But Elisabeth was a little girl no longer. She was fourteen now, away at a convent school in the country, and too old for picture books in any case. Gabby put away the satchel and went to get ready for work.
She exchanged her suit for warm work clothes and a housecoat. Then she poured the mail over the floor, kneeled among the drifts of envelopes, and began sorting through.
She liked to deliver some of the post herself to a few select tenants, to exchange a few words with them here and there and hear all their news. The rest of the mail would go into each tenant’s pigeonhole for collection. Short of time as she was today, it would have been more efficient to distribute everyone’s letters that way.
But there was post from Avignon for Monsieur Gerard. Gabby gasped in delight. His daughter must have had her baby. She would hand that to him personally. Monsieur had been so anxious for news.
And then, of course, Madame Vasseur would be affronted if Gabby did not deliver her correspondence to her door.
Another piece of mail looked important, and she slipped that into her stack as well. There was quiet pleasure in seeing friendly faces each day, even if it was not as exciting as working as a mannequin at Dior.
Gabby was a very ordinary person, even if she had done one quite extraordinary thing during the war. All of that was over now. Had circumstances not happened in quite the order they had, had the cause not been specific and personal, she never would have possessed the courage to risk her life in such a fashion. She did not believe in dying for an ideal. She was not Yvette.
Yvette. So elegant and haughty in her couture clothes. The mannequins had moved through the salons at Dior like empresses, swishing their skirts with impunity, deliberately knocking over the slim ashtray stands scattered throughout for use of the guests. If only Gabby had one-tenth of the confidence those women had shown . . .
She sorted through the rest of the mail and came across a thick cream envelope. She sat back, eyes wide. It was addressed to her. It looked like . . . Frowning, she picked up her letter opener and flipped over the envelope.
Her heart stopped. It was. Just like the one she’d received two months ago. The same seal. A red one with a crest and the printed letters “OHMS” on it. British. Important. Dread crashed through her like an avalanche. The letter opener fell to the floor with a clatter. Official news was never good.
Almost without thought, she shoved the envelope among her drawing materials, scooped up the letter opener, and thrust that inside, too. She shut the portfolio away in the armoire. She couldn’t think about it. She needed to get back to work.
In Paris, people were accustomed to concierges knowing their business. Monsieur Gerard invited Gabby inside and read his daughter’s letter to her. She exclaimed and congratulated him on the birth of his new grandson, felt the lump in her throat when he announced with simple pride that the infant’s parents had given the child his name.
The news of the baby, though expected, lifted her spirits. After the devastation of war, new life was particularly precious. One might always have hope while there was still such joy to be found.
When she got up to go, monsieur gently squeezed her hands. “Thank you, Gabby. We are lucky to have you.”
She laughed and demurred, but the small compliment was a balm. She liked nothing more than to help people. That was its own reward, of course, but it was nice to be appreciated. Particularly in light of her mother’s constant reminders that she would never be accepted by the tenants as their equal.
No thanks would come from Madame Vasseur, however. She made Gabby wait while she perused every letter at length, squinting down at the words through her pince-nez. The old lady complained about all the bills she received as if Gabby were personally responsible for them. Out of habit, Gabby murmured placatory nonsense, while wondering what on earth she had to apologize for. It was this kind of behavior her mother chided her about, and she was right. How had Gabby never learned to draw the line?
“Wait.” Madame lifted a gnarled finger as Gabby tried to leave. “I want you to take Chou-Chou for a walk. I’m not feeling well.”
In spite of her uncharitable feelings toward the cantankerous tenant, Gabby regarded her with concern. Madame always took her apricot poodle for a stroll twice a day, even in bitter weather like this, when the poor animal shivered and trembled at her side.
Gabby was sorry for the dog and for madame as well, but she could not spare the time to take Chou-Chou for a walk. She had too much else to do, and caring for tenants’ pets was not part of her job.
“I am sorry, madame, but I am very busy today. Perhaps when Léon comes home he can walk the dog for you? He should be back from school for lunch very soon.”
Madame paused in her knifing of the envelopes and looked up at Gabby, astonished and affronted. “It is not often that I ask you for a particular favor, mademoiselle.”
This was such a barefaced untruth that a snort of surprise escaped Gabby. She put her hand to her mouth as if to snatch it back. “I am sorry. I must be getting on.”
Madame’s expression hardened. “Well, be off with you, then, if your work won’t wait. I’ll find someone else, but not that naughty Léon. He is not responsible enough to take care of a sensitive animal like Chou-Chou.”
Unfortunately, this was true. Gabby sighed. “Perhaps a compromise? I will take him on my rounds and maybe a little way up the street and back. But I’m afraid that is the best I can do today.”
She studied the gaunt, wrinkled face with its heavy application of blue eye shadow and rouge and tried to gauge whether madame’s illness was of the body or the spirit. Madame Vasseur had been indomitable throughout the war. There had been a certain kind of strength in her relentless self-centeredness. The only creature madame truly loved was her dog.
Gabby stooped to attach the poodle’s lead to his glittering collar and took him out with her. The poodle seemed to perk up at the promise of a walk, even if not with his favorite human. He trotted along beside her, his nails clicking jauntily on the polished floor.
Monsieur Dior had mail, so Gabby went to his apartment and handed the letters over to the new maid. Sabine was long gone. Monsieur had helped her leave Paris before the terrible reprisals against the women who had consorted with German soldiers began. Poor, silly Sabine, Gabby thought. It was a high price to pay for falling in love.
That brought her letter to mind, but she banished it and doggedly carried on with her deliveries. With all the mail distributed, she would make good on her promise and take Chou-Chou for a short walk.
“I cannot believe you are doing that woman favors,” said Maman, eyeing the poodle when Gabby went to the loge to get her coat. “But I see you can’t help yourself.”
Gabby grimaced. “I know, I know. But the way I see it, it is Chou-Chou I am doing the favor, not madame.” She pulled out her beret, coat, and scarf and swaddled herself against the chill February day.
Outside, the rush of relief that flooded her when she left the apartment building was an unwelcome sensation. Had her mother’s fears come to pass? Had she been spoiled forever by that one morning at Dior?
Walking the dog, she reflected on the fashion show. It had been like a dream, and yet so much more nourishing and substantial than simply gazing at pretty gowns. She had felt her own creativity firing in response to the challenge of capturing on paper not just the appearance of an ensemble, but its movement and mood.
She ought to take up drawing again. But with no cleaner or handyman to help her anymore, there were never enough hours in the day to do all that needed to be done, and when she finished in the evening, she still had chores to do around their little apartment. She fell into bed every night, exhausted. That was not always such a bad thing, as it gave her little leisure to dwell on the past, but it also gave her little leisure to dream or to draw.
Perhaps she could change that. Perhaps she might steal just twenty minutes a day so that she could work on her art. In twenty-four hours, was that so much to ask? And
perhaps it was time to stop coddling her mother. Papa had died many years ago now. The war was over. It was time for Danique Foucher to resume living. Yes, and perhaps working a little, too.
That night, after an afternoon spent mopping and dusting the common areas, fixing small problems in the apartments and opening the street door to visitors, making dinner and cleaning up afterward, Gabby was heavy eyed with fatigue. But once her mother was asleep, she took out her pencils and sharpened them carefully, one by one.
As she pulled out a sheaf of paper, the letter with the official seal dropped out, skittering along the floor. Gabby stared at it, heart pounding. She was afraid to pick it up, as if the envelope were searing hot. She had to force herself to retrieve it, to hold it between forefinger and thumb. After a moment’s hesitation, she shoved the letter back into her portfolio.
Gabby was quite certain that she did not want to know what that letter contained. As long as he was alive somewhere in the world, she could be content. Well, not content perhaps, but . . . What? Was there a word for the absence of crushing grief?
She made herself turn to her drawing. She needed to do something fun, something to escape. A picture book, perhaps. Yes. She stared at the wall and let herself lose focus. Soon, the story was forming in her mind, a tale about a little girl in ragged clothing who is swept into a magical wonderland of lace and satins and silks.
But no matter how hard she tried to escape through her own creations, her mind kept wandering back to that letter with its official seal, and the little girl in her sketches looked exactly like Yvette.
YVETTE
On the evening of the Dior premiere, Yvette greeted the doorman at the Ritz and tried to disguise her limp as she headed toward the grand staircase. She had walked all the way from Saint Germain and the blisters on her feet were indescribably painful.
After the show, there’d been official photographs, and all the dressing and undressing repeated several times more. Monsieur Dior had been startled to see Yvette among his mannequins, but as always, he was kind, praising her look and the way she wore his opera dress, though he chided her for letting her hair grow too long. Yvette vowed to get it all chopped off at once.
The show had been an unmitigated success, but by midday, she was weary and a little cross, the excitement and nervous tension of the parade giving way to exhaustion, a feeling of running too hard on too little fuel. However, with the end of the parade, the mannequins’ day had only just begun. Yvette had to stay and show clothes in private viewings for buyers and special clients. When she began to flag—she had not slept for the past forty hours or so—she reminded herself how much she longed to be part of this world and that she had managed to work her way into this position only by the most outrageous luck imaginable. She could not afford to waste this chance.
“You need to sell the clothes to them,” said Tania, touching up her makeup while Yvette tried to do something with her overly abundant hair. “Make them cry for wanting each dress. Can you do that, Yvette?”
Unsure what she meant, Yvette wished she could watch what Tania did and copy. But she was whisked away to the salon and the madness began again. They did not stop with the buyers until late, and then, while most of the models went home with their husbands, Yvette and a couple of other girls let some rich men take them dancing. Hence the limp she tried to disguise as she crossed the foyer of the Ritz.
All she wanted was to remove her clothes, pour herself a nightcap, and tumble into bed. Tomorrow would be a big day. She had to meet with Monsieur LeBrun about the trial, and she must see Gabby and Maman. Then, too, she needed to see Madame de Turckheim about a more permanent role at Dior. They’d both been too busy to discuss the matter in all the bustle after the show.
Oh, but the grand staircase seemed insurmountable. “Come on, Yvette.” She had climbed mountains in espadrilles; she should be capable of ascending a hotel staircase with blistered heels.
When she reached the corridor of her floor, she kicked off her shoes and carried them, relishing the plush carpet beneath her poor feet. Letting herself into her room and locking the door behind her, she switched on the light and looked around the suite with renewed awe. She would never get used to this. That was probably just as well.
A man stepped out of the shadows. With a hoarse cry, Yvette dropped her shoes and fell back against the door.
Chapter Five
Paris, June 1944
GABBY
Do you need some help, Gabby?” said Yvette. “I have time to spare.” The night had been too hot to sleep and Gabby had risen at first light.
“Really?” Had Madame LaRoq put a gentle word in Yvette’s ear?
“Yes, of course.” Yvette gave her a funny look. “I do help sometimes, don’t I?”
Gabby wasn’t stupid enough to argue with that statement. She handed Yvette one of her dusters and a spare apron. “The bannisters need a dust and polish. That would be a big help.”
They set off across the courtyard, leaving their mother snoring. Yvette began to hum a jaunty version of “The Marseillaise” under her breath.
Gabby felt the corners of her mouth lift. Yvette could be willful and impulsive, an impractical dreamer to hanker after glamor and fame as one of Monsieur Dior’s mannequins. Yet, sometimes, she could be just the tonic to lift the spirits.
At the flower beds that flanked the east door, Gabby stopped short. “My vegetables!”
She dropped her mop and bucket and ran to make sure. Both beds were nearly devoid of produce, soil carelessly scattered over the flagstones around them.
With a cry, she fell to her knees, scrabbling in the dirt. “The carrots! They would have barely grown to the size of my finger. The beans were only sprouts!” Someone had stolen them all.
Yvette touched her shoulder. “People are hungry and desperate.”
“People are stupid and greedy! If they had only waited, they could have shared in a much larger crop.” Tears started to Gabby’s eyes. She sat back on her haunches, biting her lip savagely so as not to cry. The war had been one long struggle, one step forward, two steps back.
“It was always going to be hard,” said Yvette.
Gabby knew what Yvette was thinking. There were many tenants in this building and her small harvest would not have been nearly enough to feed them. Plus, they risked the Germans finding out and confiscating what little they had.
Gabby gave a shuddering sigh. She tried so hard not to be hopeful of anything in this godforsaken war, but she had been hopeful of this. She had imagined providing a nourishing little feast for all their friends, and now her plans were ruined.
“Look!” said Yvette, skirting the edge of the garden bed and bending to peer closer. “Here are some they’ve missed.”
Gabby scrambled to her feet and joined Yvette. She was right. At the edges of each patch of soil, green shoots peeked out.
“Not for want of trying, I’m sure.” Gabby set her jaw. “Whoever it was will probably be back for those. I’m going to stay up and keep watch tonight, that’s what I’ll do. Catch him in the act.”
“Him?” Yvette said. “Do you suspect someone in particular?”
“No. I don’t know. It could easily be a woman.” She brushed the soil from her hands and knees.
“I’ll keep an eye out for someone with dirt beneath her fingernails,” Yvette promised. “Perhaps we should line everyone up for an inspection, like Madame Bertold used to do at school.”
Anger flashed through Gabby. It was just like Yvette to make it all into a joke. While Gabby struggled to ensure their survival, her sister stepped so lightly through life. And everyone simply let her. You could get away with much if you were beautiful and young.
She was about to make a sharp retort, but Yvette put out a hand and squeezed her arm. “Gabby, don’t stay up. You need your sleep.” She hesitated. “I worry about you.”
Gabby’s anger melted. She patted Yvette’s hand, grateful for her concern, but still, she shook her head. “I won’t be
able to sleep, knowing someone is helping themselves to all my hard work.”
“Maybe we should take turns, then,” Yvette said. “Wake me up and I’ll do the second shift.”
But of course Gabby wouldn’t do any such thing. Yvette was pedaling about Paris on her bicycle all day. She shouldn’t be doing that on a few hours’ sleep.
That night, once her mother and Yvette had gone to bed and all was quiet around the apartment building, Gabby took a little chair outside. The blackout meant there was not a glimmer shining from any of the windows, but a full moon shed a pale wash of light over the courtyard. She positioned the chair so that her back was to the wall, her silhouette blending into the shadows. Whoever had been bold enough to plunder her gardens would not notice her. She settled down to wait.
As the minutes passed, then hours, without incident, she repeatedly fell into a doze, only to start awake again. She hadn’t considered how hard it would be to remain alert without coffee. She tried all kinds of tricks to ward off sleep, but as the night deepened, she eventually lost the battle.
A noise woke her. She jerked to alertness and planted both feet on the ground, ready to spring into action. Pain shot through her neck as she tried to pinpoint the cause of the sound. She didn’t know what it had been, only that something on the edge of her dream had pulled her out of slumber.
But there was no one in the courtyard at all, much less bending over the garden beds.
Gabby rubbed her eyes. She must have dreamed the noise. For the first time, it seemed like a stupid thing for her to have done, to sit snoozing in a chair outside in the dark. No wonder Yvette had stared at her as if she were crazy.
Her neck ached. She’d be very sorry for this when she had to scrub the floors tomorrow. Feeling sheepish, now that her fury had cooled, she stood and picked up the chair and walked toward the vestibule.
Sisters of the Resistance Page 5