by Sarah Jio
“Shall I just sign here?” Madame Huet asks.
I tiptoe closer until I can make out the face of the deliveryman standing on the threshold. Nic!
His eyes meet mine, but after a tiny flash of recognition, he nods coldly at the housekeeper. “Thank you, madame,” he says curtly as she hands him a coin.
Does he understand that I am being held captive in the apartment? I stare down at my swollen belly. Surely he doesn’t think I am here of my own free will. My heart races.
I think about those few moments for days, turning the encounter over and over in my mind until, two days later, the doorbell rings again, just after breakfast.
I follow Madame Huet to the door, and my heart practically bursts at the site of Nic again. Like last time, he keeps our association to himself. But I am bolstered by new hope. Maybe Luc has come home. Maybe he can get a message to him.
“But you must be mistaken,” Madame Huet says, shaking her head. “I didn’t place this order.”
Nic looks a little worried but keeps his cool. “It’s a…gift from my boss, Gabriel. He wishes to thank you for your business.”
“Oh,” Madame Huet says, taking the sack Nic extends to her. “Well, in that case, tell him that we thank him for the gesture.”
“I will,” Nic says cheerfully before casting a cautious glance my way. Our eyes lock for a moment, and with my gaze, I try to impart everything: “Nic, we are in trouble. Cosi and I need your help!”
It’s not clear whether he understands, or even cares. And maybe he’s only trying to protect himself. After all, how well do I really know him? In these times, even the seemingly nicest people have only the energy to look out for themselves, as evidenced by our own family physician.
But then Nic gives me a final glance, and I know, just know, that he has greater character and a bigger heart than that. “Oh, be sure to try the pains aux raisins,” he says. “They’re our specialty.”
After Madame Huet has closed and relocked the door, she heads to the kitchen with the pastries.
“Wait, do you think I might have a pastry…now?”
She looks at me quizzically. I can’t tell if she hates me or pities me, or both. “But you only just had breakfast.”
“I know,” I say, clutching my belly, “but I didn’t eat a lot at dinner last night and I’m still a bit hungry.”
“Suit yourself,” she says, handing me the bag. I spot two pains aux raisins and select both of them.
“My, my,” she says, eying me critically.
“It’s just that…well, I’m famished this morning.”
“Hungry indeed,” she continues. “But if I were you, I’d be careful. Reinhardt won’t be pleased if you gain too much weight.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, turning back to my bedroom. “Thank you, madame.”
I shut the door and Cosi crawls out from under the bed. “Look,” I say. “Pastries!”
She climbs up onto the bed beside me, her eyes bright. “Oh, Mama, let me touch them. Are they real?”
“Of course they are, love,” I say. “But first, before we eat them, we have to look for something.”
“For what?” Cosi asks, confused.
“A message. From a friend.” I can’t bear to tell her that Nic has just appeared at the door. She’d weep at the thought of missing him, and it would only sharpen her pain. “I think there may be hope for us.”
“Really?” Cosi asks eagerly, leaning in as I carefully pull the layers of sweet bread apart. There is nothing in the first one, and I wonder if I’ve simply imagined all of this—or, worse, if Nic believes I am willingly living in this apartment, a volunteer mistress to a German soldier.
I reach for the second pastry and pull it apart carefully, until I see a tiny slip of white paper, folded into a tiny speck. I open it eagerly, as Cosi looks over my shoulder. It reads: “Are you in trouble? Weds. ten A.M.”
“What does that mean?” Cosi asks.
“I think he wants me to give him a sign, to let him know if we need help.”
“Will you?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling. “This friend put himself at great risk doing this for us.”
“Mama?” Cosi says, her face beaming the way it used to when she’d race home from school with some exciting thing to tell me. “When we’re rescued, can I bake your friend a cake?” She smiles. “To thank him, for rescuing us.”
“Yes, my love,” I say, returning her smile. If only it were that simple. I reach for a scrap of paper on the desk. “Cosi, will you get me your pen?”
She climbs down to her little room, which she’s gotten so good at maneuvering into, though not out of. She isn’t quite tall enough to hoist herself back up, so I offer my hands.
“Here, Mama,” she says, handing me the pen.
I write on the piece of paper, careful to avoid Cosi’s gaze: “In trouble. Help. Pregnant. Find Luc, or Esther in my building. Talk to no one.” I don’t mention Cosi. It’s too risky. If Madame Huet, or Reinhardt, intercept the message— I shudder, not allowing myself to think about the possibly grave consequences.
Cosi looks at me with a hopeful expression. “Do you think it will work?”
“I hope so, love.”
* * *
—
I PRETEND TO be interested in plucking dead leaves from the houseplants in the living room on Wednesday at ten o’clock, but fifteen minutes pass and Nic still hasn’t arrived. When Madame Huet comes through with a basket of freshly folded laundry, she casts an annoyed glance my way. “What on earth has gotten into you? You’re destroying the plants.”
“I was only…getting rid of some of the dead matter,” I mutter. “We own a flower shop…or at least we used to.” I swallow hard. “Deadheading is good for plants.” My heart pounds in my chest like a gong—so loud, I wonder if Madame Huet can hear it. What if Nic doesn’t come? What if…
My heart seizes when the doorbell rings.
“Who on earth would that be?” Madame Huet says, setting the laundry basket down with an annoyed huff, eying me suspiciously.
Nic stands outside the door again. “Hello,” he says to Madame Huet, who looks, again, confused by his presence. “I was just”—his voice falters a bit, but he regains his steadiness—“making my rounds, and it seems that one of our employees mistakenly sent me with an extra order. Anyway, I was making a delivery nearby and thought of you.” He smiles a bit nervously and extends the bag. “Here.”
Madame Huet isn’t taking his bait. “No thank you,” she says, stepping back. “My boss doesn’t like charity. When we want pastries, we’ll order pastries. Good day.”
I run ahead, reaching my hand through the crack of the door before it closes.
“Wait!” I cry, grasping the bag in my hand as Nic takes the note tucked inside my palm. “We’d love them.”
Madame Huet closes the door and scowls at me. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Done what?” I ask, looking in the bag for a pain aux raisins. I see one and pull it out, along with a chocolate croissant for Cosi.
“Carried on like that,” she continues. “He might want trouble.”
I shrug. “A bakery delivery boy?”
“In these times, we can’t be too careful.” She clutches the key she keeps on a chain around her neck, and for the first time, I detect fear in her eyes. “What if he has been working with the enemy? Reinhardt would put a bullet through my head, and yours.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking a step back toward the bedroom. “It just seemed a shame to let those lovely pastries go to waste.”
“Just the same,” the housekeeper sneers at me, her momentary vulnerability gone, “stay in your room until dinner. I can’t risk you causing a scene when the laundry is delivered this afternoon.”
“Yes, madame,” I say, walking quickly
to my bedroom before she can snatch the pastries from my hand.
“Cosi,” I whisper, opening the hatch. There is no movement below, and I wonder if she’s sleeping. “Cosi!” I whisper again. A moment later, her sweet face appears in the light. Her face looks paler than ever. “Are you feeling all right, honey?”
She nods, but her grasp is weak as I pull her small body up into the room.
“Look,” I say. “Pastries!”
She seems unusually disinterested as I pull out the pain aux raisins and dissect it until I find the scrap of paper inside. My heart beats faster. It reads: “Hold steady. Help on the way.”
I smile at Cosi, my eyes welling up with tears. “Do you know what this means, honey?”
She doesn’t respond, and instead sets her head on the pillow.
“They’re coming for us. We’ll be rescued! And soon you can bake that cake.”
She smiles.
“Here,” I say, handing her the chocolate croissant. “Eat.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not that hungry, Mama.”
“Really? I’ve never seen you turn down a chocolate croissant.” I place my hand on her forehead. “Honey, you’re burning up!”
I tuck her under the blankets beside me, holding her close as her body shivers. Her fever worsens through the afternoon, and by dinner she is delirious and refuses to take sips of water.
When dinner comes, I tell Madame Huet I am ill and prefer to take my dinner in my room.
She nods, but as she dishes up my plate, larger servings than normal, I can tell her suspicions are piqued.
“Funny,” she says, handing me the tray and smiling curiously. “You don’t seem to have a cough.”
I clear my throat as the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “It…comes and goes,” I say, patting my chest. “Anyway, thank you. And…sorry for the trouble.”
I feel her gaze burning through my back as I leave the kitchen, wondering if she knows. And if so, if she’d tell Reinhardt.
I hold a spoon to Cosi’s lips but she recoils, turning her back to me, just as she does when I offer her a sip of water. I can’t bear to send her down to the cold, damp space beneath the floor. Not tonight, not in this state. So I tuck her close to me and hold her until we both doze off.
My eyes flash open, sometime in the night, at the sound of a door slamming, and then heavy footsteps in the hall. Reinhardt. There isn’t time to get Cosi beneath the floor. She’s weak and delirious as I tuck her beneath the bed instead. “Don’t make a sound,” I whisper. “He’s coming.”
Reinhardt opens the door a moment later as I pull the blanket up around my body. He stares at me for a long moment. Outside the window, a cloud shifts, and moonlight streams in, illuminating his face—tense, with dark shadows around his eyes, and a heavy layer of stubble on his jawline. He’s drunk. I can smell it. And as he takes a step toward my bed, I tremble. Not here. Anywhere but here. I can’t bear to think of Cosi being a witness to what Reinhardt has planned for me.
Instead, he stops and clears his throat. “I’m going away for a month. Important war business.”
I nod as he leans closer, pulling the cover, then the sheet, off my body and setting his gaze on me like a leaden blanket. His breathing is heavy as he places his large hand on my belly, the sour smell of whiskey and stale cigarettes heavy in the air.
He plants his wet lips on mine, thrusting his tongue into my mouth. The taste of his breath turns my stomach, and the stubble on his face burns against my skin, but I hold still, and a moment later, he pulls back.
“That’s all,” he says, closing the door.
I wait for several long moments, heart racing, before I peer down below the bed.
“Is the bad man gone?” Cosi mutters. “Did he hurt you?” I feel her forehead and gasp. Her fever has worsened. With Reinhardt here, she isn’t safe in the bed, but I can’t bear to send her down to the cold darkness below. Instead, I crawl down beside her under the bed, tucking the blanket around us, her shivering body beside mine. If Reinhardt returns, I’ll leap to my feet the moment I hear his footsteps, and lure him out of the room. With any luck, he won’t suspect Cosi.
I say a silent prayer as Cosi drifts into a feverish sleep beside me—for our protection. For Papa. For the Allied forces to be victorious. And it is answered—well, in part—moments later, when I hear the sound of a woman’s laughter down the hall. Though I ache for any woman who shares Reinhardt’s bed, I am grateful he isn’t sharing one with me. He’ll be snoring soon—I know his pattern well—and then he’ll be gone. Important war business. With any luck, we’ll be rescued before his return.
I’m able to persuade Cosi to take a sip of water, but no more, and she coughs loudly afterward.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “You mustn’t make a sound. Someone will hear.”
I’m able to quiet her, but then, a few minutes later, her cough persists, croupy and deep chested. Her breathing is shallow and she wheezes for air. I hold her to me, stroking her hair until she finally falls asleep, which is when I hear footsteps in the hall again. And this time, a knock at the door.
“Yes?” I say, inching out from under the bed and opening the door.
I peer into the hallway, but no one is there. The sounds of Reinhardt and his female companion have faded as well. And then something beside my feet catches my eye. I kneel down to find a tray on the floor. I cautiously lift it and close the door behind me, then set it on the bed to have a look: a glass of milk, a plate of buttered toast, two washcloths rolled up over a bowl of ice, and warm tea beside a bottle of aspirin. And, next to the plate, a little bowl of raisins.
Madame Huet. I blink back tears.
I offer Cosi a sip of tea and coax her to swallow an aspirin before pressing a cold compress to her forehead. Lord help us. Let us make it through this night.
CHAPTER 19
CAROLINE
The next morning, I open my eyes before sunrise, dress quickly, then make a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Careful not to wake Margot or Élian, I grab my sketchbook and tiptoe to the balcony, where I watch the sunrise. My memory, once locked shut, encapsulated, feels as if it’s been punctured by tiny pinholes, allowing a little light to shine into the darkness. Yesterday’s revelations have been monumental, and yet there are still so many shadows, so many dark corners of my memory waiting to be illuminated.
I pull my sweater tighter around me. Mornings are as chilly as they are beautiful. As the sun peeks up over the horizon, it casts a pink-orange glow on the sky, bathing the city in a soothing, rosy warmth.
I turn to my sketchbook. I can feel another memory coming. A big one. And I’ve been waiting for it for so long now.
I hear the palm trees, the wind chimes. I steady myself…
Alma. I can hardly believe that my little girl is turning seven. It seems like only yesterday that I’d found out I was pregnant. I stared at the pink line on the test strip for a solid hour. That spring, I painted a mural in her nursery, the natural thing to do when you are both an expectant mother and a professional artist. Peonies, roses, tulips, daffodils, zinnias. I wanted her to see flowers when she woke up and flowers when she closed her eyes at night. Of all the paintings I made in my career, the mural is one of my favorites.
“Make a wish!” I say, just before my little girl blows out her candles.
“Okay, Mama,” she says, pausing for a moment to consider her wish, then nodding assuredly. “Got it.” She closes her eyes, then takes a deep breath before extinguishing each of the seven flames.
After the presents are opened, the dishes are cleared and loaded in the dishwasher, and the last guest has gone, I ask Alma if she’d like to see her final present.
“Yes!” she cries expectantly.
I lead her around to the side of the house, to a sunny plot of land. I’ve already prepped the soil, and waiting for her a
re a fresh pair of pink garden gloves, a small trowel, and a few other garden tools. I have painted a sign, posted in the ground, that reads: ALMA’S GARDEN. Next, I hand her a stack of seed packets and point to some herbs and flowers in plastic containers.
“Are you ready to plant your very first garden?” I hand her the set of pink garden tools with matching pink gloves.
She wraps her arms around me. “Oh, Mama, this is my favorite gift of all!”
I love to make Alma happy, and I know this garden will. She’ll be out here at all hours, weeding, picking, admiring—watching her plants grow and change with the seasons, just as my mother and I had done together, so long ago. She’d have loved Alma, I know—just as much as I do.
When the garden is planted, we clean up and Alma asks if we can go swimming.
I’m tired, and there are a million things I have to do, but it’s Alma’s birthday. “Sure, honey,” I say, and I go change into my swimsuit.
“Let’s pretend we’re mermaids,” she says in the pool a few minutes later, splashing around beside me.
I play along, marveling at her imagination but also noticing that her long blond hair is falling into her eyes.
“Honey, let me get you a scrunchie for your hair.”
“No, Mama, mermaids don’t use scrunchies!”
I grin. “Sure they do, sweet girl.”
“Mermaids like to be free,” she explains. “Their hair, too.”
It makes sense, I guess. Oddly, almost everything Alma says makes sense.
We play, splash, we conquer the octopus king before I towel off and glance at my phone and notice that it’s getting late. If I’m going to get dinner on the table, I’ll have to run to the grocery store, and soon.
Alma looks displeased. “Mama, why are you getting out? The prince is coming on his ship!” She watched The Little Mermaid once when she had the flu last year, and ever since, it’s been mermaid central around here.
“Honey, I have to run to the store. Maybe Daddy can swim with you?”
