by Sarah Jio
He sighs. “And what if she tells her friends and they all stop ordering?”
“They won’t,” I say. “Our customers are loyal. Madame Bernard, on the other hand, is a known Nazi sympathizer.”
Papa looks tired and unconvinced. “All the more reason we should keep her happy.”
Just then, Cosi barrels into the shop, my little eight-year-old, with the spirit of a lion and the heart of an angel, and just like that, Madame Bernard’s nonsense evaporates into thin air. “Mama,” she says, throwing her arms around me. “Look what I made in school!”
She produces a piece of paper from her satchel, a watercolor painting of a beach scene. “Do you recognize it?” she asks, wide-eyed and expectant. “It’s Normandy!” she blurts out with gusto, too excited to wait for my reply. “Where you were born, Mama!” Beaming with pride, she points to the rocks she’s painted along the beach and the tide pool to the right, just as I’d described to her on so many nights before she drifted off to sleep. My childhood home, Normandy remains deeply embedded in my heart. We lived there in a little cottage by the sea before my mother passed away, the year I turned twelve. After that, Papa moved us to Paris. It’s been so long, but if I close my eyes and let my mind travel back, I can still smell the sea air, the blossoms on Mama’s lemon trees on our back patio. It’s as if I never left. I suppose part of me never did.
“Do you miss it?” my daughter asks, studying my face.
My eyes are misty, so I turn away and pretend to busy myself with a bucket of greenery that will end up in one of Papa’s arrangements, for one fancy party or another.
I collect myself, then turn to Cosi, nodding. “Yes, love,” I say with a smile. As much as my heart aches for Normandy, it aches for Mama more. As magical as our little seaside life was, we could have lived anywhere, in the desert or the darkest forest—as long as my mother was there, we’d have been happy.
As such, nothing was the same after her death. Much of the joy had been snuffed out of our lives, like the flame of a candle, especially for Papa. Our sweet life in Normandy made way for a busy life in Paris, where people moved faster and smiled less. Papa opened the flower shop and we forged a new existence without Mama.
A stoic man, Papa has cried only once, as far as I’ve seen: on Christmas morning, the year I turned thirteen. Just after breakfast, I had given him a photograph I’d found of Mama in a box buried deep in the attic. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen, so beautiful, with her wavy dark hair, just like Cosi’s, falling over her shoulders. I found the perfect frame for it at a secondhand store and wrapped it for Papa. To this day, I’m not sure if he’d ever seen the photograph before, but when he set his eyes on it, he wept.
Yet, despite Papa’s efforts to keep his sadness at bay all these years, it’s still there. He wears it like a scarf, permanently tied around his neck. The truth is, as big as Papa’s heart is, Mama took half of it when she passed. When you lose a love as deep as they had, can the void ever be filled?
“Mama?” Cosi asks, jarring me from my memories.
“It’s beautiful,” I proclaim, turning my eyes back to her little watercolor masterpiece before planting a kiss on her cool, rosy cheek. “You’ve captured it like a true artist. It’s just as I remember.”
She tucks a lock of her dark hair behind her ear and looks up at me with a confident smile. “Will you take me there someday?”
“I promise,” I tell her.
“And can we get a tarte normande, the kind you used to love as a little girl?”
The mere mention has my mouth watering and my heart aching. I can almost taste the tarts my mother used to make, with apples from the trees in our garden, loads of freshly grated cinnamon, and a dollop of whipped cream on top.
“And can we look for treasure on the beach?”
“Yes, sweet child.”
“And can we throw rocks in the water and look for starfish in the tide pools?”
I nod, fighting back tears. She’s as much like her father as she is like me. An optimist through and through who sees the good in all people, with a fierce, determined spirit. Pierre would be so proud. I clutch the gold necklace he gave me on our wedding day, with the tiny diamond pendant reminding me of the life we once had together.
His death was sudden, just as Mama’s was, but unlike her, he wasn’t struck by illness. Six months after our wedding, just after I’d discovered I was pregnant with Cosi, I awoke to the sound of him opening the closet door, then the rustle of fabric as he pulled on his trousers. The clink of a belt buckle, feet slipping into shoes. I opened my eyes with a yawn. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Come back to bed,” I said groggily. That evening, I’d planned on telling him the news of the baby I carried. First, I’d stop by the butcher and select a special steak to accompany his favorite dish, gratin dauphinois, a simple yet inexplicably divine mixture of thinly sliced and layered potatoes, garlic, Gruyère cheese, and cream. I’d watched my mother make it a hundred times, but it would be my first attempt in my own kitchen.
I remember the look on his face that morning. I always will. So handsome, his eyes filled with passion, just as much for me as for life in general. Pierre had such dreams, and a plan for all of them. When his business picked up, a little wine shop in Montmartre, he planned to open a second, and then a third, with the ultimate goal of becoming the most successful wine merchant in Paris. After that, he said, we’d buy a country house in Provence and spend our summers lounging beside a mineral-rich pool, breathing in lavender-scented air. Papa would come, too, of course. Pierre’s success would allow my father to finally retire and rest his weary, arthritic hands. A beautiful life and future to look forward to, and it was ours, all ours.
That morning, full of all those big dreams and love, he’d walked back to bed, lowered his majestic body, and pressed his lips against mine, sending a rush of energy through me like only the very best espresso can. No man had ever had that effect on me, and sometimes I wondered if it could really be possible to love someone so much that you might burst.
“Don’t leave,” I said.
“I won’t be gone long,” he replied with a wink.
“But it’s so early,” I muttered from that foggy place between sleep and waking, glancing at the clock. Half past six. “Where could you possibly need to be at this hour?”
“It’s a surprise,” he said. “Go back to sleep, my love. When you open your eyes, I’ll be back, and you’ll see.”
Just as he instructed, I closed my eyes and my exhausted, newly pregnant body drifted back to sleep in moments. But when I awoke an hour later, Pierre hadn’t returned. The morning hours dragged on, and by afternoon, he still hadn’t come home. I busied myself preparing dinner, pulling off the gratin dauphinois without a hitch, thankfully. I poured the wine. I set the table. And by a quarter past six, the apartment smelled heavenly. But Pierre still hadn’t come home.
Panicked, I inquired at nearby cafés, the barber on the corner, and with Madame Benoît, who was just closing up her bakery. I still remember the bit of flour on her cheek. “Sorry, Céline,” she’d replied with a shrug.
No one had seen Pierre.
Then the call came. The ring of the telephone had never sounded so loud or frightening. I ran to it, not a second to waste. It would be Pierre. He’d let me know that he’d taken a detour to check on the shop, just as a new shipment of Bordeaux had come in. His assistant, Louis, young and inexperienced, was not capable of categorizing the bottles and stocking them on the right shelves, so he had to do the job himself. The life of a business owner, of course. I knew it well. I would be mildly annoyed, but understanding. I’d encourage him to bicycle home as quickly as possible. “Dinner is getting cold! I’ve made your favorite dish!” He would calmly say, “Sorry to keep you waiting, my love. I’ll be home in a flash.” And there he’d be, fiftee
n minutes later, standing in the doorway, with that handsome, expectant smile. He’d beg my forgiveness and he’d have it, in an instant.
The voice on the phone was not Pierre’s but a police officer’s, calling from the sixteenth arrondissement. “I’m sorry to inform you, madame, that your husband…”
I don’t remember what he said next, not exactly. The officer’s words felt like bullets, but at one one-hundredth of the normal speed—so slow, I felt each one hit my body and tear through my heart.
Pierre’s body had been found wedged between a delivery truck and a brand-new gray Renault. When the truck hit him, he’d been thrown from his bicycle and pinned against the other oncoming vehicle. The medics said he died instantly. He hadn’t suffered.
That night, I jumped on my bicycle and pedaled to the street where he took his last breath. I fell to my knees when I saw the most heartbreaking scene of my life: a badly mangled bicycle left lying on its side, and pink peony petals scattered on the cobblestone street like fresh snow, the remnants of what could only have been an enormous bouquet.
My surprise.
Losing Mama, and then Pierre, was like getting hit by lightning twice. After that night, there were dark moments when I felt I couldn’t go on. I looked over the edge of my balcony more than a dozen times wishing for a quick exit to end the pain, but the little life inside me kept me hanging on. Papa helped, too, as best as he could. He spoon-fed me broth when I was too nauseated, or distraught, to eat, and held me when I cried so hard I soaked the collar of his shirt.
But, Cosi, my sweet Cosi, was ultimately the bandage my heart so badly needed. With her, I could go on, and I have. She is the reason I wake up in the morning and say my prayers at night. She’s also the reason I can see the beauty in every day, even this one.
“Bon après-midi,” our delivery boy, Nic, says, appearing in the doorway. He’s about twelve and very tall for his age. A sweet, hardworking boy, he holds down several jobs, including helping at Jeanty and a nearby bakery to ensure that his family makes ends meet.
Cosi blushes. I know she has a crush on him, but I dare not say anything to embarrass her. “Anything for me to take out this afternoon, monsieur?” he asks.
Papa nods and hands him an arrangement that’s ready for delivery. “Sure thing,” he says, smiling at Cosi before patting her on the head as he rushes out the door.
Cosi beams as she watches him leave, then turns to me, tugging at my apron. I look down at my little girl. “Can I go play in the park with Alina?” she asks.
Papa casts a concerned look my way. “A child of eight should not be playing in the park in these times. She should—”
“It’s fine, Papa,” I interrupt him before he can say anything further that might frighten her. Of course, I share his concern for her safety in our war-occupied city, but I am also keenly aware of Cosi’s need to be a child, to live openly and as carefree as possible even if the world around us seems to be falling down before our very eyes. Despite Papa’s concerns, I’ve tried my best to shield her from fear. Her life saved my own and gave my world new meaning. In return, I color hers in shades of joy and happiness. Where there is darkness, I cast light. Where there is worry, I provide relief.
She’ll be fine at the park. It’s just around the bend from the shop. And as cruel as the SS soldiers are, we have yet to hear a single story of a German officer harming a French child. There is still dignity in the world, and as long as there is, I intend to cling to it.
“Yes, honey,” I say, ignoring Papa. “But be back by six for dinner.”
She kisses me and dashes out of the shop and across the street. I watch her skip along as she disappears around the corner.
Papa mutters something under his breath.
“What?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. “You disagree with the way I’m raising her. Just say it.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. When his gaze meets mine, I can see that his eyes are misty, his expression tender, not cantankerous. “It’s only because I love her, and you, so much. I couldn’t”—he pauses to compose himself—“I couldn’t…live with myself if anything ever happened to either of you.”
I walk closer to him and place my hands on his shoulders, kissing both his cheeks. “Oh, Papa, I know you worry,” I say. “But nothing will happen to us. We are fine. We always will be.”
He smiles. “You’re just like her.”
I know he means Mama, and it’s the best compliment he can pay me.
“You see the way she did. Always through rose-colored glasses.”
I grin. “It’s more fun that way.”
We both turn around when we hear the jingle of bells on the door, alerting us to a customer. This one I don’t recognize. A German officer, clearly, and high ranking, as evidenced by his decorated shirt pocket. He’s taller than the others who have come in, at least six feet four, with exceptionally broad shoulders. He has dark hair and a square jaw. His eyes are cold, steely, and his figure casts an intimidating shadow on the shop floor. I greet him with a cheerful bon après-midi, in the same manner that I greet all of our customers. It’s my one rebellion, showing no special treatment for the Germans and often regarding them with indifference.
He grunts something at me, and I wait a long beat to respond. “May I help you?” I finally say.
He ignores me as he paces slowly around the shop, inspecting every corner suspiciously, as if the very flowers and their petals might be spies. I watch as he pulls a red rose from a vase, raises it to his nose, then tosses it on the ground. Papa and I exchange a worried glance.
“What has happened to roses?” the man asks. His French is good, even if tinged with a heavy German accent. The question appears to be as much to himself as to us. Neither Papa nor I venture a response. “In the Fatherland, a rose smells like a…rose. These French roses smell like shit. French shit.”
I open my mouth to speak, but the officer does first. “And these?” he asks, pointing to a bucket of hydrangeas, variegated, purple and pink. They’re very hard to find this time of the year unless you have connections with the best gardeners in the south. “What the hell are these?”
“Hydrangeas,” I say. “May I interest you in an arrangement, for a special someone? They’d look lovely with a sprig of—”
“No,” he grunts, turning his gaze to Papa. He walks closer to the counter, where Papa stands. With each of his slow, heavy steps, I feel my temperature rise a degree. “What is your name, sir?”
“Claude Moreau,” Papa replies. If he’s worried, he shows no sign of it. Just the same, my heart pounds wildly in my chest.
“Moreau,” the officer says. “A proper French name.”
Papa remains quiet, his face emotionless.
The officer laughs to himself. “The führer himself loves the French, so much so that we spared Paris. He’ll be living here before long, you know, setting up residence just up the way. The French are, you might say…special.” He turns to me and smiles. “And, I might add, very attractive.”
I shiver as Papa clears his throat. “Monsieur, if we may help you with an order, please let us know your requirements so we may begin assembling it for you.” It’s an offer of service as much as a man-to-man warning. While it’s true that we’ve always remained somewhat guarded when a member of the German Army enters the shop, this is the first time I feel any real sense of fear.
“Oh yes,” he says, glancing at Papa, then turning his gaze back to me. He seems amused by something neither Papa nor I understand. “You may help me.” He walks toward me, stopping at an uncomfortably close distance. He reaches his large hand to my collarbone and, with his index finger, traces the outline of the gold necklace from Pierre, then smiles at Papa. “I’ll take two dozen of those shit roses.” He laughs. “French girls like anything.”
I nod. My hands tremble as I select the roses from the bucket besi
de me and carry them to the counter for Papa to arrange.
“What’s your name?” the officer asks me.
I look at Papa, then back at him. I know I have no choice but to answer his question. “Céline,” I finally say.
“Céline,” he says, as if both perplexed and amused. “Such a forgettable name for such a very memorable girl.” He pauses to think, then nods to himself. “You look more like a Helga to me, a fitting name for a very beautiful Fräulein.”
Papa’s hands work at lightning pace, and in a moment’s time, he extends the bouquet to the officer. “Will that be all?” Papa asks, his tone firm—I worry, too firm.
“Yes, sir,” he says, reaching into his pocket, then tossing a wad of cash on the countertop.
“Goodbye…Helga,” he says with a laugh, tipping his hat to me. He walks to the door, turning to us once more. “Like I said, your daughter is a beautiful woman.” He shakes his head. “A shame, sir, that you have such a prominent Jewish nose.”
The door closes with a slam, and after a long pause, I run to Papa and throw my arms around him. “Do you think he—”
“Don’t worry about him,” he says. “He’s just trying to scare us. That’s what they do. They prey on people’s fears so they can control them.” He pulls me to his chest. “Don’t you worry, my Céline. He has no power over us.” And with that, he turns back to the cash register and deposits the money in the till. We both notice the officer has underpaid us by many reichsmarks, but we don’t discuss it.
I reach for my jacket as a shiver runs down my body. “I’m going to go get Cosi for dinner a little early,” I say, heading to the door.
“Good idea,” Papa says. “And, Céline?”
I turn around to face him before exiting the shop.
“Be careful.”
Looking over my shoulder two or three times, I walk with a brisk stride to the park to find my daughter. It feels colder than usual, and I pull the collar of my jacket up a bit higher.
