by Amy McAuley
“Marie’s too young,” I say.
“She will be fine.”
Denise can’t go to the bar without me, and I know it. Either we both go or neither of us does. I have an obligation to headquarters to keep us alive and out of trouble. They can’t risk losing their link with France now, with the Allied attack possibly right around the corner, all over some free champagne.
“Just tell me this,” I say, “why did you accept Ludwig’s invitation?”
“Adele, the Germans don’t have to play by the same rules.” She grins. “And I am desperate for a cigarette.”
TWENTY-ONE
Piano music and cigarette smoke invite me inside the Commodore, where gorgeous women hang on the every word of officers attired in smart white dinner jackets, caps, and gloves. The distinguished atmosphere explains why Ludwig and his three friends greeted us in their finest uniforms.
Denise, smoking already and we haven’t even found a table, taps me on the shoulder. I turn face-first into a swirling current of smoke.
“Your eyes are giving you away—you’re thankful to be wearing lipstick, aren’t you?” she says in her mile-a-minute French. “Can you imagine if we had left your hair down? Whatever would you do without me? Frump around like a man, that’s what.”
I crack a nervous smile. “You couldn’t pay me to doll myself up like these women.”
“Too late, my dolled-up friend.”
Ludwig watches us with bewildered amusement. Why, the evening promises to be a downright gabfest, what with everyone unable to understand one another. I, for one, can scarcely contain my excitement.
“Remember, we’re here for the free champagne,” I say to Denise, out of the corner of my mouth. “After a few drinks, we’re leaving.”
The last train of the day departs at eleven o’clock. Taking travel time into account, we need to leave the bar at ten thirty. And, really, how much mischief could Denise and I possibly get into in only an hour and a half?
I had too much to drink only once in my life, the night of my aunt’s last Christmas party. I smashed two tiles in the parlor’s Art Deco fireplace, nearly set a curtain ablaze after a brief reintroduction to cigarettes, and let a sweet Canadian soldier, who showed up on my aunt’s doorstep wistful for Christmas, kiss my cheek beneath the mistletoe. But none of that bad behavior was my fault. My aunt’s neighbor thought spiking my eggnog was a clever way to liven up the party. He changed his mind about that when I got sick on his shoes. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since.
The waiter sets a glass of champagne in front of each of us.
Marie lifts her glass to peer through it. “I like the bubbles. They look so pretty.”
“And expensive,” Denise says.
Ludwig’s friend, a blond boy named Karl, raises his glass. The other boys do the same. “Zum Wohl!” they cheer.
We join them in the toast, and I have a sip. Before I know it, my glass is empty. And then, before I know it again, another glass of champagne magically materializes on the table in front of me. It’s not long before my attention drifts away from intimidating surroundings to be swept up in the witty stories of charismatic Karl. When he offers me a third glass of champagne, I say yes. Just to be polite.
Denise leans into me from her neighboring chair. “For a girl who doesn’t smoke, you look awfully cozy with that cigarette.”
Smoke rakes burned nails down the back of my throat. A rasping cough all but shatters my Kate Hepburn–like air of sophistication. “I don’t smoke. Anise does.”
I giggle along with Denise, but then clarity splits my champagne haze. For a few seconds of fun over a private joke, I spilled a truth about my identity in a none-too-private place. No one appears to have heard me, but the time has come and gone to shape up. What’s happening to me? My sense of duty has shriveled like a grape in the sun.
When I close my eyes, the room rocks this way and that, tipping and swirling like a carnival ride. Opening them, I visually grab hold of objects to steady myself. The night is turning into my aunt’s party all over again. If I don’t get off this wild ride, I might end up kissing Karl in the coat-check room.
“Denise, I think it’s time for us to leave.”
She gulps her champagne. Taps the bottom of her glass to catch every last drop.
“Pourquoi?” She checks her watch. “We have more than twenty minutes. Do you know how many glasses of champagne I can drink in twenty minutes?”
Across the sea of heads and caps, I notice a couple entering the bar. The woman, draped in a fur stole, wears a smile that can be seen clear across the room. And that’s why I don’t recognize her at first.
An officer seated at a table near the piano raises his arm to attract their attention. Recognition comes into their faces, and Dr. Devereux’s wife, whose hand-me-down clothes I’m wearing at this very moment, gives him a friendly wave in return.
She hangs off the arm of her officer, beaming with pride, as if he’s a trophy she won. When the soldiers in the bar salute him she gazes at his face in adoration.
I watch their every gesture as they join the party at the table. So, too, did the Blitzweiben, or “little gray mice,” as they’re called; the women of the German Auxiliary. They scowl their disapproval, but if François’s wife notices, she doesn’t let on. She is having a marvelously scandalous time and she doesn’t care who knows it.
The lover of a German officer would have no qualms about informing. I’m willing to bet she visits the Avenue Foch whenever she can, chomping at the bit to give up neighbors she’s known for years. What would stop her from turning in a mangy young stranger who showed up on her doorstep, an obvious outsider looking for help?
In Denise’s ear, I say, “Honestly, we should go.”
“Yes, you said that a moment ago. We are not leaving until that champagne flute of yours is empty.”
I pick up my glass, swirling the pretty, expensive bubbles, and try to relax. I guess a few more minutes of fun can’t hurt. Besides, I’m sitting quietly on the opposite side of the crowded bar, not dancing on tables and singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Madame Devereux will never recognize me from the back of my head.
At the next table, the officer seated behind me begins to complain rather loudly. Paris doesn’t have quite the spark he anticipated. I eavesdrop for a while, snickering over his blundering use of the French language.
“Where is the life?” he asks. “The joie de vivre I heard so much about? I ask you, where is the party?”
That final question, enunciated for dramatic effect, receives a big laugh from his tablemates. How clever of him to expect a party in a country squashed beneath Germany’s thumb. How funny to demand joy from people living without fuel and light and heat and hot water. Everyone I’ve met since coming to France has friends and loved ones who were taken away or killed.
“Where is the party?” My fingers clench into aching fists. “You should have come before you were here.”
Marie coughs a mouthful of champagne back into her glass. She covers her gaping mouth with her hand, looking at me with complete shock.
Denise grabs my forearm so tightly it’s sure to bruise. She sends a seductive grin over her chair’s headrest. “Please forgive my naughty friend, she’s only teasing. Champagne makes her ever so cheeky.”
The hint of depravity in the officer’s laugh makes my skin crawl.
Denise presses against me. “That wasn’t funny. We’re lucky that soldier is intoxicated enough to overlook such a comment.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
Things are steamrolling out of control. I never should have come to the bar. Denise seems at home in a place like this, but I’ve waded into territory I’m not cut out for yet. I’m floundering and about to take Denise and Marie down with me.
In that same moment, I become aware of anti-British jokes darting around on the other side of me.
“Denise, we’ve been here an hour and a half. We really shoul
d go now.”
“Yes, we’d better leave. You’re two sheets to the wind.”
It becomes clear to me that we aren’t meant to get out of this bar without a fight, when one of Ludwig’s friends, an ugly duckling whose name I didn’t bother to remember, stands at the head of our table, his hand raised to mimic holding a cup of tea, pinkie out. In a near-perfect, effeminate British accent he says, “I’m off to fight for my king and country.” On any other day the impersonation alone would be enough to send Denise flying over the table. Not content to leave it at that, he follows up with a slur against homosexuals and wraps it all up with this little bow, “We Brits love to have our arses handed to us on silver platters.”
I sit tight as a coiled spring, waiting to intercept Denise before she can tear the ugly duckling to unidentifiable shreds. Feathers are about to fly.
Denise stares at her empty champagne glass. She doesn’t budge.
Like a pious figurine, Marie presses her delicate porcelain-white hands together on her lap and stays perfectly still, her stunned gaze locked on Denise and me. I promise to be eternally grateful if the prayer coursing through her mind receives a swift response.
Things go on that way for the three of us for a heart-stopping minute, while the festive mood outside our little bubble doesn’t take so much as a hit.
During our SOE training at the manor, our ability to handle anti-British sentiment was put to the test. It’s a surefire bet agents will encounter it in the field, not only from the Germans, but from the French. Anti-Allied propaganda posters and leaflets litter Paris. Some trainees, unable to take the mock bashing lightly, cracked and started shooting their mouths off.
Denise must have held up well enough during those tests, but it’s one thing to deal with fake insults in a training session led by a fellow Brit and quite another when the insults come from the mouth of a soldier whose maniacal leader has partially destroyed your hometown and continues to bomb it on an almost daily basis.
A murmur whistles out from between Denise’s clenched teeth. “Get me out of here before I do something I’ll regret.”
I stagger to my feet. “Thank you for the lovely evening. We have to be going.”
Karl, the only boy in the group who speaks French well, comes around to pull my chair out for me. “Must you leave so soon? Stay and talk some more with me. I can see you home after curfew.”
“No,” I insist. “I enjoyed talking to you, but we need to catch the train.”
He gives me a peck on the cheek. “It was nice to meet you, Anise. See you another time, I hope.”
“My pleasure to meet you all.”
I grab Denise’s arm. Marie scrambles up to grab the other one. For a slim girl, Denise certainly is hefty. I stuff her new handbag into her hands.
One step at a time we inch closer to the exit and Mrs. Devereux’s table, with Denise wedged in the middle of our slow, tipsy procession. I untie the silk scarf from my neck and fasten it around my head to shield my profile, then pretend to study the artwork on the walls. As I pass the wife’s chair, her distinctively catty voice can be overheard.
“Dieter is taking me to the coast for a romantic holiday,” she says. “My husband believes I’ve arranged a visit with my sister. Gullible old fool.” In a whisper that isn’t much of a whisper at all, she adds, “That woman’s scarf is gorgeous. I own one similar to it, but hers is an obvious fake.”
Sure and steady, we keep moving. Just when I feel confident we’re in the clear, Denise growls, “This place would be great if it weren’t for all the damn Germans!”
I drag her from the bar without looking back, until cool fresh air brushes my cheeks.
“Denise, what were you thinking?”
She sucks in an indignant breath. “You heard that son of a bitch. I should have killed him when I had the chance!”
Despite the impending curfew, the streets are deserted. Right about this time the theaters are dropping their curtains. The commissionaires will be shouting to the crowds in the cloakrooms to hurry up. The bars, too, are about to empty.
“You’re making a scene, Denise. Stop, please, before somebody hears us.”
Her finger wags beneath my chin. “Do not tell me what to do. Those men, those evil men, are drinking champagne. They are having a party in a city that does not belong to them. With not a care in the world. What will they do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next? Kill wonderful, loving British sons and brothers, and—” Her fists shake at her sides. “Those men in the bar are alive! That is not fair!”
“What does fairness have to do with it? This was your idea.”
“You have some nerve, don’t you, Adele? All high and mighty, acting innocent after the fact. I didn’t see anyone twisting your arm; you’re here same as me. What was wrong with you in there? Three glasses of champagne and you become a babbling idiot?”
I glare at her, unable to come back with the truth. How was I to know? Those were the first three glasses of champagne I ever had!
Marie dabs her eyes. “Please don’t fight. Let’s go home for a nightcap.”
“Yes, let’s go, Marie,” Denise says, taking her by the arm.
She volleys unsure glances between Denise and me.
“It’s all right, Marie. You two go ahead.”
I watch them until they’ve traded one moonlit street for the next, Marie’s attentive hand at Denise’s elbow.
In the middle of the street, I stand trembling and alone, trapped within a river of emotions.
So much damage can be done unintentionally, in the blink of an eye.
When I turn to leave, I catch sight of a shadowed figure creeping out from the nearest alley. He pauses. We consider each other. He marches straight for me.
We did lengthy cross-country runs at Wanborough Manor, and mountain treks through the rugged Scottish highlands. At the best of times, stone sober, I can barely walk in the heeled shoes I borrowed from Marie, much less run to save my life, as I’ve been trained. The man giving chase will be on top of me in seconds.
“Adele, c’est moi.”
I skitter to a stop. “Robbie?”
“Oui.”
The voice matches Robbie, the language does not. The darkened shape steps into a sliver of moonlight cascading between two trees. Even with so little to go on, I recognize him. He runs to me.
When he’s close enough to switch to English, he says, “Why did Denise leave you by yourself out here in the middle of the street?” He draws closer to my face. “Adele, what’s the matter? Are you crying?”
“Denise and I had an argument. I’m okay,” I say, even though I don’t feel or sound the least bit okay.
Robbie’s arm slides around my back. He slowly pulls me into a loose hug. I throw my arms around him with such intensity it knocks him off balance. Hugging tighter, I press my bleary eyes against his chest.
“Don’t worry, it will all work out,” Robbie says in my ear. His hand strokes my hair. “Denise is your friend.”
We gradually part from the hug.
“Feel a bit better now?” he asks.
“I do.” It happened so quickly, but I do feel a little better. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous. Let’s get you back to the cellar.”
“Adele, I’m leaving.” He takes my hand. “Tomorrow. I came to say good-bye.”
I knew Robbie would leave, of course, but it never fully sank in that one day he wouldn’t be here anymore.
My time with the boy who literally crashed into my life has come to an end. There will be no more shared jokes and stories. No more card games. He has run out of chances to beat me at rummy. If only I knew this morning that our walk in the sunshine would be our last happy time together.
Emotions well up in my chest all at once and come out of my mouth a half-stifled sob.
“I’ll miss you, Adele. I’m falling in love with you.”
Why is Robbie telling me this now, when he’s about to leave forever? Even if I feel the same way, I can’t te
ll him so, and it’s tearing my heart in two. I can’t tell him how much he means to me. I can’t tell him about the utter panic I’m feeling now, as I imagine myself walking away from him tonight. I can’t say anything that might sway him to stay here with me. If he stays here any longer, he will be captured or killed. How could I do that to him? How could I ever do that to his family? I pull my hand away.
“Robbie, you don’t love me. In two weeks’ time you’ll be back with your squadron, where you belong. I’ll be just a fading memory. Someone you knew during your adventure in France.”
“No, Adele.” He takes my hand again and holds it firmly in his. “My feelings for you are real. I won’t forget you. Not when I get back to my squadron. Not ever. And when all this is over, I’ll do whatever it takes to find you again.”
His hand cradles my chin. He tilts my head back. My eyes slip shut as he leans in. I stand on tiptoe to meet him halfway.
The kiss is shy, and sweet, and perfect.
“Robbie, you have to go now. Please don’t think about me anymore.”
“But Adele—”
“I mean it. Concentrate on getting home to your family,” I said, falling to pieces inside. “Stay safe.”
“I will. I guess this is good-bye, then.”
We stand in the middle of the street, staring into each other’s eyes. The last good-bye has to be mine. I hold it back as long as possible.
Finally I whisper, “Good-bye.”
I run past the bar to a parked horse-drawn hansom carriage with tears streaming down my face. I give the driver Estelle’s address as he helps me onto to the seat. He takes his place at the rear, on his raised platform, and shakes the reins.
Champagne sloshes in my stomach, threatening to come back up. Clearing tears from my cheeks, I concentrate on the clomping of the horse’s hooves.
I hope I did the right thing in breaking our hearts.