by Lynn Sheene
“Claire?” Marta waited in the doorway, cases in one arm, Anna in the other.
Claire pulled a dress over her head, slipped on shoes. Wrapping up the rest of the food in a cloth, she reached for her bag.
With the girls waiting by the door, Marta’s eyes on the road, Claire glanced around the house. Nothing could be left behind to reveal identities. No signs of Grey. No signs of the moments they shared. Not a word of the stories that Captain Walker told. Just dead Nazis in the barn.
She led the girls out of the clearing, toward the forest.
“Where are we going, Claire?” Marta said.
“There is only one place where I know people who can help us. Help you.”
“Paris,” Marta said, her voice soft and grim.
“Paris.” The city Claire loved, where she found beauty and self-worth. The city where Marta’s life was destroyed. The world had gone mad.
Claire reached down to the dirt, squeezing a handful in her fist. The faint smell of rich, peaty earth, it crumbled through her fingers onto the ground. Another glance at the farm, and she led the girls into the trees.
The forest was shadowed, the sun slipping below the treetops when they heard the whine of an engine. Claire’s shoulder throbbed. Without looking she knew it was bruised. The price of firing a machine gun. Her other arm ached from carrying Anna for the last few hours, but the girl finally slept, her cheek red and swollen. Claire winced as she set Anna onto the ground next to Marta, motioned for them to remain still and crept to the edge of the trees overlooking the road.
The asphalt turned in a serpentine bend below. A motorcycle sped by, the soldier crouched low over the handlebars. Claire watched him go then slid down the slope to the brush next to the road. A Nazi messenger. Was he reporting what happened at the farm, starting a hunt? She couldn’t believe it was a random search. They were betrayed.
In spite of herself, her thoughts flashed to the gun hidden in Grey’s waistband. A darkness rose up inside her like a tide. He wasn’t coming back.
A low purr snapped her to attention. The sound grew as a car drove into view in the distance. The little green Fiat slowed as it approached the bend. Squinting, Claire made out a lone man inside. She crawled closer. The road was dangerous, she knew. But they’d never to make it to Paris on foot.
A Frenchman. He had a cigarette in his mouth, a jacket over a turtleneck. He was slumped low in his seat, his head tilted down as if he were barely watching the road.
Claire climbed onto the asphalt as he approached. She waved her arms in front of her, a welcoming smile. The brakes squealed as the car stopped.
“Madame, what is wrong?” Voice concerned, his hands gripped the wheel.
As she walked up to the window, her gaze slid over a permit hung from the front window bearing a swastika stamp. “Well, Monsieur—” She pointed the pistol in his face. “We need a ride.” She loaded the girls into the backseat and slid into the front seat next to him, the gun trained on his chest.
His gaze fell on Anna’s bruised face. “I’m a doctor.” When Claire didn’t respond, he pointed to the permit on his windshield. “That is why I am allowed to drive. I’m a doctor and need to see my patients.”
“You need to drive.” Claire glanced at the permit. “Docteur Lagarde.”
He clenched his mouth and pulled onto the road. Claire curled up in the seat so she could face him, rested the Luger on her knee and tried to ignore how much it hurt her shoulder.
He glanced at Anna in the rearview mirror then at the pistol in Claire’s hand. “It is not impossible to guess how you might have acquired a German officer’s pistol. But I must tell you it is not necessary to point it at me. I would like to help you.”
“No. It’s better this way. If you are a good man, a patriot, then you will willingly drive and won’t have anything to worry about if you are questioned. If not, well, that is what the bullets are for.”
He sighed, turning his eyes to the road. “D’accord.”
The girls curled up asleep on the seat behind her. The exhaustion she refused to feel all day submerged her. Claire rested her head on her palm, elbow propped on the seat, Luger pointed forward.
Claire jolted alert when the car stopped, lights out, off the side of the road in the trees. The doctor said nothing, lit a cigarette and inhaled as if it were his last. He glanced at her then at the gun.
“We are outside of Vernonnett in le Forêt de Vernon. The checkpoint is over the next hill.” He pointed past her into the forest. “Just out of sight, there is a small path, like an animal trail. It leads to the river. That is where the smugglers work, where they load cargo on barges for Paris they don’t want regulated by the Germans.”
Claire squinted into the forest. “How will I find them?”
“They’ll find you. They are well armed. The pistol will do you no good. But perhaps with the gun you can buy passage.” He looked back at the sleeping girls. In the dim light, his face was etched with exhaustion and sadness. Like a man who has found his limits and was haunted by how insurmountable they were.
Claire knew how he felt. “Thank you.” She reached back to wake Marta.
Claire led the way down the trail with Anna sleeping in her arms. Marta trudged behind with the bags. Guided by the sliver of a moon, feet testing the forest floor before each step, they inched through the darkness.
The moon dipped from view. Their strides faltered. Claire bunched fallen leaves together to make a small bed between trees. Marta was too tired to do more than pull Anna in tight and wrap her coat around her. They huddled close, Claire leaning against the tree, gun in her hand, head resting on arms crossed in front of her. She closed her eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Snapping branches awoke her. A boy stood over her carrying an old-fashioned hunting shotgun slung in the crick of his elbow. As Claire straightened, she stretched her arm so the pistol was in view.
“Docteur Lagarde sent us. We are looking for a barge,” she said.
He was tall, his face thin, features boyish under a coat of dirt. He glanced at her, then at Marta, who woke up and stared at him.
“This way,” he said.
They followed him until the sun rose well above the trees and lit small clearings in bright light. He walked with one eye on the trail ahead and the other scanning the trees around them. Still, that didn’t keep him from exchanging looks with Marta. They are miraculous, Claire thought as she adjusted Anna resting on a hip. The young in the world will always be the same. She turned to share a smile with Grey, then remembered she was alone. Fear and loneliness pricked at her chest before she forced the throbbing away. One foot in front of the other. Just keep moving and it will be alright.
She heard a low-pitched gurgle but the river remained hidden. The forest opened up onto a clearing surrounding a shack. As they approached, a man appeared out of the trees with a rifle casually pointed at Claire’s chest. In his twenties, she guessed, muscles earned the hard way, his eyes cold and his face showing his distrust. She forced herself to keep walking.
An older man stepped out of the shack. A dingy white beard bristled over a thick collar. His face was dissected in lines from too many hours under a blazing sun, but his features matched the boy’s.
Claire steeled herself as she faced the old man. She set Anna on the ground behind her and offered her warmest smile. “Bonjour, Monsieur.”
“I found them on the trail, Papa,” the boy said.
“Who sent you?” the rifleman said, keeping the barrel fixed on Claire.
“Docteur Lagarde.”
They exchanged a look.
Claire set the Luger on a knotted wooden table at her side and tossed the reichsmarks next to it. “The pistol and money for transport to Paris.”
Flicking the gun across the worn surface to the rifleman, the father flipped through the bills like a banker. He examined Claire with respect in his eyes.
“Bof!” The rifleman exhaled in a burst. “That’s not enough. Not for all
three.”
The father nodded, though his voice was quiet when he spoke to Claire. “The danger is greater with three. Not easy to hide. And the young one may scream out and jeopardize everyone. No good.”
“But, Monsieur.” Claire stopped. She had nothing to say. Nothing more to offer. She stared at the packed dirt beneath her feet, unable to argue or meet Marta’s eyes.
“There is more,” Marta said.
Everyone turned to stare. Marta’s skin was chalky and her forehead had picked up a welt along the trail. Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks, and her lips pressed together in a hard line. She stepped forward with the monogrammed leather case, unlocked the latches and swung it open.
Two canvasses were rolled up inside. Marta reached for the first. “These were painted by Tamara Decler.” She opened the canvas against the scarred wood. “This is called Adam and Eve and was commissioned by the Duchess du Boucard.”
The man and woman stood, unclothed, twisted around each other like tree trunks. The lines were refined, the colors luminous. Claire was awed at the artistry revealed in every brush stroke.
Marta unrolled the second canvas. “This one was not commissioned. These two paintings were worth over four hundred thousand francs. There are people who will pay. A list of their names and addresses is in this case.”
Tears sprang to Claire’s eyes. On the second canvas a dark-haired girl slept with her head on a table. The thin fabric of her nightgown was tight against a lean hip. Thoughtful, even in sleep. It was Marta, painted with a loving hand.
“There will be a boat tonight,” the man said.
“But we can’t trust girls not to talk,” the younger man protested.
“They have more to fear than we do, Jean. Show our guests where they may wait, Luc.” The father gestured toward the trees. He reverently rolled up the canvasses and dropped them in the case with the money. “Tonight.”
The boy led Claire and the girls to the edge of the clearing. They settled in the grass under the trees, the river a presence only by its low-pitched murmur. Claire reached into her bag and handed apples to Marta and Anna. Marta offered the boy, Luc, an apple, but he shook his head and lit a cigarette.
They ate a quiet meal. Claire’s gaze kept finding the shack, thinking of the paintings inside, the woman who painted them and the girl who just gave them up.
“She painted you beautifully,” Claire said.
Marta didn’t meet her eyes, she shrugged. “Mother denied she had a daughter until she was pregnant with Anna. The name of the painting was Girl Waiting.”
The pain in Marta’s voice was clear. “The man who arranged for us to meet Monsieur Grey did it for those paintings. That was the price for our freedom.”
Anna dragged an apple core through the leaves. “I miss Monsieur Grey. How will he find us here?”
“He won’t, Anna. He left us.” The words burst from Marta’s mouth, then she clamped her lips shut, looking away.
“No. That’s not true,” Claire said, louder than she intended.
Anna listened with round eyes. Marta looked up through her hair.
“Grey will find us.” She held the gaze of each girl. “He promised.”
“Good,” Anna said, as though it were settled, and tossed the core into the bushes.
Claire hugged her arms to her side and closed her eyes. She remembered the feel of Grey’s fingers on her cheek before he drove away. If only it were true.
As night fell, the father reappeared from the shack with a gas lantern in his hand. He and Jean led them, Luc trailing behind. They followed a winding trail through the trees, the smell and the sound of moving water intensifying at each bend.
The river still murmuring out of sight, the trees opened up onto a small canal the width of a truck. They stopped at a pile of debris and leaves at the canal edge. The men each grabbed a branch at the edge of the heap and lifted. A cover of matted branches and leaves came off in a single form, revealing a motorboat stacked high with wooden crates.
The men climbed aboard and started the engine, stoking it to a low rumble. The father reached for Marta, then Anna and Claire. A low whistle sounded in the distance. Luc pushed the boat off the side and leapt aboard. The engine caught and the boat slid down the small channel like a cork coming out of a bottle.
The Seine opened up in front of them. A tugboat chugged into view, smoke boiling out its long smokestack. As it approached, Claire saw the line of three barges trailing along behind it. The father steered the motorboat on an intersecting course. Jean watched the shore, rifle butt snugged tight against his shoulder. Even in the darkness, Claire felt exposed on the open water. She motioned for Marta to slide lower.
The boat maneuvered up next to the tugboat. Luc threw a line up and grabbed another line slung down. In a moment they were docked with the tug, the motor silenced, and the men climbed aboard.
Two crew members swung down to the motorboat and maneuvered the craft back to the first barge. With a practiced ease, a crew tied heavy lines around the crates and wrenched them aboard. Once the crates were stowed on the barge, the men motioned for Claire and the girls. A crate stacked on the top row was popped open with a crowbar. A crewman pointed to the opening with an apologetic shrug.
“Your passage, Mesdames,” he said.
A last look back at the open night sky and Claire went inside. Even with slits between the wooden slats, the crate was stuffy and smelled of burned diesel and old onions. Anna tried to yank free but Marta scolded with a stern voice and pulled her in.
The crewman handed Claire a small iron bar. “This crate will be unloaded on a dock. Wait until you hear a whistle, then free yourselves. The Quai Saint-Exupéry is on the other side of the warehouses and will take you into the heart of Paris.”
The small space rang with the percussion of driving nails as they were sealed inside. Claire’s ears echoed as she listened to the footsteps of the crew fade, then the engine of the motorboat rumble to nothing. Anna began to whimper.
“Quiet, Anna,” Marta said, her own voice tight with anxiety.
Claire leaned back in an attempt to get comfortable. She thought of an afternoon long ago, dim lights flickering against a giant screen, the soft cushions of red velvet seats.
“Once upon a time,” she said, reaching for each girl’s hand in the darkness, “there was a handsome paleontologist, Docteur Grant, who was obsessed with a dinosaur bone. A beautiful socialite named Mademoiselle Hepburn met the paleontologist and fell in love with him, but he was engaged to marry another woman. A very boring, unkind woman. But, you see, the socialite had a pet leopard named Bébé.”
“A pet leopard?” Anna snuggled into Claire’s side. “Vraiment mystérieux!”
They slipped off the barge at dawn and made their way into Paris and to rue du Colisée. The blue awning of the flower shop was a beacon in the bright morning sunlight. The girls stowed in the alley behind the shop, Claire strolled past the windows of La Vie en Fleurs. A glance inside. The florist stood at the counter, helping a soldier, his back to the window. Madame’s eyes tracked Claire.
Claire and the girls circled the block, then slipped down the alley. The florist waited at the back door. Claire enveloped her in a tight embrace, feeling the emotion and strength in her taut frame.
A soft whispering caught Madame’s attention. She looked over Claire’s shoulder. “What do we have here?”
A deep curtsy from each girl and a quiet introduction.
The florist examined Claire, a question in her eyes. After a moment, she smiled and extended her arms. “I am Madame Palain. Please come in.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire said.
Madame met Claire’s gaze, her eyes serious. “Don’t worry, my dear. We are women. We will make do.”
Madame pulled out the china. They ate a breakfast of apples and thin-sliced bread, speaking of weather and flowers, sitting on stools amongst greenery in the back room. No questions were asked.
Afterward, the flori
st led them upstairs into Claire’s room. It was the same as Claire left it; a fresh rose in the crystal vase. Madame saw Claire’s glance, a small nod.
“We will have Georges bring up a mattress. It will be perfect,” the florist said.
“It will be fine, Madame, thank you. But we can’t tell Georges,” Claire said. “No one can know. No one can talk.”
The woman turned to Claire, her eyes sparking anger. “Just because Georges is not fast doesn’t mean he isn’t a good boy. He never said anything about you, did he?”
Claire glimpsed a trace of the pain her deception caused. “No. He didn’t.”
“Bon.” Madame turned toward the girls. “We will get started on your new room before Georges comes over.”
Claire watched as the girls arranged the room with the florist’s oversight. Madame told them elegance is in the details. Marta and Anna listened with rapt eyes. Claire knew they would settle in nicely. A look of gratitude to her friend and she reached for her paper and pen.
That afternoon, Claire slipped a note into the slot of the dentist’s office as she walked by, her quick eyes on the street around her. A young couple strolling, a white-haired man bent over a cane, a boy with worn oversized clothes belted around his thin frame. No one watched her, none trailed too close behind. She got as far as the corner before she turned back. She couldn’t make herself hide at Madame’s and wait.
There was an empty sidewalk table at Café Raphael. Claire claimed a chair and sat down facing the dentist’s office. She ordered a coffee to give her hands something to do. Even with the girls tucked away in the shop, it felt as though a vise were tightening around her, and her body fidgeted for action.
She shifted on her seat, her eyes searching. It was a beautiful fall afternoon, but the street looked shabby in the golden light. The structures seemed to hunch together and the pedestrians stooped from the oppression blanketing the city.
