by Sarah Jio
“Mama?”
I turn around again. “I’m not scared,” she says with a smile that brings tears to my eyes. “You know why?”
“Why, love?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from cracking.
“Because I have Monsieur Dubois!” She squeezes her beloved bear, heavily matted and showing more signs of age than ever. I must remember to sew his left ear in place—again.
“Yes, dear one. You are never alone.” I blow her a kiss.
“Say it,” she says.
I smile, knowing immediately what she wants to hear, the very same words my mother would say to me when we parted. She’d look at me with her big, loving eyes and say, “Ne t’envole pas, mon petit oiseau.” Don’t fly away, my little birdie.
“Ne t’envole pas, mon petit oiseau,” she repeats to me.
I blow her a kiss and close the door behind me. Esther’s apartment is on the ground floor; I hold Papa’s elbow as we slowly make our way down the stairs to her door, where I knock two times. A moment later, I hear footsteps, then an extended silence before the door creaks open, letting out a slow sliver of light, which pierces the dim hallway. A pair of brown eyes peers out at us.
“Céline?” Esther says, opening the door a bit wider.
“Yes,” I say, “I’m here with my father, Claude. I know it’s late, and I hate to disturb you, but…we need your help.”
“Of course,” she says, without a moment’s pause, opening the door wider and cautiously eying the staircase behind us. “Come in right away,” she says, whisking us over the threshold then, closing the door and securing the latch.
Her apartment is much smaller than ours, but charming in its own way. Perched toward the back of the building, it abuts the garden where Cosi and I tend to our little plot of land.
“Please, sit down,” Esther says warmly, pointing to a sofa. The apartment is much more stylish than I imagined, with its walls painted a pleasing shade of burgundy and an assortment of unique furnishings, including a vase of peacock feathers, which I am certain Cosi would love.
Esther isn’t what you’d call a fashionable person, or high society in any way, with her cropped haircut and muslin dresses, and yet there is something quite smart about her, odd as she is. She’s my age, or maybe a few years younger, but in the ten years since she’s lived below us, I’ve never once seen her in the company of a man. Sad, some might think. But Esther has always seemed effortlessly content working her shift at the hospital each day, then coming home to her cat, Gigi.
I notice a little writing desk by the window, with a typewriter and a rather thick stack of typewritten pages bound with two rubber bands. Esther sees me looking at her desk and nods. “I’m writing a book,” she says with a confident smile.
“A book?”
“Yes,” she says. “Well, a collection of stories. I’ve heard so many things from my patients over the years. I needed a place to put them all.” She smiles. “So I decided to write them.”
I grin at Papa, trying to lighten the mood. “Look, we might end up in a book!”
“Indeed so,” Esther says before Papa can muster a half-hearted smile. “Look for a mention in chapter nineteen.” She frowns as I recount Papa’s injuries while she examines his wounds. “We’ll get you fixed up as good as new. But before I get started, may I make you a cup of tea?”
“No,” I say. “We wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble,” she says. “I think I’d like one myself.”
I’ve been so consumed with worry over Papa that I hadn’t noticed that she’s in her nightdress and robe. We have woken her, or at the very least caught her just as she was retiring for the night. And yet she is not the least bit inconvenienced. In a few moments she returns, carrying a hot teapot in one hand and three stacked teacups in the other.
“You’re too kind,” I say to Esther. “We are very grateful for your help. I called Dr. Bennion earlier and…”
Esther quietly shakes her head as she pours the tea. “Say no more,” she says, handing Papa a cup, then me. “I’m glad you came to me. Dr. Bennion is not a trustworthy man.”
I think of all the times he treated Papa, Cosi, and me. He’d been friendly then, hadn’t he? Did I have him pegged all wrong?
“Sadly, this war has brought out the worst in some,” she says. “And that Dr. Bennion is one of them.” She shakes her head. “No medical provider should turn away a person for any reason, especially because of their race.”
I assume she’s talking about Papa, but then she continues. “Last week, a child of only three came in with a deep chest cough. The poor dear could hardly breathe. She needed oxygen immediately. She was Jewish; I noticed the star on her mother’s coat. Dr. Bennion turned her away. He said his schedule was booked.” She shakes her head gravely. “It wasn’t. I was the charge nurse on duty that day and I saw the clipboard.”
“I don’t understand,” I say with a sigh.
She nods. “Some things are impossible to understand. Like evil.”
“But Dr. Bennion isn’t…evil,” I say.
“He may not be,” Esther replies, “but he’s succumbed to it nevertheless. And who knows why? Because he wants to protect himself, or his wealth and position? Because he’s scared? I don’t know.” She looks off into the distance, where her cat is purring on the little dining room table.
As hard as all of this is to stomach, how can I fault Dr. Bennion? Isn’t every one of us trying to hide from the Nazis, keep our heads down, avoid confrontation of any kind—all so we may protect what is dearest to us? I’d been doing that very thing by heeding Luc’s advice and staying away from the shop for a time.
And then there are people, like Esther, who say to themselves, “I don’t want to end up arrested by an SS officer, but I do want to help this person in need—this person whose association with me could cause me much personal trouble.”
She reaches for her medical bag and switches on the lamp beside Papa. “Now, let’s have a look,” she says, peeling back the bandage I wrapped around his forehead earlier today.
Tears sting my eyes as I lean toward Esther and whisper in her ear (on Papa’s right side, where his hearing is diminished): “They put the star on our shop window today.”
“I know,” she says without emotion. “I saw it.”
I wipe away a tear. Of course she did. Esther and everyone else in our neighborhood. Word has surely gotten out now, far and wide. I begin to think of all of our wealthy patrons, French citizens who have managed to keep their lives functioning as if Paris were not under siege, as if, despite the impending threat of world takeover, the lavish life continued—the dinner parties and luncheons with elaborate floral arrangements. Yes, for some time we have been able to weave in and out, undetected, but only because we cloaked ourselves with a fictitious sense of security. But now the cloak is off, and we have been branded, and for that, others will disassociate.
“We’ll be out of business before Christmas,” I whisper.
“No,” Esther says. “You won’t be. You have plenty of good and noble French clients who respect your father and will stand by you.”
“Like Dr. Bennion?” I say, shaking my head.
She takes a deep breath. “The good ones will stand tall,” she says, fixing her eyes on mine. “Don’t you forget that. Don’t let all this evil make you forget that there is still so much good.” She smiles. “There are still more flowers than there are weeds.”
She hands me a handkerchief and I take it. It’s been embroidered with the initials LRJ, and I wonder if it once belonged to someone she loved. “Thank you,” I say, dabbing my eyes.
Here’s a woman who works at a war-embattled hospital day after day, caring for French and Germans alike, and yet she seems to have no fear. I decide that I want to live the way Esther does, fearless and heart-forward. Can I?
&nbs
p; I explain the assault Papa sustained, and Esther frowns as she pulls a box of gauze from her medical bag. “Now,” she says to Papa, steadying his chin with her hand. “This may hurt a little.”
Esther cleans his wound, then begins stitching his skin back together in the same way I did needlepoint as a girl. Papa only winces once.
“There,” she finally says, stepping back and examining her work. “As good as new.”
“You are very kind,” I say as Papa and I stand and walk to the door. “Thank you ever so much.”
“You come to me whenever. Whatever I can do, I will.” I am overwhelmed by her kindness. She looks at Papa for a long moment, then at me. “We’re all in this together, you know?”
“Yes, indeed we are,” Papa says. His voice sounds so tired.
I reach for Esther’s hand and squeeze it. “Please, let us make you dinner one night.”
“I would love nothing more,” she replies with a smile.
Papa and I turn to the stairs to walk back to our apartment but stop suddenly when we hear voices on the floor above.
“You know they shut their flower shop down,” a woman says.
“It’s about time,” another replies. “I just hope they get them out of our building. The last thing we need is another Jewish family causing trouble.”
Papa and I exchange glances as the two women continue to talk before disappearing into a door on the second floor. We both know which one: the home of Francine and Maxwell Toulouse. Their daughter, Alina, attends school with Cosi and has been over to our home many times. She has always been kind, unlike her parents, who have never seemed to warm to us. I figured it was because my dresses weren’t fashionable enough, or something silly like that, given Francine’s elaborate wardrobe. Maxwell is the only son of one of France’s most successful railroad entrepreneurs. But his rumored laziness did not please his father. And so, he was given just enough money each month to live comfortably, and no more. The rest would come upon his father’s death. And by the sound of Francine’s frequent complaints about the apartment building, it is obvious to anyone who knows the couple that they can’t wait for that day.
“Don’t worry about them,” Papa whispers to me as we continue up the stairs. “Just harmless gossips.”
“But what if they—”
“Shhh. It will all be fine.”
I glance at my watch; more than a half hour has passed, and I immediately regret leaving Cosi home alone. I could have brought her with us, but…I didn’t want to frighten her. And yet, we’ve been gone longer than I had hoped. I walk a little faster up the last flight of stairs, rounding the corner toward the hallway that leads to our door, which is…gaping open.
“Cosi?” I cry, racing into our apartment. I hadn’t left the door open, and Cosi knows better than to leave.
“Cosi!”
“Cosi!” Papa chimes in.
Her coat, her shoes. They’re all there. I run to look in her bedroom, and mine. Empty. I scour the living room and find Monsieur Dubois lying on the floor. I pick him up and pull him to my chest and burst into tears.
“Papa, they took her,” I sob. “They took Cosi!”
He reaches for his coat on the hook by the door. “I’ll go out and ask if anyone has seen her. Maybe she—”
“No,” I say, frantically. I want to find my baby girl more than anything in the world, but if Papa goes out after curfew, especially after today…I can’t bear to think of what might happen. “Not after curfew. They’ll…arrest you. Let me go instead. I’m a woman. I’ll draw less suspicion.”
“I won’t have it,” he says in protest. “I won’t let my only daughter—”
“Oh, there you are,” Cosi says, appearing in the doorway holding the little blue ball she brought home from school yesterday.
I run to her and fall to my knees. “Cosi! Cosi! Darling, we were so worried! Where did you go? What happened?” I search her face. “Are you hurt?”
“No, Mama.” She tosses her ball in the air, catching it with both hands. “I know you might be upset with me, but I opened the door just a smidge, because”—she pauses to collect her bear from the floor—“naughty Monsieur Dubois dared me to do it.” She giggles. “We were playing a game. But then my ball fell down the stairs, so I ran to go get it. When I saw you and Papa walking up the stairs, I was worried you’d be cross with me, so I waited and tried to sneak in behind you.”
“We were so worried,” I say, squeezing her tightly.
“Sorry, Mama,” she says. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
My heart still pounds wildly in my chest as I hold her close to me. That night, after Papa is settled in bed, and I tuck Cosi in beside me, listening to the way her breath changes as she drifts into a deep sleep, I think about all the things I’ve lain awake wishing for before slipping into slumber, when the mind wanders and the heart yearns. A handsome husband with a kind smile who calls me “dear” and begs me to make cassoulet because he insists my recipe is even better than his grandmother’s. A house by the sea in Normandy with linen drapes that catch the breeze when the windows are open. A scarf like the ones I saw in the fashion magazines at the salon. A new set of fluffy pillows with silk cases.
But when I think of these things now, they mean nothing. There is only one wish that matters at this moment, the most important one of all: safety. For Cosi, Papa, Luc, and myself. Tomorrow we will wake up, and we will make breakfast like we always do, and we will carry on, with the hope that we can wake and make breakfast the next day, and the next, and the next, until there’s finally an end to this madness.
That is my one wish.
CHAPTER 9
CAROLINE
The autumn sun shines through my bedroom window as I sit up in bed and yawn. Today I’ll meet Victor at Jeanty for a walk and a picnic. I peruse my closet for something to wear, settling on a white off-the-shoulder linen sundress and sandals. Thanks to the unseasonably warm temperatures, I won’t need to bother with a sweater, but I toss a blue pashmina in my bag just in case the wind picks up later.
I take a quick glance at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, then walk closer, daring to lean in and inspect my face on a micro level. I have good-enough cheekbones, not razor-sharp like so many women in Paris (every other one you pass could be a professional model); my eyebrows have a nice arch; a few wrinkles on my forehead, oh well; dry skin; and lines around my jaw—whether they’re from frowning or smiling, I may never know. My lips look pale, so I open the drawer to my left and fumble around until I find a tube of lipstick. It still feels strange rummaging through my drawers and shelves. It’s all my stuff, of course, and yet I feel like a party guest who peeks into a medicine cabinet that is not hers, or a little girl sneaking into her mom’s makeup bag to steal a swipe of lipstick.
The lipstick I swipe is red, bright red. At first, I consider wiping it off, but I purse my lips in the mirror, then smile. Why not?
I think of the letters I’d found in the cigar box and wonder if the woman, Céline, had ever applied lipstick in this very bathroom. I decide to open another letter and read it before I start my day.
Dear Luc,
How I wish I could write to you with good news, but I’m afraid our situation here has worsened. Papa was badly beaten today, by the Germans. He’ll recover, though our business, I fear, will not. We’ve been branded with the yellow star. Everything I’d prayed wouldn’t happen is happening now. It’s like we’ve been pulled into the storm, and the winds are too powerful to withstand much longer.
I desperately wish that you’d come home. I’m so scared.
Yours,
Céline
Heart reeling, I read the letter once more, then tuck it back into its envelope. Never mind my own problems; I only wish I could transport myself to 1943 and help this poor woman. Whatever became of her?
My curiosity is int
ense as I tuck the letter back in the cigar box. I’m about to pull another out when my cellphone rings. It’s Victor.
“Hi,” I say, smiling.
“Hi. Are we still on for today?”
“Yes.” I glance at the clock. “Sorry, I guess I’m running a little late. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Is that okay?”
“Yes, great.”
I tuck the cigar box back in the drawer of my bedside table, then grab my bag and head to the elevator.
In the lobby, Monsieur de Goff is on the phone, and I’m a bit relieved, given his dismissive tone with me yesterday. Perhaps Victor is right about his prejudice against Americans and, apparently, my apartment.
I head out to the street and don’t give the matter a second thought.
* * *
—
“HI,” VICTOR SAYS to me when I arrive at Jeanty. “You look…beautiful.”
I feel my cheeks flush a little. “Oh, thanks.”
“I’m just about ready,” he says, reaching for a basket. Inside are a few paper to-go boxes, a baguette, a small blanket rolled into a perfect cylinder. He runs to the kitchen and returns with another small box, a bottle of wine, and two small glasses, which he tucks inside. “There,” he says, holding the door open for me. “Shall we?”
I pretend not to notice the hostess and bartender smiling at us. Why would they be? This is not a date, after all.
“So, I was thinking I’d take you up to the Montmartre neighborhood. It’s a bit of a walk, so I wanted to check first to see how you’re healing.”
“No more aches and pains,” I say. “And my doctor called to say that I’m cleared for exercise, so let’s do this.”
“Good,” he says. “I promise, you won’t be disappointed.”
I smile.
Victor wears a pair of jeans and Converse and a tailored linen shirt the color of the summer sky. He looks different in street clothes, in a good way. He’s trimmed his beard, and all that remains is a soft shadow of stubble around the edge of his strong jaw.
