The Last Time I Saw Paris

by Lynn Sheene

  One last look at her room. A forlorn rose floated in water in a highball glass on the empty desk, an unmade bed, and a row of dresses and silk gowns in the closet. The gowns repulsed her like so many shed skins. She dropped the envelope into her purse.

  Claire left the hotel and strolled along les Champs. Her eyes were on the shop displays, lèche-vitrine, window licking the French called it, alongside the handsome men in pressed suits, the striking women in gloves and hats, the German soldiers buying delectables to send home. She made a show of examining a deep red velvet jacket inside a shop window then ducked inside a busy café.

  Pressing up to the counter, she ordered a madeleine and turned to watch the street. A flow of passing people, none glanced toward her, none paused too long to deliberate on a table before they moved on. Still, to be safe, she wrapped the pastry in a napkin and slipped out the café’s side door into an alley. Paralleling the street for a block, she turned north toward parc Monceau.

  The park was quiet. The carousel was empty, its brightly colored cars suspended in midair. She walked along the gravel to the pool then settled on the shaded bench beneath a gnarled oak.

  By now, the transport would have left. Grey would be on the road between Fort Montluc and Compiègne. Where would Jacques’ group attack? An empty stretch of road? A bridge? With her fingers, she ripped a piece from the small scallop-shaped cake and chewed without tasting.

  Afterward they would have to hide out somewhere. A farmhouse perhaps. Not Paris. But still, if Grey was close, this is where Jacques would find her. And then nothing would stop her from reaching Grey. She tore at the pastry and hurled pieces to the birds pecking in the grass around the pool’s edge. She would be ready.

  A blond woman and small girl walked by at lunch. The girl tossed pebbles into the mossy water. After a moment, her mother pulled her away. She protested, her voice echoing. Pas plus, Marie, no more, the mother told her. In the afternoon, an elderly couple rambled past. The woman’s diaphanous snow-white hair glinted in the sun; she gripped the man’s elbow with frail hands.

  Claire pulled the envelope from her purse. She stroked the paper, felt the texture of the gold engraved Ritz Paris crown and seal under her fingers. But she couldn’t bring herself to open it. Not yet. The sun disappeared below the buildings and the light faded.

  “Madame?” A slender man in glasses and a thick scarf faced the bench.

  “Yes?” Her voice quivered. A message from Grey?

  “You have been sitting here so long; are you unwell?”

  She flushed, suddenly mortified. “Non, merci. I lost track of time. I must be going.” She hurried away without looking back.

  Claire forced a confident stroll as she stepped onto boulevard Haussmann, but her insides ached. She paused a moment before she turned onto boulevard Malesherbes. Of course it wouldn’t have worked this way. But damn. She had so wanted it to.

  The concierge stopped her in the lobby. A note. Sturmbann-führer von Richter was expecting her in his study. Directly.

  “Komme,” Von Richter barked when she tapped on his door.

  She steeled herself as she paused in the threshold. Give Grey time.

  Von Richter leaned over his desk, his briefcase opened and empty in front of him. “Ah. So you decided to grace me with your presence.” His faced was flushed with excitement but his eyes sparked with anger.

  A white-coated server pushed a cart through the door behind her. Two bottles of champagne jutted from an ice bucket. Silver trays brimmed with cheeses, chocolates, pastries and fruit.

  Von Richter glared at the man. “I called a half hour ago. Are you purposefully wasting my time?”

  The server blanched. “No, Sturmbannführer. We had to retrieve the chocolates from a shop that was raided—”

  “On the table. Now. And go.” Von Richter turned to Claire, waved his hand toward the offering. “What do you think?”

  She forced a smile and stepped into von Richter’s arms. “Alby, darling. Is it your birthday or mine?”

  He smirked, his eyes sparkled. “Better.” He reached for the champagne.

  The table led to the bed. One bottle was empty and the sheets between them stained with crushed berries when von Richter finally answered Claire’s questions.

  “A coup. And a promotion.” He pulled the sheets up to his waist and reached for a crystal glass.

  “How did you manage all that?”

  “You know how it is, Claire. The world favors some. It is merely for us to reach out and pick up the spoils.”

  Claire leaned against his back, felt the heat from his skin soak through her thin silk slip. She massaged his shoulders as she kissed his neck. “The spoils?”

  “Today was an important prisoner transport. But a Resistance bomb took out the bridge in front of the convoy. Fighters swarmed from the trees. Gunfire, more bombs. Quite chaotic, I understand. It was a major offensive for those criminals.”

  “Oh?” Claire forced her hands to continue kneading the muscles of his neck.

  “But, Claire, I am Nazi intelligence. And the escape attempt was not unexpected.”

  Fear clawed at her stomach.

  “I almost wish I could have seen the looks on their faces when our tanks rolled out of the forest behind them.” He laughed, shook his head in wonder at the imagined sight.

  “So, what happened?”

  “As you would expect. The criminals fought for their lives. Most were mowed down by our soldiers.”

  “And the prisoners?”

  He shrugged. “Most died chained in the trucks. An unfortunate result of the heavy fighting. A few managed to run into the forest.”

  “And then what?”

  “Our dogs made short work of them.” He emptied the glass. “My superiors are understandably pleased with the convenient execution of a number of notorious criminals in custody, as well as the destruction of a dangerous insurgency cell. It will make a fine news item in the papers tomorrow. With a list of the executed criminals, of course.”

  Her fingers trembled. She pushed harder against his skin and forced her words around the expanding pain in her chest. “How exciting. Would I know their names?”

  “Beauchamp. Murrell. Kinsel. The man called himself a patriot. Loyal to a dead world, sanctimonious fool.” He rolled his shoulders and let out a long, satisfied sigh. “And a British spy. Would have made it out, but for the dogs, I’m told. He was shot out of a tree. Grey was his name. Appropriate for a damn Englishman, isn’t it? Grey.”

  The room dimmed around her. Von Richter kept talking. More names flowed by. Blackness pressed against her and crept into the edges of her vision. She rose like a specter.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need a bath,” she said over her shoulder as she pulled the bathroom door shut behind her.

  Claire turned the faucet then collapsed to her knees on the marble floor. She leaned against the tub, her face pressed against the cool porcelain. When the bath was full, she climbed in and sat. At the touch of water against her skin, she began to shake violently. Her breath came in small, quiet gasps and she felt her chest rip apart. She slid backward until her face was submerged. She lay under the water, her eyes shut as if she could stop time. The burning in her lungs grew.

  She imagined Grey, the line of his jaw, his serious eyes. The smell of him next to her, their bodies melded together in a hollow of grass. Gunned down. As lights began to pop in her eyes, she choked and sat up. She dragged herself from the tub, reached for a towel and stood, dripping in front of the mirror.

  “What are you doing in there?” von Richter said.

  She stared at her reflection, transfixed. In spite of herself, wheels turned inside her head. Von Richter had expected something. The Resistance would think she had set them up.

  In the end, her choice was simple, really. She toweled off and ran a comb through her hair. The door swung open and she stepped out, letting the towel drop to the floor. She picked up the phone, A bottle of your best sco
tch. Room 527.

  She pushed von Richter back on the bed as she dropped the phone into the cradle. “Reach out, Sturmbannführer, and pick up your spoils.”

  He pulled her against him.

  Claire slipped from beneath the silk sheets and felt her way across the darkened room, heavy curtains drawn against the glimmer of early morning sun. She found her dress crumpled up on the floor by the foot of the bed, shook it out and slipped it over her head. Von Richter’s snores rumbling in the background, she crawled around the floor and found one then the other shoe. Climbing to her feet, she tiptoed into the study.

  She pulled the door shut behind her, wincing at the click of the lock snapping into place. Von Richter’s drunken snores continued. Out cold.

  In the faint predawn light, outlines of chairs and desk were barely visible. Hands held in front of her, bare feet sliding over the carpet, she shuffled to the heavy oak desk. Grabbing the desk chair, she hurried back to the door, wedging the chair back against the handle. It took all her strength to push the sofa against the door leading to the hall.

  With the room as secure as Claire could make it, she clicked on the lamp and surveyed the room. She was done fumbling around with a candle in the darkness. Von Richter had most of a bottle of scotch on top of two bottles of champagne in him. And she was going to tear apart every inch of this damn room. She had to know what had happened.

  First the briefcase. She used a letter opener to split open the seams one by one. In the end, an expensive pile of leather scraps at her feet. Nothing. Starting on one corner of the desk she worked her way through. Drawers pulled out and pried apart. Cubbies examined. The lamp shining up from underneath, first a visual examination, then by touch. After that the chair, silk cushion ripped open, the sofa, the paintings off the walls and frames pulled away. The table. Dresser. Nothing. She forced her mind to focus and dropped to her knees. From one corner, she worked across the carpet, her fingers probing each inch for a slit, a bulge.

  She sat back underneath the window; the rising sun broke free of the buildings to illuminate the far side of the room. Her head fell back against the cool glass. She listened to the growing rumble of car engines on the street below, the noise merging with von Richter’s snores.

  There was nothing. No proof it was her fault. But nothing to show it wasn’t. Claire climbed to her feet. It wasn’t enough. She pulled the chair away and pushed open the bedroom door. The room was still dark, curtains pulled. The lump of blankets that was von Richter smelled of sour alcohol. She walked over to stare at the back of his head showing above the covers. How to exorcise the secrets from inside there?

  She sighed and sat heavily on the floor, her head in her hands. It didn’t make sense that she found nothing today. Not even a loose paper, a receipt. He had to keep it all hidden someplace. A safe, perhaps, but she’d looked behind the paintings on the bedroom walls before.

  Sighing, she examined the carpet beneath her and ran her fingers across the heavy grey-green wool. The faded swirls showed the wear of years of scuffling feet. A rug rested in the corner beneath a reading chair and table. Claire crawled over to the corner to get a closer look. The rug’s green didn’t quite match the carpet’s.

  She gently pushed the chair and table away, then rolled back the rug. Beneath, a ragged square was cut in the carpet. She peeled that back. The floorboards had been sawed away. A square metal safe sat inside the opening. She ran her hands over the metal, felt the sharp corners of the keyhole.

  She’d seen von Richter’s keys before. A quick trip to the closet, his uniform jacket pocket. She squeezed the key ring tight in her palm to keep it from jiggling as she crept back. The third key turned; the click made her flinch.

  Claire gripped the metal handle and pulled the heavy door open. A holstered Walther rested incongruously on a pile of folders. She set the pistol gently on the floor next to her then reached for the papers.

  On the top, a thick envelope with the emblem of the SS. Claire stuck a finger under the flap and peeled it open. Squinting in the dim light, she unfolded the pink pages inside. Ausweis. Laissez-Passer. Four blank travel permits. Better than gold. Tucking the papers back inside, she slipped the envelope inside her dress against her skin.

  The first folder she opened appeared to be a pile of invoices. She set it aside and picked up the next. Obere Sicherheit. Sicherheitsdienst. The SS insignia. She flipped open the cover and her heart stopped. She grabbed the entire pile beneath the open folder and tore into the study. The files spilled onto the desk beneath the glow of the lamp. Her hands began to shake.

  Top left of the page, a photo of Grey. The photo was taken surprisingly close, his gaze off to the left. His eyes were dark squints, forehead lined in a frown, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his worn jacket. The text under the photo was written in German. Claire couldn’t make out any of the neatly typed, single-spaced lines. She flipped the page. A photo of Grey and Jacques. They walked shoulder to shoulder, deep in conversation. The next page, Grey and Laurent. Grey had the same scowl; Laurent was smoking a cigarette, one hand on Grey’s shoulder.

  Claire took a deep breath and flipped the page. Claire and Grey. It was taken the day they met in jardin du Luxembourg. The photo was taken at the end of the long allée of squared-off plane trees. They stood in front of a statue of a couple embracing. Grey was smiling, his face open, boyish almost. She was speaking, the edges of her mouth curving into a grin. Her fingers rested on his forearm. We look like lovers, she thought.

  Her fingers trembled as she turned the pages. More photos of her and Grey, photos of her walking alone, photos of her leaving the flower shop. A photo of Claire and Madame Palain in front of the shop, drinking real coffee, the day Claire splurged on her ration cards. The bottom of the photo under Madame’s image was stamped in heavy blue ink, Geabschaffen. In von Richter’s hand, the date of Madame’s death and initials, AvR.

  Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest that all noise faded into static. Her gaze went to the bedroom, to the dark shape of the pistol still resting on the floor. The phone rang on the desk. A quick jump and Claire hit the receiver. It stopped, mid-ring.

  It was too late. In the bedroom, von Richter cursed, the bed creaked.

  Claire jumped toward the safe. Her fingers closed on the holster as her knees hit the carpet. She came up with the Walther, pointed at von Richter.

  He sat up blinking, still half-drunk. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Her finger was pressed tight against the trigger. “You knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Grey. The flower shop. Me.” She shook the barrel at him. “Who gave you this information?”

  He glanced down at the open safe and shrugged, his lips twisted into a hard smile. “The world favors some of us, Claire. It is only that you are currently operating for the wrong side.”

  Her finger tightened against the trigger. She saw Grey’s slate eyes. I promise, he told her. He promised he would be back for her and the girls.

  The ringing phone jarred her attention. She and von Richter stared at each other as they listened to the phone.

  “Schneider,” he said. “An appointment. He will be here momentarily.”

  Claire could take Schneider too before the guards got her. But she felt the passes pressed against her skin. And she had promised Marta. She slammed the metal gun butt across von Richter’s head. He slumped sideways across the bed.

  Von Richter’s suit jacket hung by the door. She slit a hole along a seam of the lining and slipped in the folder. She shrugged on the jacket and dropped the Luger in a deep front pocket. Her shoes, her purse, and she caught her reflection in the mirror as she walked out the door. Face pale, her eyes dark burning circles.

  Claire crept down the hallway, jacket pulled tight, the folder pressed stiffly against her through the thin fabric of her dress. She glided down the stairs, her head erect, chin out. Soldiers stood guard below her on each side of the stairwell. She’d passed them hundreds of times tu
cked in von Richter’s side or on her way back to the room. Now, in a rumpled dress and man’s jacket, her eyes wild, they watched her approach with hard stares.

  The sharp corners of the folder bit into her rib cage. She felt perspiration break out under her arms and run down her back.

  Schneider met her at the bottom rung. He took in von Richter’s jacket, her face. His eyes widened. “Where is the Sturmbannführer?”

  “Sleeping one off.”

  He examined her. His mouth tightened. “You will come with me to see him.”

  “Non, merci.” Her hand slid inside the jacket pocket, reaching for the gun.

  He spoke a sharp command to the guards. The soldier at her side grabbed her above the elbow. “Come with us, Fräulein.”

  She went cold, her finger slid over the trigger.

  “Madame Badeau, what seems to be the problem?” The Comte stopped in front of the soldiers. “Lieutenant,” he said to Schneider in a cool greeting then looked back to Claire. “Sturmbannführer von Richter will be upset if you’re late with his breakfast, no?”

  Claire painted a smile on her face and shrugged her shoulders as if it was something that couldn’t be helped.

  Schneider glared. “I just phoned. He didn’t answer.”

  The Comte’s lips turned up in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “He didn’t answer you, you mean.”

  Schneider flushed. “You spoke to the Sturmbannführer?”

  The Comte didn’t answer, dismissed Schneider with his eyes. He turned to the soldiers. “Perhaps I should take your names so I can let the Sturmbannführer know who held up his breakfast and his mistress?”

  They looked at each other, to Schneider, then back to the Comte. Claire felt the grip release on her arm.

  The Comte let a smile creep into the corner of his mouth, he extended an elbow for her. They walked arm-in-arm through the salon toward rue Cambon.

  “It is a good thing, I think, my assistant was not able to retrieve Le Monde for me this morning, no?”