into bed and cracked open a tattered children’s grammar book Madame had scrounged from Georges. Claire tried out the new words—they all sounded like poetry—until early morning when she slept.

  The French tricolor flag was lowered and the swastika rose all over the city. That Sunday, Claire sat on a high stool in the flower shop, her elbows resting on the long zinc counter as she stared at the large print in the children’s book. Around her, the tin pails that brimmed with flowers the day she arrived were stacked empty against the walls. Only the hardiest blooms now graced the shop. Music crackled from the radio beneath the counter. “Mood Indigo” then “Fleur de Paris.”

  Madame flitted about the shop, busy as ever. Claire knew nothing actually needed to be done. The florist only paused when asked a question or to correct pronunciation.

  “Mon père est un homme d’affaires,” Claire said, face buried in the book. My father is a businessman.

  “No. No.” Madame looked over Claire’s shoulder at the pages. “Mon père. It sounds like you are choking. Encore. Try again.”

  The radio scratched loudly, then went silent. Both women froze, eyes wide. A man broke in, his somber voice old and tinny over the airwaves. Claire could only pick out two words. Coeur, meaning heart, and France.

  The broadcast ended. A tune started up, something solemn. Madame flicked the knob off. She turned away; her slender shoulders trembled.

  Georges barged through the door, his young face a mask of fear and hurt. He rushed around the edge of the counter. “Madame, la France s’est rendu. Maréchal Pétain—”

  The florist gently cupped his shoulders and pulled him in to her. His head rested on her shoulder, great shuddering sobs exploded from his chest.

  “What is rendu?” Claire asked.

  “Surrender. Marshal Pétain has surrendered us.”

  France had fallen.

  Claire shifted on her stool and took Georges’ free hand. His grip was strong, the skin hot. He burned with the emotion they tried not to feel. Madame stroked his hair, her eyes on Claire.

  Claire looked back to the pages of the book. “Mon père est un homme d’affaires.” She carefully butchered the sentence.

  The florist tilted Georges’ face up with a thumb under his chin. She spoke a few emphatic words then shook her head and sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes toward Claire. Understanding dawned on Georges’ face as he stared at the book, then at Claire. His sobs softened to sharp gasps as he gulped air. A trace of smile tracked across his red face.

  “Georges will help you learn to speak, Claire,” Madame said. “I cannot. You are impossible.”

  Chapter 3

  THE CANE

  Avenue Montaigne, Paris. November 27, 1940.

  The wind clawed at Claire’s face as she trudged through the frozen slush coating the sidewalk. The sky was murky, the faint sun shrouded by writhing pewter clouds. A storm brewed sullenly overhead, but it was too cold for snow. Claire felt the bite despite the long wool overcoat, two sweaters, and yesterday’s issue of Le Temps stuffed between each layer of fabric.

  Winter had come early and with malice. It was as if Paris closed the door and shut off the lights. Go home, the city told the occupiers. But Nazis weren’t the ones freezing in their beds.

  A woman passed by, her breath fogging the cold air in front of her. In her arms, a heavy bundle of fabric. The lump startled Claire when it chortled, baby laughter. Claire sighed and tugged up her coat collar around her ears. Somehow life moved on.

  Her shoulder ached from the weight of the cart behind her, clenched fingers numb on the handle. The intersection ahead was avenue Montaigne. Another block to the delivery entrance at Hôtel Emeraude. And warmth. Claire moved faster, taking short strides on the balls of her feet to keep from sliding on the ice-covered cobbles. Instinctively, one hand reached back to test the blanket stretched over the cart’s top. The arrangements she had worked on all morning. Yes, still wrapped up tight like her own newborn babes.

  A man rushed around the corner and smacked full-body into Claire. She fell hard to a knee, wind knocked from her. From the cart, the loud clink of jolted vases. The man scrambled to his feet and scurried away.

  “Merde!” Claire hissed as she stood and steadied the cart before it tipped. She didn’t even want to imagine the flowers, twisted and broken on the cobbles. They would be impossible to replace. She glared back down the street, looking for the rushing man. From her quick impression of a tailored wool coat and the faint scent of woodsy cologne, he didn’t seem like the type to trample a woman and leave. But he was gone. This was not the Paris she had found six months ago.

  Claire glanced down at her faded green coat, a kindness from Madame Palain. Heavy black stockings swathed her legs beneath her long skirt. But then again, maybe it wasn’t the times that kept him from stopping. Perhaps it was her. Sighing, she tucked her scarf carefully into her coat collar and reached for the cart. Too bad she couldn’t have dressed a little more interestingly for Leluc. She would have had a better chance of getting something extra, perhaps a chunk of coal for the stove at home from the hotel’s special supply.

  The wind was stronger on avenue Montaigne, channeled down the wide linear boulevard. Claire pulled her hat lower and squinted against the chill. She blinked and then froze.

  A half block ahead, a black sedan idled at the curb, its muffler smoking. Her heart skipped. Only the Germans had cars. Her gaze swung to the sidewalk next to the car. Soldiers in feldgrau, field grey. The color buried Paris and made the harsh winter even colder.

  Two soldiers stood in front of a man in a worn suit. He was talking earnestly, gesturing with a clenched hand that flashed white. Papers. The Nazis were examining identification papers.

  A sweep.

  A third soldier stepped into view from a doorway. He returned to the car, cigarette in his mouth. His eyes caught hers. An irritated frown and he gestured her toward him, his gloved hand flashing impatiently.

  Her mind raced. She forced herself to start walking, but slowly, a limp forming on one leg. She thought of the passport and visa tucked in the lining of her coat. Useless. After six months in France, the stamps expired two weeks ago. Excuses bubbled into her thoughts. She’d been hurt. The limp, didn’t they notice? But how to explain why she’d never gotten her carte d’identité, the identification card required by t
he Nazis since October?

  The soldier scowled at her progress, he turned and spoke to the others.

  The truth—she couldn’t get the damn card. As Andrew had said long ago, all she had were stamps, she wasn’t on the lists. If she went in to the police, the best she could hope for was to be sent back to the States. Welcomed home with jail time for illegal travel or worse—Russell or one of his goons with a knife. No, she wasn’t going back.

  Hôtel Emeraude loomed on her left, across the wide avenue. Soldiers stood guard at the front entrance beneath a monumental archway, rifles at attention. Her throat tight, she stared at the stone columns that glimmered like a mirage. She raised a shaking hand, forced a cheerful wave at the staring soldier then pointed to the hotel entrance. She stepped onto the street, her ears straining for the thud of boots pounding behind her.

  A shout, but she didn’t dare look back as she tugged the cart onto the sidewalk. She tried a smile for the hotel guards eyeing her approach, but it felt like a grimace. “Blumen,” she said to the nearest guard, displaying the hotel pass made out for La Vie en Fleurs for flower delivery. Picking up a corner of a blanket, she waved at the greenery peeking out as though it were a gift made just for them.

  He flicked his eyes over her then back to the street. A long moment then he nodded, jerking his head toward the door. Claire stole a glance behind her as she climbed the limestone stairs. The soldiers across the street were stuffing the man into the backseat of the car.

  Her legs went weak as she entered the lobby. She gripped the cart and forced herself to examine the hotel’s interior as she pulled herself together. Swags of golden silk hung from windows. Intricate rugs nearly covered the oak parquet floor. Silk upholstered chairs clustered around a glowing marble fireplace. Not bad, but the German officers gathered by the fire ruined the ambience.

  “Madame?” A voice, consternation evident in the tone.

  Claire forced a smile. “Bonjour, Monsieur Leluc.”

  A small man with large glasses peered over the front desk. Leluc’s face was owlish, with wide-open eyes and a surprised expression that never quite went away. He was manager of the hotel, a distinguished position before the war. The precariousness of his position looked to be wearing on him. “The front entrance, Madame?” He shook his head and scurried toward a long hallway. “Come with me, please.”

  Claire peeled off her scarf as she followed him down the corridor. Hôtel Emeraude was balmy compared to most buildings in the city. The German officer residents made sure Leluc had plenty of coal to keep their little pink asses warm. She tried not to notice the men she saw through open doors, bent over desks or staring out at her, cigarettes smoldering in their hands.

  Leluc turned into a cramped room at the corridor’s end. He squeezed past boxes overflowing with papers and behind a large desk wedged into a corner. The room’s one small window was covered with fabric and newspaper to keep out the cold.

  “Yes.” He glanced about his new office, answering Claire’s unspoken question. “But I am lucky.” He sat back in his chair and nodded toward her cart. “Madame Palain sait se débrouiller.” She gets things done. A high compliment. “I don’t know how you have anything in your shop. No one else does.”

  Claire just smiled as she eased wrapped bundles from the cart and set them on his desk one by one. Georges once explained Débrioullard. Le system D. It meant, he told her, to manage the system. And Madame Palain did. For the starved in the occupied zone, every spare patch of dirt was used for raising vegetables, for scratching out any kind of food at all. Flowers couldn’t be eaten. But the petite florist made phone calls, wrote letters. And the flowers came.

  “The service you offer is a reminder of civilization in these dark days. You do not see and hear what I do in this place.”

  Claire unwrapped the arrangements as he spoke, each a study of a few cheery blooms adorned with dried flowers, shining polished twigs and ribbons. All showcased a different color: pink, white, crimson and gold. “Voilà. What do you think, Monsieur?”

  His eyes brightened and a small smile skittered across his face. He hurried around the desk to inspect each one, his face inches from the blooms. “Ah, exquisite. Very elegant.” He straightened; momentary pleasure animated his pudgy cheeks. “Madame Palain has outdone herself. Such liveliness, such joy. I will need a dozen more.”

  Claire smiled with pride.

  He caught her expression. “Was it you? Did you make these?”

  Warmth crept up her neck. These were the first important arrangements Claire created alone. Her own design. She nodded.

  “You have a talent, Madame. A real talent. To create beauty to share in times such as this. It is a gift.”

  The thing of it was—the damned thing—Claire knew he was right. She’d realized it her first week at La Vie en Fleurs. It wasn’t just that each flower’s beauty was amplified in her compositions; it wasn’t only that architectural forms built themselves under her hands. Under Madame’s tutelage in the little flower shop, Claire somehow become inspired—driven. The labor was a challenge, the product ephemeral. But this simple art had become her barricade against the growing darkness.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. Of all the flattery laid on her over the years, this odd little man touched her. “Oh, please, Monsieur, your praise is too much.”

  Leluc blushed and busied himself with unlocking a metal box on his desk. He popped the lid open and counted out bills. With the smallest grin, he added several more to the pile. “For your talent.”

  “Merci.” She kissed his cheek and slipped the money into her coat pocket, smiling as he escorted her out the back entrance.

  The empty cart bounced behind Claire as she nearly skipped along the alley behind the hotel. She squeezed the francs in her pocket. Her mouth watered. Without proper identification, she couldn’t get a ration card. Without a card, she couldn’t legally buy food. Georges was sweet and slipped her what he could from the store. Madame Palain brought breakfast and sometimes dinner too, but Claire knew Madame was making a great sacrifice. She doubted either ate much when they weren’t sharing a meal. They both had lost more weight than they could spare, and the worst of winter lay ahead. This would buy food for them both. A demi-kilo of black-market butter. A chicken, perhaps. If she had enough, potatoes. She would need cooking fuel, as well.

  She paused, a careful glance on avenue Montaigne. No cars, no sweeps, but a line had formed in front of the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées for an early show. An afternoon’s warm diversion for a lucky few. Claire turned onto the sidewalk, adding up the dinner’s costs in her head for an evening’s diversion for herself and Madame.

  The strong whiff of chocolate and warm pastries stopped her in her tracks. A café, Claire saw as she turned, displaying dessert in a large window. She paused next to the doorway, letting her gaze wander over the tables inside while she knocked the icy muck off her shoes. There were white tablecloths, real china. Rows of pastries, fruit. Judging by the location, maybe even real coffee. It was warmer next to the door; a couple of men bundled in worn coats leaned against the wall nearby, pilfering the faint heat. Claire riffled the bills in her pocket.

  Just inside the café’s doorway, an elderly Frenchman tugged a heavy wool coat over bent shoulders. He noted Claire’s desiring expression through the window and glanced down at the chocolates. A small smile, then he pursed thin lips and shook his head, as if such sweets were too decadent, not to be tasted. He pulled on a thick fur hat, tipped it at Claire and reached a frail hand for a cane.

  In the window’s reflection, Claire watched a party of German SS officers leave the Hôtel Emeraude. Their heavy jackboots cracked against the icy sidewalk as they marched toward the café. An officer, high ranking by the insignias on his jacket, paused behind her. His eyes flicked over her from muffled head to foot, dismissed her as nothing.

  The café door opened, the Frenchman set the foot of his cane onto the sidewalk before him, as if testing his next stride. The officer
didn’t spare the man a glance and shouldered into him. The cane slid in between the Nazi’s striding legs and tangled. He stumbled, windmilling his arms to catch his balance as he slid over the icy walkway and landed hard on his back.

  Movement on the street froze. The soldiers guarding the hotel entrance, the men loitering in front of the restaurant, the people passing by. Even the chatter from inside the restaurant was silenced as if a switch was turned off. The old man’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth dropped open. The Nazi lunged to his feet, brushing at the filthy slush soaking his uniform.

  In one motion, the officer pulled a pistol from inside his jacket and fired a bullet into the old man’s chest.

  The frail body flew backward; the door shook against the hinges with the force of the blow. The fur hat skittered across the sidewalk as the man collapsed onto the cobbles. Blood turned the grey slush under him into a dirty copper brown. Kicking at the hat, the officer led the men into the café.

  Claire released the handle of her cart and leaped forward. Attendez, wait, someone called behind her. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Dropping to her knees, Claire peeled off her scarf and pressed it against the wound.