by Lynn Sheene
Claire smiled at him, tilted her head to the side and let her hair fall back from her face. “Pardon.”
His eyes flickered in surprise and he smiled back, the face of a man too young to expect attention and too inexperienced to doubt it.
She glanced at the table next to him. Two bored soldiers sat in metal chairs; they rummaged through a suitcase open between them. One held a shirt crumpled in his fist, his other hand deep in the suitcase. His partner smoked a cigarette, only half watching the contents get tumbled about. A tired traveler in a rumpled suit stood in front of them. His face was red and lips puffed out indignantly, but his rigid posture exposed his fear.
The soldier at her side spoke to the seated men. Both looked back to her, a smile hidden behind their lips. Claire turned and walked slowly toward the tracks, swinging her hips as she unbuttoned her coat. She paused on the platform marked Lyon, next to the empty tracks. She shrugged the coat off her shoulders and glanced back. All three soldiers stared at her. Well, if she had to be noticed, at least they liked what they saw. All she had to do was drop the flowers in front of the soldiers on her way out and show them some skin, and this Christophe had a free ride. She smiled. Odette had picked the perfect woman for the job.
She looked down at the bouquet cupped in her hands. Ranunculus. She knew it as a buttercup, when she was young. Given to another, it meant I am dazzled by your charms. Come to find out, a perfect choice for the day.
As she leaned back against a bench and applied her lipstick, a train pulled into the station one platform down. Montpellier snapped up on the board. SS soldiers strode out from an invisible doorway behind her. A dozen or more spread out into the crowd. They surrounded the platform, their faces masks, bodies poised like blades. Silently, they watched each person disembark and thread past them. Claire glanced back to the Wehrmacht soldiers who gripped their guns and stood. They weren’t expecting this visit.
Claire adjusted the bouquet in her hands. She glanced back down the stairwell. The exit was clear. She could walk away.
But she didn’t.
She knew how much the SS had been told. They were in the station because they expected a threat from the south. The fact that they are standing at the other platform proved they still don’t know which train and they didn’t know who.
Claire watched the SS scrutinize each passenger. A captain stood back a few steps, his eyes darted from person to person, face expressionless. He watched a businessman in a faded blue suit carrying a briefcase, his head down, walking too fast. The captain nodded his head. With military precision, two soldiers closed the gap between them, leaving the man pinched in the middle. Each grabbed an arm and marched, half dragging him between them, toward the door. A third soldier grabbed the abandoned luggage and strode along behind the others, stepping over a lone black shoe.
Claire turned her head away, her stomach queasy. He probably wasn’t going to get a chance to miss that loafer. Remaining passengers hurried by, avoiding the eyes of the SS. A small girl stopped to pick up the lost shoe. Her mother jerked her arm and scurried away.
With the tilt of his head, the captain indicated another man. Two more soldiers moved. She heard the man pleading as he was hauled away. I have Ausweis. I have papers.
Claire looked down at the flowers in her lap. The petals trembled. Why the hell was she in the middle of a SS raid? She forced her eyes back to the captain. What was he looking for? Men traveling alone? People without obvious reasons for arriving in Paris?
The train from Lyon rumbled in the station. The remaining soldiers regrouped on her platform, spread out in a semicircle facing the train. They were a step in front of her; she smelled the sharp smoke of German Roth-Händle cigarettes on their uniforms.
The time to get out was now. Claire stood, tugged at her dress and smoothed her hair, stared hard at the exit, but her feet wouldn’t take her there. She planted a smile on her face and slipped in between two soldiers.
The doors opened and travelers streamed off the train. All blanched when they saw the uniforms; their strides faltered then picked up again as they hurried by. Claire watched the officer. His eyes zeroed in on a man, plump with a receding hairline. He looked offended when they pulled him aside. A loyal Vichy man, no doubt. He was hauled away, struggling. Not so loyal for long.
The skirmish was forgotten as her target exited the train. He was wiry, shorter than she’d expected. Thin glasses rode on a hawk nose. His thick head of white hair was carefully combed. A trimmed mustache lined a serious mouth. He carried a valise; a coat was slung over an arm. A red and white striped scarf was tied around his neck.
Claire saw the officers eyes flick over toward him.
“Mon cheri!” Claire threw herself in his arms. “Kiss me,” she whispered, her mouth on his cheek.
Surprise flickered in his eyes but he recovered, gamely pulling her into his arms and planting a dry kiss on her lips. He tasted of tobacco and coffee.
Her arm anchored in his, she pulled him toward the soldiers. “Excusez-moi,” Claire said, her tone light, and led with the flowers held out in front of her chest.
The SS in front of her didn’t give way. With her momentum, she pressed up against him, felt his gun against her thigh, the patch on his uniform pocket scratched her collarbone. She swallowed the bile that surged in her throat, looked up and smiled through the burning that threatened to choke her.
His hard stare flicked down on her, a tongue slid through thin lips like a snake tasting for fear. Her smile was pinned on; the blood pounded in her ears as she held his gaze. He stared for another moment then shoved her away with a stiff arm.
She pushed Christophe through the gap created in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the officer turn his head toward them. One nod and they were dead. The young Wehrmacht soldier from the table of feldgrau moved to block their path, his eyes on Christophe’s case.
“What about a search for me, soldier?” She turned her head; the officer was watching. She had to make a friend and fast. She leaned in to the soldier, licking her lips. “A girl needs to make a living. But—” She slid out a blossom and set it on the table in front of him. “You look so strong. I haven’t had a good search in ages.”
His eyes widened. He said nothing, but nodded his head sharply.
She glanced back at the captain. Another poor soul was getting dragged away. She faced the soldier. “You’ll be here later? After they leave? What’s your name?”
“Günter. Leave your grandfather at home.”
Claire turned to walk away.
He grabbed her arm. “And you, your name?”
“Evelyn. Don’t forget me.” One last smile and Claire reached for Christophe. She looked back as they reached the stairs.
The captain was watching. He nodded. The SS soldiers moved.
Christophe spoke for the first time, the immaculately smooth voice of a learned man. “I suggest we run.”
They charged down the stairs, pressing through the crowd. Claire jerked Christophe into a tiled hallway off the main passage.
“Where are we going?” he gasped. He wasn’t up for a sprint.
“I don’t know.” Claire pulled him around a sharp corner. The hallway ended past them at a closed door. They pressed themselves against a wall. Christophe reached out and rattled the knob. The door was locked.
Across the hall, a thick, wirehaired woman hunched over a mop in a dirty puddle flecked with suds. She paused mopping and looked up, her eyes dull. A low shout echoed from the main corridor. The woman stared.
Claire peered around the corner. A group of soldiers ran past. The captain walked by, paused in the hallway and looked down toward them. Claire jerked her head back and faced the woman, pleading for silence with her eyes. One word, one look. She was with a known Resistánt. They would both be dead.
Christophe struggled to catch his breath. He spoke softly to the woman, as if to a child. “Madame.”
A shout echoed down the hall. Heavy footsteps pou
nded closer. The woman reached a gnarled finger toward them.
“Madame,” Christophe said, his voice cracking.
She lurched past them to a second locked door nearly invisible against the white tile wall. With the flick of a key, the door opened.
Claire and Christophe charged into the darkness. The door clicked shut behind them. They held their breath, heard the footsteps pass. The other door rattled as the soldiers tried the lock.
Claire held one hand in front of her; the other clutched Christophe’s arm.
“Are you alright?” Christophe said.
“Better now. Do you have a light?”
“Yes. Hold on.”
A match flared. The flickering flame lit their faces. The tunnel was dark and wet. Moss-covered concrete walls led away into the distance. The air smelled old and sour.
“Where the hell are we?” Claire tightened her grip on his arm.
“Think of it as a wine cellar, my dear, and we are on our way to an exceptional Bordeaux. Say a Latour ’29?” Christophe’s teeth glinted.
Claire grinned weakly. “How about champagne? Bollinger, Grande Année?”
“I think a bottle of each would do nicely.” He took a step forward. “Did you say your name was Evelyn?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, as if she answered an important question. “Well, Evelyn, we better get moving. I don’t know how far back the vintner keeps the good bottles.”
Light was fading as they crawled out of a vent hole near the Métro’s rue d’Odessa exit. They had walked underground for hours, arm in arm, each foot testing the next step, the only sounds their footfalls and the relentless drip of water down the carved rock walls around them.
Once outside, Claire and Christophe slipped into the rush of people trying to make it home before curfew. It was pitch dark when they entered the apartment building on rue Férou. As Odette directed, Claire led Christophe up three flights of stairs, then knocked softly on the door marked 33. “It is Evelyn.”
The door opened an inch. “Entrez,” a low voice commanded.
They slipped through the entry into a dark room. The lights flicked on and they stared into a ring of pointed gun barrels. A tense breath then a thick man, one cheek puckered with a curved scar, pushed through and hugged Christophe. At that, the men lowered their guns and joined in greeting Christophe or as they called him now, Monsieur Kinsel.
Claire allowed herself to be pushed aside in the rush. Even she knew Kinsel was famous. She had read articles in Le Temps about this mysterious criminal who set up a network of alliances throughout southern France. What the Nazis would have done to her if she had been caught with Kinsel . . . Her knees wobbled and she sagged against the door, seemingly forgotten. And, for once, grateful for the lack of attention.
The men took turns shaking Kinsel’s hand. In crumpled overalls and pressed suits, they all shared a hard-eyed look. A familiar face pushed through to Claire.
Jacques squeezed her shoulder, his normally sardonic face subdued for the occasion. “Evelyn, I will see you home.”
Claire glanced back as he opened the door. Kinsel was at the table, a glass of wine in his hand. He raised it to her in a toast. She blew him a kiss as she stepped out.
It was after midnight when they reached the flower shop. Jacques waited in the shadows, his eyes on the street as Claire fumbled with the lock. In the darkness and her exhaustion, it took two tries to get the damn key in place and the mechanism to click. She turned back to him as the door swung open. “Thank you, Jacques.”
He shrugged. “For une femme américaine, you have des couilles.” He slipped into the darkness and was gone.
Claire crept up the stairs to her room, her feet aching, body heavy. She couldn’t help but smile in the darkness. She had paid her debts. They damn well knew she was more than a Yankee princess. As Jacques said, she had balls.
Chapter 7
THE PRICE OF ELEGANCE
52, rue du Colisée, Paris. September 1, 1941.
Asweltering late summer day. The air trapped in the alley behind the shop cooked between the buildings. Bricks baked underfoot in the late afternoon sun. The sour scent of rotting vegetation and steaming trash settled on hair and skin. Claire wiped the sweat from her neck with a grubby hand. With a heave, she slung decaying flowers into the rubbage bin. Dropping the empty bucket at her feet, she picked up the next.
Eleven days ago, a Resistánt shot and killed a German officer at the Barbès-Rochechouart station of the Métro. Then the reprisals started. Nazi sweeps pulled people off the street. There were rumors of a planned public execution. Ten people, fifty people, a hundred, lined up and shot. No one knew. They held their breath and stayed inside. German soldiers weren’t walking alone anymore, not pursuing lonely girls with dinner and flowers.
Even the Comte disappeared. The promised second meeting should have been nights ago. Instead of a car to pick her up, his assistant called. Apologetic but brusque. Apparently used to finishing what the Comte started. Thank you, Madame, for your interest, but regrettably the situation is somewhat changed. The Comte will keep your services in mind.
Madame Palain was relieved. “We will do without his money.”
But Claire knew what the loss meant. She said nothing when Madame pursed her lips and frowned, smoothing her hair in the tight bun she wore low on her nape.
They did need his money.
In the heat, what flowers Madame managed to buy slumped, unpurchased, in tin buckets. Claire tossed those that started to rot into the garbage. Claire cursed at the slimy daylily stems that slid from the bucket and splattered green sludge on her dress. With the Comte’s party, the shop would have been set at least until Christmas. Was this the big Resistance Christophe came to Paris to lead? A single German midshipman dead, what good did it do? The entire city suffered for it.
Several turns of the decrepit water faucet handle in the alley and warm water splattered onto the bricks. Claire rinsed the worst from the buckets and carried them rattling against her legs back inside the shop. She paused as she saw Madame locking the front door. Another day without a customer. With the money from the pawned wedding ring long gone, they wouldn’t survive many more.
Claire wiped her neck and arms as she leaned against the cool stone wall in the back of the shop. Madame started her closing routine. Claire watched her go through every bucket, every plant, a slight nudge here or there, inspecting the counters, the floors. Without looking at Claire, the florist gestured to the floor under the shelves. “The stones have sweat in the heat and collected dirt. It will need to be mopped in the morning.”
Claire usually found the routine endearing. A daily lesson in observation and discipline. Tonight it was grating. “You think someone is going to notice?”
The florist straightened, her shoulders pulled back. Claire waited for her to respond in her modulated voice, offer some quaint lesson in living that would, tonight, make Claire sneer.
Madame ran her hand over the wall as she walked to the front and paused in front of the window. When she finally spoke, it was in a quiet, dreamy tone that forced Claire forward to hear.
“My mother was a baroness. The Baroness du Vinen. A title, but not the means. Still, I was given the best education at Sorbonne. Art, literature, culture. For the purpose of charming and marrying an important and wealthy man. I admit I was a disappointment to my mother. I married a professor of engineering. An educated man. A gentle man. But a man of simple tastes.”
Madame never spoke about herself. Claire stepped forward, enthralled.
“We lived in Paris, a small apartment across from jardin du Luxembourg, near the university, his work. After only nine months at the university, my gentle engineer was called to fight the Germans. Another soldier fighting the Great War. Months passed. I cherished his letters. But without his salary, without the university, I had nothing. And one day, I passed by this place. The suitcase in my hand was all I had left.” She stroked the petals of a peach-colored rose. �
��I had no experience, no references. Monsieur Russo saw something in me, I think. I became his assistant.”
“He was the owner?” Claire said.
“Yes. The preeminent florist in the arrondissement. A celebrated artist, like Renoir or Seurat. But that was the Great War. Times were not easy. Still, he believed in this place.” Madame smiled gently, her eyes gazing through the years. She tucked a slender green cherry branch behind three ruffled rose blossoms.
“My husband did not survive the war. I was devastated, of course, but no more so than many others. I gave my heart and soul to this place. When my mother died, I inherited a bit of money. Monsieur Russo was tired, his hands stiff. He sold me the shop on very lenient terms. He knew no one would care for it like I would.” Madame turned to Claire, enunciating each word. “He knew I would never let it fail. Elegance endures. It must.”
Claire gulped, wrestling with the knot in her throat. She scuffed a toe at the grit beneath the shelves—it was there—and bit her lower lip. She concentrated on the pain until the tightness in her throat relaxed.
Madame pulled her bag from under the counter. “Au revoir, mon ami.” She kissed Claire good night and glided into the evening shadows.
Claire climbed the stairs and threw open the windows to her room. She pulled the garden photo from the mirror’s edge and sat on the open windowsill, her feet resting on the balcony. She squinted at the picture in the dimness.
The dark violet sky lent the image a mystical air. The verdant beauty of the garden, the wise serenity carved on the statue’s face was like cool water on Claire’s overheated emotions. Her marriage and high society life was dead, her affair with Laurent a memory. Yet this little photo not only survived but had grown more real. A place, if only in her mind, that welcomed her like the first sun of spring.
