by Sarah Jio
CÉLINE
The telephone calls begin, initially at a slow trickle, and then like a faucet turned on full speed. First, Madame Laurent. “I’m so sorry to bother you at your home, but your shop seems to be closed and, well, I will need to cancel my order for Saturday night. Nothing personal, you know. It’s just a very important dinner, and I’ve placed my order elsewhere.”
“Of course, madame,” Papa says, without the slightest hint of disappointment. “We understand completely.”
And then Madame Clément, who, five years ago, sent us business from more than fifteen people in her circle of wealthy friends: “Dear me, I regret to say that I have decided that I no longer need flowers for Sunday brunch.”
“Yes, Madame Clément,” says Papa, setting the phone down in its cradle with a defeated click.
And then Madame Fontaine, who has always been so kind to us, bringing Cosi a gift on her birthday every year: “Seeing that it’s wartime, I’ve decided that it isn’t right for me to be spending money on flowers when I could be giving more to those in need. Surely you understand.”
“Yes, Madame Fontaine,” Papa says.
Recognizing Papa’s despair, I handle the phone calls after that. At least a dozen more.
“Yes, madame.”
“Of course, madame.”
“If you should reconsider, we will be here.”
“Indeed, madame.”
“We understand, yes.”
Our customers are leaving us in a mass exodus, but can we even blame them? Associating with Jews is risky, everyone knows that. And yet, we are the Jews. The very Jews they turned to for the most beautiful arrangements for the most important moments of their lives: weddings, luncheons, christenings, births of babies, deaths of loved ones, engagements. If they trusted us then, why don’t they trust us now? We haven’t changed, but Paris has. And now our business is finished.
Papa has some savings—not much, but enough to get us by for a few months until I can find work. Perhaps Nic could help me find work at the bakery. How hard would it be to serve pastries or wait tables, maybe even at…Bistro Jeanty! Madame Jeanty may not love me, but for Luc’s sake, she’ll surely allow me to wait tables until Luc returns.
Papa stands, his face awash in pride. “I won’t be put out of business like this.”
“We can’t keep our doors open without customers.”
“They’re just rattled right now,” he says. “They’ll come back.”
I shake my head. “We can’t count on that. You know as well as I what our expenses are. Without orders, we’ll be throwing money down the drain, money we need to…survive.”
Papa stares off into the corner of the living room. His eyes are determined, distant. I imagine he’s thinking of life in Normandy, before Hitler, before Mama’s death. I think of those times, too, and I wish I could relive them. But we are living now, and we must carry on. Papa knows that, and I can tell that he is embroiled in a battle with his pride.
I remember the envelope from Luc and run to my bedroom to retrieve it from my bag. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten about it, but I’ve been overwhelmed by Papa’s injuries and the incident at the shop.
“Wait, Papa,” I say, holding up the envelope tied with twine. “Luc left this for us.”
He shakes his head, confused.
“In the little compartment at Bistro Jeanty.” He doesn’t understand. “Never mind how. Just look.” I pull off the twine and tear the seal open. Inside is a thick stack of German marks, which I fan and count quickly. “There’s at least five hundred here, maybe more. And look.” I pause to produce some papers that have been folded into a tight square. “Oh, Papa, it’s paperwork. Official paperwork. Our names have been changed, yours, mine, and Cosi’s. Look, different surnames. We are now the Le Blanc family. Papa, do you know what this means?”
He stares ahead, frozen, as if all this information is too much for him to process.
“Papa, it means we can get out of here! It means we can find a train to the south, maybe cross the border there into Switzerland, or better yet, book passage to America.”
“America? Switzerland?” He shakes his head. “I will never leave my home.”
Cosi skips down the hallway clutching Monsieur Dubois. “Are we going to America? Really? I heard it’s nice there.”
I smile at my beautiful daughter. “We’ll talk about it later, my little birdie. Now run along and go finish that puzzle you started this morning while Papa and I talk.”
“Okay, Mama,” she says with a smile, turning to look over her shoulder once more before running down the hallway. “I hope we move to California. They have palm trees there.”
I nod playfully. “They do, love.”
“Papa, you must listen,” I say, sitting beside him on the sofa. “We can’t stay here. People like…us are being arrested at every turn. Men are disappearing. Women and children are being…” It’s all too awful to say. “Luc is trying to protect us. We must make a plan.”
Papa’s eyes meet mine. “I know, my dear. I know. And you are a fighter, just like your mother. It’s just that…” He pauses, and closes his tired eyes for a moment. “I don’t know if I have much more fight in me.”
Papa will turn seventy next month, and he looks older now than ever before.
I fall to my knees beside him. “Then let me fight for you,” I say. “For all three of us.”
“I can’t ask that of you, Céline.” He pats my hand. “You go, with Cosi. Luc will find you.”
“I don’t understand, Papa. What are you saying?”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m staying. I’m not leaving my home.”
I know in this moment that there is no amount of convincing or pleading that will change his mind.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You must,” he says. “Take your papers and do as Luc has advised.”
I shake my head. “No. I won’t abandon you like this. I could never do that.” I nod, resolutely. “It’s decided then. We’ll stay here. We have the money from Luc to keep us going, and I’ll find work. In fact, I’m going to go see about that today.”
I rest my head on Papa’s shoulder, glancing out the window beside us. “Look,” I say. “It’s snowing.”
“Early for the year,” Papa says. His smile warms me. “Almost makes the city feel…” His voice trails off.
“The way it used to feel?” I offer, finishing his sentence.
He nods, and I squeeze his hand.
Tomorrow the city will be dusted in powdered sugar, and Cosi will squeal with delight, and I will rejoice that we have survived another day.
I kiss Papa good night, then nestle in beside Cosi, who is fast asleep, before turning to my bedside table and reaching for a pen and paper. By moonlight, I compose a letter to Luc. I don’t know where he is, or if he’ll ever read my words, but it gives me great comfort to write to him.
I tuck the letter in an envelope and set it beside the others I’ve written. When we’re reunited, I’ll give them all to him, an account of our days apart, and a reminder of the beauty of reunification.
CHAPTER 11
CAROLINE
The accident has left me with the strangest dreams. Although it’s fair to say that maybe I’ve always been this way; I’m just not sure. I do know that each night, my mind is filled with the most elaborate plot twists, and when my eyes open in the morning, I am hard-pressed to make sense of any of it.
I think of Céline again. She’d made an appearance in my dream, or my imagination’s creation of her has, anyway. She stood on the balcony on a cold night, wrapped in a shawl, the stoic full moon perched over Paris, illuminating her sad face. I recall the last of her letters that I’d read before turning the bundle over to Estelle, and I can almost hear Céline’s voice.
Dear Luc,
&n
bsp; Thank you for the provisions to get us out of the city. I know we must go, and soon. Each day that passes is a gift when people like us are being rounded up day and night. I want to go so badly, but Papa refuses. He will not leave his home, and I just can’t bear to abandon him. Oh, Luc, I wish you were here to advise what to do. I’m so very, very lost. Your love sustains me, though. I feel it all the time. I feel it now.
I miss you terribly.
Yours,
Céline
Did they ever reunite? Had fate been kind to them? I sigh, reluctantly pulling myself out of bed and my head out of the past. It’s time I face matters of the present.
I dress quickly and head out the door to the elevator. In the lobby, Monsieur de Goff is engaged in a conversation with another tenant in the building, a woman in her sixties with short gray hair and a friendly smile. When our eyes meet, he looks away, then continues exchanging pleasantries with the woman—American, judging by her accent—before she walks out the door behind me.
“Excuse me,” she says. I turn around to find her smiling at me curiously. “I’m new here, and I don’t think we’ve met.” She smiles. “I’m Anna.”
I extend my hand. “Caroline.”
“Is it just me,” she continues, “or does our concierge disapprove of Americans?”
I grin. “I’m glad to know I’m not the only one he despises.”
“Well,” she says, adjusting the Hermès scarf around her neck, “perhaps we’re being too critical of him.” She leans in closer to me. “The other day, I met a couple on the second floor who told me he’s had a rather harrowing life.”
“Oh?”
“I guess he lived right here as a child, on the rue Cler.” She points across the square. “I didn’t get the whole story, but I’m told that he was just a boy of four or five when the Germans rounded up his family and took everything.” She sighs. “I’ll never be able to understand that kind of evil.”
“I had no idea….”
She nods. “Maybe we should forgive him the next time he snaps at us.”
“Yes.”
* * *
—
MY HEART IS heavy as I walk to Jeanty. To think that all around me—the letters in my apartment, Monsieur de Goff—are remnants of such an ugly time in history. It makes my amnesia pale in comparison. In fact, for those who suffered trauma, as Monsieur de Goff reportedly has, amnesia could even be a gift.
“Hi,” I say to Victor. My cheeks warm when I remember the way he kissed my hand yesterday.
He smiles. “Hi, you.”
“I have an art class at ten, so I don’t have a lot of time, but I wanted to come in to say hi.” Inès called last night and encouraged me to attend; I’d cautiously agreed.
“An art class? That’s wonderful!”
We slip into a booth on the left side of the restaurant, and Victor motions to a waiter to take my order. “Just espresso today,” I say. Victor orders one, too.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Okay, I guess.”
He analyzes my face like a treasure map. “Any new—”
“Memories?” I shake my head. “Well, just more visions, or flashbacks, or whatever they are that I’ve been having.”
He listens expectantly.
“I’m in California, or somewhere warm and coastal like that. There’s a little girl. Her name is…Alma.” Saying the name aloud feels equal parts refreshing and painful, like an acupuncture needle twisting in the skin.
Victor stares at me for a long moment. “Wow,” he says. “I…don’t know what to say.”
I look into his eyes. “What if I—”
“Alma,” he says. “That’s a really cool name.” He scratches his head. “I may be mistaken, but I think there’s a hotel in Mexico—yes, Tulum, actually—called the Alma Inn or something like that. I ended up there years ago during that travel period of my life I told you about. Have you ever been to Tulum?”
I shake my head. “No—at least not that I can remember.”
“Listen,” he continues, his face tender. “These visions you’re having…try not to let them get to you too much. Didn’t the doctor say something about your memory repairing in fits and starts? Some of these episodes might be memories, but what if others are merely your mind’s creations, or even scenes from movies?”
“I guess you could be right,” I say, nodding. “But something about it all feels…so real.”
“Yes, perhaps,” he says. “But you know what’s really real?”
I search his brown eyes, grateful for his friendship, his kindness.
“This,” he says. “Right here, right now. We can spend our lives chasing the past, turning our regrets over and over again, replaying painful memories, wishing we had done this or that differently, wondering why someone failed us, or why we failed them and whether we might have prevented it somehow.” He shakes his head. “I used to live in the past. Not anymore. I live for today. And that’s my wish for you, too, Caroline.”
I blink back tears.
“Promise me that you’ll at least try?”
“Yes,” I say, forcing a smile. “I will. But…just one question.”
“Okay.”
“Do you think she would have been amazing?” I ask, my voice cracking. “If I had a daughter?”
Victor turns back to the kitchen, and I worry that I’m taking up too much of his time, or being too needy.
“I’m sorry,” I say, standing up, then taking a long sip of the espresso I’ve neglected. “I should go. The class starts soon, anyway.”
“There’s no question,” Victor says, turning to me again.
“No question of what?”
“No question that any child of yours would be a phenomenal human being.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile.
“Now go paint a masterpiece.”
“Wait,” I say, turning back from the door. “It’s probably nothing, but when I got home yesterday Monsieur de Goff, my building’s concierge, said a man had stopped by asking for me. As far as I know, I don’t have any male friends.”
“Did he leave his name?”
I shake my head. “What if it’s Mr. Tropical Shirt?”
Victor smiles, but I can tell he’s more troubled than amused.
“It’s probably nothing of concern, but it did leave me curious, especially since…I don’t think I told you….That night that professor walked me home, I had this weird feeling that someone was following me.”
“That settles it, then,” Victor says. “I’m coming over tonight to make sure the boogeyman doesn’t get you.”
I smile. “I’d like that.”
“How about seven?”
“Perfect.”
I turn to the door, but then remember the little nosegay of freesia and stock I’d bought this morning on my walk. I’d been unable to resist the flowers’ beautiful scent, even if they’d be long wilted before I made it home later in the day. I reach into my bag and hand it to Margot. She looks wearier than ever. “Just a little something to brighten your day,” I say with a smile.
Stunned, she holds the little bunch of blossoms to her nose. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“See you tomorrow,” I say, reaching for the door handle.
“Thank you,” Margot says, her voice cracking a little.
* * *
—
“THIS IS QUITE lovely,” Inès says, peering over my shoulder as I put the finishing touches on the painting I’d begun earlier this morning. “Promise me you’ll consider being a part of our art show next month.”
“I don’t know,” I say, setting my brush down.
“All you need are three or four pieces, and at this rate, you’ll have plenty of time.” She smiles at me. “Besides, I think it
would be a good goal for you.”
“Maybe,” I say with a cautious smile, washing my palette and brushes. I thank Inès, then head to the corner market and pick up a baguette, a few wedges of cheese, and a bottle of wine for Victor’s visit this evening.
As I head for home, the wind picks up, ushering in an army of dark clouds. I feel a raindrop on my cheek, prompting me to quicken my pace. After a long streak of sun, Parisians, me included, are allergic to clouds. Shopkeepers peer out of store windows, gazing up at the sky with concern. Passersby zip up their coats and cinch their scarfs.
I cross the street to my apartment, but turn sharply to my right when I sense someone close behind me. Of course, no one’s there but a baguette-carrying older gentleman turning to round the next corner. I tell myself to stop being paranoid, and yet I can’t help but pick up my pace to a light jog until my apartment building is in sight. In the lobby, I set my bags down, winded. I’m grateful to see Monsieur de Goff standing at his post.
“I’m sorry,” I say, catching my breath. “I…got spooked.”
For the first time, I think I detect concern on his face.
“It was nothing, of course.” I turn to the elevator.
“Mademoiselle,” he says, prompting me to turn around. “The man who came to see you yesterday returned again today. Just like before, he didn’t leave his name.”
I shiver.
He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper, then hands it to me.
“What’s this?”
“The name and phone number of the couple who remodeled your apartment. You seemed curious, so I…Anyway, in case you wanted to contact them.”
“Thank you. So much.” I am touched by the gesture. “Monsieur de Goff, I just want to say that I’m sorry if I have ever been unkind or—”
“We all have our reasons,” he says.
I nod, turning to the elevator.
“Mademoiselle,” he says again. “Do be careful.”
“Yes,” I say, forcing a smile.
I tell myself not to worry as the elevator jolts upward. I look over my shoulder as I unlock the door to my apartment. Everything is going to be fine. Just the same, once I’m inside, my hands move quickly to secure the deadbolt.
