by Sarah Jio
September 19, 2007
Dear Victor,
I’m living in Paris now. I figured that after everything, I should write to you. I realize I left suddenly, and I hope you can understand that it was just too painful for me to stay in our house. I want you to know that you may stay there as long as you like. Forever, even.
I like living here. I like that no one knows me. I like that people don’t come up to me at the market and ask how I’m doing or look at me as if I have cancer.
It’s strange being here without you. I think a lot about the day we met, of all the happy memories we’ve shared here. Those moments seem so long ago, so far away.
I could have never predicted this for us. Losing Alma. The divorce. Sometimes I wake up at night in a cold sweat, believing that it’s all a horrible dream. And then reality rushes in, and I realize the bad dream is my life.
You always said that we have little control over the paths our lives take, that they unfold as they will. If that’s the case, then let’s do that, let them unfold, without forcing or fighting things. I don’t know where my life will lead me. But, as you always say, it’s already written in the stars. Whether the story of us has a happy ending or not, only the stars know.
This is very hard to write, but I need to ask you to let me go. I can’t bear to see you. It’s too painful. Please do not write or call, either.
I will always love you, always think of you, always wish I had been strong enough to keep holding your hand.
I’m so very sorry.
Love,
Caroline
I close my laptop, stunned by my own words. I don’t remember writing the letter. If he’d actually received it, it must have wounded him deeply. But even so, he came to Paris. He tried.
I look out the window, blinking back tears as I glance at the clock. I’ll have to hurry. I’ve promised Inès that I’d meet her at her mother’s apartment at one o’clock for coffee. I’ll be late if I don’t leave soon.
* * *
—
I SIGH AS I bypass the elevator and climb the stairs to the second-floor apartment where Inès’s mother lives, on a quiet, shady street about a ten-minute walk from the art studio. She’d insisted that talking to her mother would do me some good, and while I resisted for a time, I was no match for Inès’s determination. “She wants to have coffee with you on Tuesday at one o’clock,” she’d said. “You don’t want to disappoint an old lady.”
Inès greets me at the door and invites me in to the small, but beautiful, apartment. She takes my coat and gestures toward the sunlit living room, where dozens of family photos hang over the fireplace. By the window, an old woman with white, wispy hair sits in a reclining chair. “Come,” Inès says. “Meet my mother.
“Mama, Caroline is here. The woman I’ve been telling you about.”
The old woman’s eyes light up. “My daughter told me you are quite the talented artist.”
Inès nods. “She even has a studio in California.”
“California!” the old woman says. “There are palm trees there.”
I smile as Inès brings me a cup of coffee, and I take a seat in a chair beside her mother.
“We had a trip planned last year, but Mom got sick,” Inès says.
“I’ll be well by spring, and we can plan another,” the old woman counters.
I smile, admiring her tenacity.
Inès’s phone rings, and she excuses herself to the kitchen to take the call.
“Now,” the old woman says. “Inès says you’ve had a painful past.”
“Yes,” I say.
“That makes two of us,” she says, looking out to the street. “I was just a tiny thing when the German Army marched into Paris and changed our lives forever. I lost my whole family in the war.”
I place my hand on my heart. “I’m so sorry.”
“A part of you never really gets over that sort of pain, but after all these years, you know what I’ve come to learn?”
I shake my head.
“Pain and grief want to do one thing: suck you down with them.” She makes a fist. “And when you do, they win. Now, who would want that to happen?”
I smile.
“I know what you’re thinking: that I’m just an old woman with silly ideas.”
“No, I—”
“It’s okay. I probably do seem silly. But the beauty of old age is you start to care less about what others think of you, and instead focus on what really matters.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes it tightly. “Inès says that you’re hurting. She told me your story.”
I swallow hard.
“That sweet daughter of yours wouldn’t want you to drown in your grief. Keep swimming to shore. I promise, you can make it. I did.”
I wipe away a tear as Inès returns from the kitchen. After that, our conversation remains light, and a half hour later, we say our goodbyes. Inès’s mother looks out the window. It’s started raining. “I hope you don’t have far to walk, dear. It’s a monsoon out there.”
“Not far,” I say.
“Caroline lives on the rue Cler,” Inès adds, “not far from the studio.”
“Oh, where?”
“Eighteen rue Cler,” I say.
Her eyes brighten. “Yes, I know the concierge there.”
“Monsieur de Goff?”
She nods. “Like me, he was torn from his family during the war. A German soldier ripped his teddy bear from his arms, not far from your apartment.” She takes a deep breath. “You may not know it, but underneath all those layers of pain, there’s a wonderful man inside, with the purest heart. He’s been a good friend to me, and a confidant.”
I wonder if the two were ever romantically connected, but decide not to ask.
“Well,” the old woman continues, “be well, Caroline. Remember what I told you.”
“I will,” I say, smiling, then hugging Inès before heading to the door.
* * *
—
I LOOK FOR Monsieur de Goff when I return, but he’s not at his post. Inès’s mother’s words linger as I head to the elevator, just as Estelle barrels through the door. I wave. I’d almost forgotten that she was coming over today.
In the apartment, she sets her bag down on the coffee table, beside my open sketchbook, which Margot must have been looking at and left open, as I’d long since tucked it away.
“Wow,” she says, “is this…yours?”
I nod, quickly closing the book. “It’s nothing.”
“No,” she continues. “It’s really good. I didn’t know you were an artist.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I mean, I used to be, but I’m not anymore.”
Her face is serious. “With all due respect, I don’t think anyone can stop being who she truly is.”
“Then I’m an artist who stopped making art,” I say. “Better?” There’s a sharpness to my voice that didn’t used to be there. I notice it at the market when I talk to the vendors, or in the morning when Margot and I are in the kitchen together and she attempts to make small talk.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I didn’t mean anything by—”
“No,” I reply. “I’m sorry. I…haven’t been myself lately.”
“It’s okay,” she says.
“How has the project been going?”
“Great,” she says, opening her bag to retrieve her notebook and pen. “I have so much to tell you, but first, do you mind if I have a look in the back bedrooms?”
“Sure,” I say, leading her down the hallway to the bedroom where Margot and Élian are staying. I switch on the light. “It’s not much, but…here you are.”
“This is it,” she says, taking it all in. “This is the place. I can feel it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She s
ilently surveys the room, studying each curve of the plaster, each nail in the trim around the window before looking up at me again.
“With the help of some of my friends in the chemistry lab, I was able to salvage more of the pages in the nurse’s diary. Those, coupled with written accounts and all of my interviews…well, I can finally paint an accurate picture.”
I nod.
“Imagine this,” she continues. “It’s the late fall of 1943. Your name is Céline, and you and your father own a flower shop nearby, just on the rue Cler. Paris is occupied by the Germans, and you must look over your shoulder everywhere you go. Your father is part Jewish, but with a French last name. It shouldn’t matter, you tell yourself. Your family’s last name is Moreau. Nobody will give you trouble. And so you send your little girl to school each day, and you tend to your flowers. Cosette, Cosi for short, is eight. She is your world.”
“Cosi,” I say, smiling.
Estelle takes a deep breath and nods. “Then, one day, out of nowhere, a high-ranking German officer living at eighteen rue Cler takes an interest in you. He can have any woman, by force, but he wants you.”
I feel a chill creep over me.
“He threatens you. Tells you that your father will be imprisoned if you don’t obey his wishes. You call his bluff and attempt to escape, but he intercepts your plan. He arrests your father and little girl. And you watch them drive away in a Nazi vehicle.”
I place my hand on my mouth as Estelle continues to pace the room.
“But, in an unexpected twist of fate, your little girl breaks free from her captors and follows you to eighteen rue Cler, where you have two choices: send her running into the streets alone, German soldiers at every turn, or smuggle her into the apartment, where you can do your best to protect her.”
I swallow hard, listening to her every word. I know bits and pieces of the story already, of course, but as Estelle speaks, she fleshes out more details, and the story of Céline and Cosi doesn’t just feel familiar, it somehow feels a part of me.
“You choose the latter. As the weeks progress, your life is a…nightmare. The German officer keeps you locked in the apartment with an evil housekeeper who sees that you don’t escape. You are raped and brutalized. All the while, little Cosi hides, tucked away in this very bedroom, dependent on any water or nourishment you can smuggle in for her. Then, one day, you discover an indentation in the floorboards at the foot of the bed.” Estelle kneels down and pats her hand around the floor. “You suspect that there’s a space of some sort beneath the flooring, a hidden room.” She runs her finger along a narrow groove between two floorboards. “And you wedge your fingers between it and pry the panel open. You and Cosi gaze into the dark expanse. It’s cold and dark, but it means safety for Cosi. She bravely climbs down, and you give her your blanket to keep her warm. She doesn’t complain. She’s a brave little girl.”
I wipe away a tear.
“Your abuse continues, worsening, even. One day you discover you are pregnant. As the child inside of you grows, your hope fades. You obsess about ways to escape, how to outsmart the housekeeper, but to no avail. But then the German officer leaves for an extended period of time. The baby is coming soon. And on a sweltering day in August, you know it’s time. You’re in a great deal of pain, but you try to hide it from Cosi. You must be brave for her. But when the contractions surge like knives through your back, radiating down your legs, you know you don’t have much time left. And then help comes. The nurse, Esther—the woman who lives below you—and Luc, your love. You don’t know if you’re hallucinating or not. You’ve lost a lot of blood. But their faces seem so real. They must be real.”
I hang on her every word.
“And they are real. And they lift you from your bloodstained bed, and they carry you out of this godforsaken jail cell. But without Cosi. She’s quietly waiting in the little space beneath the floor. It’s too difficult for her to let herself out, as hard as she tries. Maybe if she were nine, a big girl. But she’s eight now, and not nearly tall enough to push the little hatch open. And you are not strong enough to tell your rescuers that they must rescue one more soul. Your Cosi. Your sweet Cosette.”
“Good Lord,” I say, weeping.
“You’ve lost too much blood. You try to tell them, but you have no voice. You’re somewhere between here and there, life and death. All you can think of as you’re carried to safety, to a hospital bed where doctors will attempt to save your life, and the new life inside of you, is that you have left your little girl behind.”
“My God,” I say, running to the foot of the bed and falling to my knees. My cheeks are stained with tears. Estelle and I exchange glances. “Do you think she’s…” I look down at the floor.
She squeezes my hand. “I don’t know, but it’s time someone tried to find out.”
“Wait,” I say, my heart beating fast. “I don’t know if I…” But then I pause and think of Alma. What if this had happened to us? What if she had been left this way? What if she had…perished here? I’d want her to be found, to be laid to rest. I’d also want her to be remembered. “It’s…okay,” I continue. “Go ahead.”
Estelle nods, prying the edge of the flooring up. Cautiously, we both peer into the darkness below. Estelle reaches for a flashlight in her bag, carefully scouring each corner.
“It’s empty,” she says.
We’re both equal parts relieved, confused, and disturbed.
“Do you think she…survived?” I ask.
Estelle sits down on the bed. Élian’s stuffed bunny is just behind her. “I’m not sure. We aren’t the first to pry this hatch open.” She glances at her watch. “But I’m going to find out. You gave me the phone number of the couple who bought the apartment years ago and remodeled it.” I think of Monsieur de Goff, and all of his reasons for being the way he is. “Thankfully, the woman agreed to speak to me. You should come.”
“But it’s your project,” I counter. “Wouldn’t I just be intruding?”
“Not at all,” she says. “It might sound silly, but I have a feeling that you are meant to be there.”
CHAPTER 26
CAROLINE
“Maybe they’re not home?” I say to Estelle after she rings number 304 on the callbox a third time.
“I’ll just try once more,” she says, undeterred.
This time a woman answers.
“It’s Estelle. May we come up?”
“Oh dear, yes,” the woman says. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I was on the phone and lost track of time.”
Marcella, tall, with curly dark hair, greets us at the door of her third-floor apartment. She wears leggings and an oversized sweater, her right wrist clad in assorted gold bracelets.
“Please, sit down,” she says, pointing to the couch.
I introduce myself and explain my connection to Estelle’s project.
“Ah, it’s a grand apartment, isn’t it?” she says, reminiscing the way one might about the one that got away.
I nod. “It is.”
“I will always wonder if we made the right decision letting it go when we did. But I just had to keep coming back to that day…”
Estelle leans in and opens her notebook, pen at the ready. “Tell me about it.”
Marcella’s eyes flutter a bit, as if straining to remember the pain of an unrequited love.
“We’d gotten married the previous summer and had been looking for a home in Paris for the better part of a year. You might say we were picky, but we knew exactly what we wanted. A balcony for me, and sufficient kitchen space for Manuel. He hates galley kitchens.” She takes a deep breath. “Well, it was one disappointing listing after the next. Until…eighteen rue Cler.”
Estelle and I exchange glances. “The apartment had sat empty for almost fifty years until it came on the market that day,” she continues. “No one knows the full stor
y, but the agent at Sotheby’s provided some details in the listing notes. During the occupation of Paris, a high-ranking German officer had reportedly fancied the address and chosen it as his home, sending the residents, a Jewish family, to a work camp, where they all eventually perished. After the war, the French government did their best to return properties like this to their rightful owners, but in many cases, the owners had long since passed, and next of kin often couldn’t be located.” She shakes her head. “Properties sat empty, in trusts, which was the fate of eighteen rue Cler until Parliament passed a new law dictating that such unclaimed properties be sold, with all proceeds going to specific humanitarian and government programs. As awful as it was to learn that a Jewish family had been ripped from that home, and had endured unthinkable things, we couldn’t do anything about it. But we could buy the apartment and allow our funds to go to good use. To us, that felt redemptive, somehow, even if in just a small way.”
Estelle nods as Marcella glances out the window, lost in thought. “Well, we fell in love with it immediately, which isn’t a surprise. Our real estate agent, Monsieur Petit, who, by the way, had a substantial gut”—she pauses to pierce the air, thick with memories, with a nervous laugh. “Anyway, he tried to talk us out of buying it. It needed so much work, he said, and the permits would take forever. It would be years before the renovation would be complete.” She shakes her head. “But we wouldn’t listen. We had to have it. But when we got into the remodel, we learned that our real estate agent was right. The apartment needed new, well, everything. It was a monster of a project, but at the time, we were up for the challenge. I stopped in every day to check on the construction progress, and it was a delight to see it slowly transform into the place we envisioned it to be, until…one day.”
Estelle’s gaze narrows. “What day?”
“I don’t remember the exact date, just that it was in August. It was so hot. I’d bicycled over, like I always did, after work. I brought Eduardo, our contractor, takeout.” She pauses, frowning. “I’ll never forget the look on his face.”
