Becoming Clementine: A Novel

by Jennifer Niven

  A train rumbled toward us, fast as a B-17. It stopped with a squeal of brakes, and Émile said, “We are lucky. The Metro is closed most of the day and all night because of the electricity shortage.” The doors to the cars cranked open and the crowd pushed forward. Émile tugged at my hand so we wouldn’t lose each other, and suddenly we were boxed inside, smashed against everyone else. I looked up at the strap overhead, but I couldn’t raise my arm to grab it because I was wedged between Émile and a man to the left of me, a large woman to the right, and a family of three to my back.

  The doors ground closed and then we were moving, all of us together, swaying this way and that as the train traveled through the dark. I swayed right into Émile. He took one hand away from the strap above his head, pressing the other into the curve of my back to steady me. Without thinking, I leaned up and kissed him. For just a few seconds, I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of him. No matter what happens to me, I thought, I am kissing this man right now in Paris. We are spies posing as lovers, and now everyone will believe it. When I pulled away, his face was hard to read, but his arm tightened around me.

  The train rattled fast through the underground, traveling through dark and light, dark and light, till I thought I would get dizzy. I heard shouting, and to the left of us I could see a fistfight between two men or three men, I couldn’t tell. The air was close and tight and I breathed through my mouth because the smell was worse than in the pig truck.

  The train stopped once, then twice, and on the third time, Émile pulled me toward the door and we stepped out onto another platform and climbed another set of stairs, my hand brushing the black iron railing, until we were up on the streets of Paris again, blinking into the pink-gray-white sky, the color of pearls.

  The Arc de Triomphe was just like its name—it sat at the end of the Champs-Elysées, a giant archway made of sand-white stone. Angels and naked soldiers and wise men in robes were carved into its face, on either side of the upside-down U-shaped opening, and just looking at it made me want to be good forever and write a song that would be worthy of it. People passed back and forth under the archway and as we stood staring up at it, Émile said in French, “Napoleon had it built to remember the generals and soldiers who fought in the Revolution, fighting for French freedom. The Arc represents victory for the troops.” At the top, planted like a candle on a birthday cake, was a black, white, and red flag—the swastika of Germany.

  As he talked, we walked toward the Arc. In the distance, across the Seine River, I could see the Eiffel Tower, rising up like an exclamation mark, pointing straight at heaven and God himself. It was graceful, with the fine, delicate features of a beautiful lady, but it was much larger than I’d ever imagined, standing like the fiercest soldier, one who was guarding his country and all he loved and good luck getting past him. The sight of it made me think of Perry, who would never get to climb to the top and take in the view.

  We walked under the Arc, and I could see that it wasn’t just the Champs-Elysées that stopped here. There were streets on all sides—twelve in all—that ended at the Arc’s front door. Émile said, “They call it Place de l’Étoile, or Square of the Star.” He was still speaking French so as not to draw attention.

  We strolled by the men and women, old and young, and the soldiers, and I wondered what they thought when they looked at us. Did they think we were two young lovers on our way to a café? Or brother and sister out to do an errand for our mother? Or could they look at us and see what we were—a secret agent and a pilot who’d just arrived in Paris in the back of a pig truck?

  We strolled until we stopped at a rectangle of concrete with a bronze circle, like an upside-down pot lid, at the head of it. It was laid out like a grave, and there was writing on it that made me think of a tombstone, and the dates 1914–1918.

  I said, “What is it?”

  Émile said, “The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It is meant to honor all the heroes of the last war, the ones who never found their way home or got a proper burial. All the missing. Usually there is a flame that burns there.” He pointed to the copper circle. “The eternal flame. It was extinguished in 1940 when Hitler came through the city.”

  “What does it say?”

  “‘Here is a French soldier who died for his country.’”

  I let the words sink in. How many more graves would there be like this before it was all over? My fingernails were still black with dirt from burying Perry. Somewhere, a long way off, I heard a melody starting in my head. I tried to follow it, but it ran away from me until there was nothing left except the thought that was playing in my mind like a record: I had come to Scotland and then to England and then to France to find Johnny Clay, but he was still lost, like an unknown soldier.

  “Goddamn France.” We turned and there was Barzo, standing behind us, breathing hard, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of a hand, and just behind him, Ray.

  Barzo said, “Whose grave?” Before we could say anything, he leaned past me and read what was written there. He whistled, then swiped the hat off his head. He closed his eyes, just for a minute, and it looked as if he were offering up a prayer. When he opened them again his eyes were watery. He cleared his throat and said, “Where to?”

  Émile said, “This way,” and I followed him away from the Arc de Triomphe. We passed trees lined up like soldiers at attention, green and full, but neatly clipped and trimmed. We walked across the Avenue des Ternes and followed the street to the Boulevard de Courcelles, and then we turned from there onto Rue de la Néva, which was a handsome street filled with enormous overstuffed buildings, all linked together, that looked as haughty as old maiden aunts. We crossed the street and a little square of green park, and that was where Émile and the others stopped and he said, “We leave you here.”

  I said, “What do you mean, you leave me here?”

  He said, “We cannot stay together in this city. The Germans are everywhere and more are coming, along with the Allies. It is only a matter of time till the battle for Paris, and we will be watched.”

  I said, “I’m going with you.” The words sounded silly and weak as soon as I said them. I was sorry I’d kissed him.

  “Not this time. We have work to do. I want you to walk down this street and go to the fifth building—the fifth door. A man will answer, my height, age fifty or so. It is him and his wife and their two children. They are friends of the Resistance, of Monsieur Babin and his family. You will tell them, ‘Such bad weather we’re having,’ and he will say, ‘Yes, for the past week, but I think it will be clearing soon,’ and you will know it is him and that it’s safe to go in. He will rent you a room in his house and you will wait for me there.” He talked to me like I was a child.

  “You’re going to find Swan.” I looked from one man to another.

  Émile said, “Yes.”

  “I could help you.”

  Barzo said, “It’s too dangerous, kid.”

  I was good and mad now. “How do I know you’ll come back for me?”

  Émile said, “You don’t.” He pressed something into my hand—a wallet. He said, “Keep these with you.” Inside the wallet were French money and a French identity card and a driver’s license. There was my picture, the one from my WASP ID, that he’d somehow taken from me without my knowing it. Beside the picture was the name Clementine Roux.

  I said, “Clementine? Like the song?”

  “Like the song. You are an American who moved to Paris just before the war to marry a Frenchman—Pierre Roux. You stayed on even after he was killed because you are part German on your father’s side. You are staying with friends in Rouen. It is hard for you to leave here because it reminds you of your husband, and because of the war, of course. Your cover is shaky, but it is the best we could do on short notice. You must memorize this information and become her.”

  Thou art lost and gone forever

  Dreadful sorry, Clementine….

  Émile said, “I want you to remember this. If you are going
to lie you need to make it as close to the truth as possible. You must bury your beliefs. Lies must become real to you. You have to become somebody else—this Clementine Roux—and believe that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You must lose your identity. An agent has to give up everything—friends, family, and himself.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was give myself up. I’d worked so hard to find myself—after Mama dying and Daddy leaving and me marrying Harley and divorcing Harley and going to Nashville and then to Texas to fly planes. I said, “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “What you want doesn’t matter. Who you are doesn’t matter. You must make a new story, become a new person. You have new papers, a new name.” From his pocket, he handed me a slim gold band. “Wear this on your left hand.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Never mind. Put it on.”

  I thought of everything I would have to let go to be Clementine Roux, like learning to drive and learning to fly and writing my songs. I slipped the ring onto my left hand and it felt cold against my finger. My own ring, the one I’d worn when I was actually married and not just pretending, was somewhere in North Carolina, up in Devil’s Kitchen, on the hand of a new woman. The new Mrs. Harley Bright. I rubbed the ring with my thumb and shivered. The ring was too small. It pinched the skin in a way that made me feel as if I couldn’t breathe.

  He took my hand and held it, just for a moment. “Au revoir, Clementine.” Then he turned around and Ray and Barzo turned around, and the three of them left me there. I watched them go, watched them split apart and walk in three separate directions. I followed them with my eyes till they disappeared.

  I thought: I’m not Velva Jean. I’m Clementine Roux, wife and widow of another man. None of those men are my husband. They’re not even my friends. They’re not my comrades. I’m not part of their team. They’re just soldiers doing their duty, just like me. Émile didn’t kiss me because he wanted to. He kissed me to throw off the Germans. And then I threw myself at him on the train.

  The thought of all of it made me feel stupid and tired, and suddenly I wasn’t sure I could walk the rest of the block, not even the length of five doors.

  I looked up at the sky and down at the green of the grass. It was such a little bit of garden surrounded by so much concrete. I pulled my bag tight on my shoulder and walked down the street counting houses—one, two, three, four... When I came to the fifth one, I climbed the stairs to the door, my steps heavy, and rang the bell. I waited. After a minute, I rang the bell again. I looked around and there was no sign of Émile or Barzo or Ray. I thought, They could have at least waited to make sure the man was at home.

  I pressed my finger to the bell again, but before I could push it, the door swung open and a man stood there, bearded and graying, thinning brown hair and glasses tucked in his shirt pocket. There was a book in his hand, his finger marking the page.

  He said, “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

  I said, “Bonjour. Such bad weather we’re having.”

  He squinted at me and I held my breath. What if he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about”? At least the sky was dreary and gray, so even if he was a stranger I wouldn’t seem as if I were talking nonsense, although I wasn’t sure how I would explain walking up to his door out of the blue. I thought of all that was hinging on just a few words. These were people I’d never met, and the only thing I had to let me know I could trust them was a password.

  After about a hundred years, he said, “Yes, for the past week, but I think it will be clearing soon.” And then he smiled, and it was a shy smile but a kind one.

  From behind him, from another room, a woman’s voice called out, “Qui c’est, cher?” Who is it, dear?

  He said, “It is our guest.”

  FIFTEEN

  I waited in the house for two days. Monsieur Brunet went in and out, sometimes gone for long periods of time, while his wife, Bernadette, worked in the kitchen. She was always cooking, and every time I offered to help her, she waved me away with a smile, saying, “You are our guest.”

  For half an hour after dinner, the electricity flickered on, and Monsieur Brunet would turn on the radio. He said the Germans were trying to block out the broadcasts from the BBC, but you could just hear the news through the static. After that half hour, the house would grow dark again and we would sit and talk or read by candlelight.

  On my second night there, I asked Monsieur Brunet if he had a map of Paris I could borrow. I didn’t plan to leave the house, but I thought I could be studying the map just as I’d studied the maps of France before flying out of Harrington. That way I would be prepared when Émile and the others came for me.

  He said, “Oui, mademoiselle.” And I followed him to the living room, where there were bookcases along one entire wall. While he searched for the map, I wandered around the room, which was cluttered but clean. Everything was a deep, warm red, even the curtains on the windows. A fireplace sat opposite the bookcases, with a basket of wood beside it and a sofa and three chairs facing it. On a side table next to one of the chairs was a record player the size of a bread box.

  As he searched for the map, he said, “I hope you slept well.”

  I said, “Yes, sir.” I didn’t tell him that I’d tossed and turned for an hour before I curled up on the floor with my pillow and blanket, where I stayed the rest of the night. I wasn’t used to beds anymore.

  He said, “Bernadette has pulled aside some clothes for you and left them in your room. She thought you might be able to use them.”

  I said, “Yes, thank you. That’s awfully kind.”

  He said, “I understand you have some experience working with the Resistance.” His voice was vague and turned away, as if he were talking to the bookshelf.

  I said, “Yes.” I didn’t tell him what my experience was.

  On a table just inside the door was a glass jar with matchboxes. I picked these up to look at the names of the places they were from, but they were all the same—square, plain black boxes. I moved from there to a book, a glass vase, a pipe, cigarettes, a bottle of wine. I leaned in to read the label, and when I straightened up Monsieur Brunet was next to me, holding out a map.

  “Here you are,” he said. His voice was short and clipped, as if he suddenly wanted me to go. I thought the Brunets were pleasant but I could tell they weren’t excited to have me in their house. I walked up the stairs, back to my room, the map in my hand, and thought: Émile, where are you? Please come.

  On the morning of the third day, when the men still hadn’t come for me, I put on a skirt and blouse that Bernadette had given me, and picked up my bag and walked outside. I stood blinking in the sunlight, trying to adjust my eyes. The first morning I’d woken up to the crowing of roosters, and I thought for a minute I was on Fair Mountain, back at Mama’s house. After I woke up to roosters on the second day, I asked Monsieur Brunet where they were coming from. He said the French people had to do what they could for food, that each house was given a certain number of ration tickets, that you could bicycle thirty or forty miles into the countryside to buy meat and vegetables from peasants if you dared, or spend 1.84 francs—forty cents—for one egg, and forty-six francs—about ten dollars—for a pound of butter on the black market. If you were caught you’d pay a fine, so some people, the lucky ones, kept goats or rabbits or chickens in their house to feed themselves and their families.

  Monsieur Brunet lived next door to Gestapo headquarters. He said this wasn’t the only one, that there were others across the city, and that up until last year it had been just a regular house. The couple it belonged to was Jewish and wealthy, and they had been taken away by the Nazis, who then took over their home and turned it into offices. Every evening at six o’clock, a man with black-rimmed glasses and a square face like bread dough marched up the steps and into the building, and any officers standing outside saluted him and moved out of his way, which made me know he was important.

 
As I walked out the front door and down the steps to the sidewalk and past the Gestapo, I held my breath and counted to twenty-five, which was how long it took me to get to the end of the street and make the turn away from there, away from the Germans. Nazi flags were draped across roofs and shop windows, and signs were posted everywhere here, just like in Cambremer, Lisieux, and Rouen. They were mostly in French, but a few were in English. They said:

  “It has come to our attention that our troops do not act with sufficient harshness. Do not hesitate to shoot, hang, and set fire. There is to be no exception. For instance, when crossing territory infested by the French underground, place French women in front of German convoys for protection.”

  While I walked, I looked for Émile in the faces of the men in the street. It had been three days since he and the others left me, and so far they hadn’t sent one word as to what I should expect and when. Monsieur Brunet said, “He will come,” as if he knew I was waiting for only one of them.

  I memorized the way by landmarks, unfolding in my mind the map I’d borrowed from Monsieur Brunet. I kept one eye on the Eiffel Tower and one on the church of Sacré Coeur, which sat above the city, high up on Montmartre. This way, I thought I could figure out where I was. As I walked, I studied the people who were obviously French and I did what they did so I would blend in. I crossed and recrossed streets, stopping to glance in shop windows, just as I would have done down in Hamlet’s Mill or Nashville. There were no buses running, and no taxicabs. The French seemed to get around on foot or on bicycle or on horseback. The streets and sidewalks were filled with bicycles.

  I knew that Gossie was in Paris with the WAC, working with the 3341st Signal Battalion. So far, the only thing I could find out was that the 3341st Signal Battalion was still in the city, but no one—not Monsieur Brunet or his friends in the Resistance—could tell me where.

  I walked like this for two hours and then I turned back. Most of the local people wore shoes with thick wooden soles that made them sound like horses as they clopped along the sidewalks and streets. These were the only shoes you could get right now, and I moved with them, clopping just like they did. I passed by Gestapo headquarters and climbed the steps to Monsieur Brunet’s, and I called “Hello” after I shut the front door with a snap.