All the Ways We Said Goodbye

by Beatriz Williams

  “Like whom?”

  “Like my mother. But I’m not a heroine. I am not capable of doing miraculous deeds. I just want to stay alive. I want my children to stay alive.”

  “And your husband?”

  Daisy shrugged and returned her gaze at last to Grandmère’s face, which was more tender than she expected. Maybe she was getting soft in her old age. Then Daisy caught the books with the corner of her eye and thought, Maybe not.

  “Pierre works to protect us,” she said. “Everything he’s doing, he does to protect us.”

  Grandmère put her hand on the arm of the sofa and hoisted herself upward, and it occurred to Daisy that this everyday action seemed to cost her grandmother a little more effort than it used to. But there was nothing stiff or measured about Grandmère’s movements as she walked down the room, following the exact line of Daisy’s earlier gaze, until she came to the display case. Instead of unlocking the glass lid, however, and taking out the talisman within—something an astonished Daisy had seen her do only a handful of times, her entire life—she stuck her hand underneath the case, palm upward, and pulled open a small, unmarked drawer.

  “What’s that?” Daisy asked.

  Grandmère drew out a piece of paper and walked back to the sofa. She set the paper on the table and resumed her seat, without saying anything, until Daisy felt morally obliged to sit down, too. She looked at the paper, and at Grandmère, and her eyebrows rose.

  “My dear Daisy,” said her grandmother, straightening her dress around her knees, “we are none of us safe, don’t you realize that? When they come for one of us, they come for any of us, all of us.”

  “Grandmère, my heart breaks for the Jews, it does. Why, Madame Halévy and her sweet children, across the street, it doesn’t bear thinking of. The Nazis are monsters, worse than monsters—”

  “Darling,” said Grandmère, “darling, don’t you understand? Haven’t you ever guessed?”

  An icicle seemed to have found its way inside Daisy’s stomach, where it melted slowly and leached its coldness throughout her middle. “Guessed what?” she whispered.

  Grandmère nodded to the paper that lay between them atop the sofa table. “Did it never occur to you? Minnie Gold of New York City, rich as Croesus, weds the Comte de Courcelles of Picardy, France. Are you really so naive?”

  Daisy, her mouth dry, her stomach cold, wished for another glass of cognac. Instead she reached out and grasped the corner of the paper and held it before her, fluttering until she took the other side with her left hand to hold everything steady, hold the world steady. She didn’t read it, however. She didn’t need to. She was not so naive, not really.

  “You’re a Jew?” she whispered.

  “Naturally I am. I haven’t been to synagogue since I was a girl, I confess, but you see the family tree before you. And there is nothing on that page, dearest Daisy, that an industrious public official couldn’t discover for himself, if he had the curiosity.”

  Daisy set the paper back down on the table and looked up. “Pierre can save you. Pierre—”

  “Pierre is interested in nothing but his own neck, my dear, which is something I tried to tell you from the beginning. If Pierre can secure his own standing among his masters, he will happily sell his wife’s grandmother to them. With a red bow tied on top of my head.”

  “But he can’t! To accuse you would be to accuse me, his own wife. His own children!”

  “Ah,” said Grandmère. “You’re beginning to see the situation.”

  “He wouldn’t do it.”

  “Maybe he wouldn’t. But I doubt he’d be able to stop those who would. He’s a minor official, nobody important, no matter how much he thinks he ought to be. And the Nazis have begun to get serious about this business of hunting down the Jews in France. Maybe they’ve run out of prey in Germany and need their sport, I don’t know. But we’ve heard that—”

  Daisy put her hands over her ears. “No, don’t say it.”

  “But you must hear, Daisy. You must.” Grandmère went to the edge of her seat and reached across the table to grasp Daisy’s elbow. “We are none of us safe, do you understand me? None of us. This Madame Halévy, I know her. Do you know why she was arrested? Because Émile was caught with the papers he’d forged, and they never got to her, she couldn’t escape with her children. We lost Émile and we lost the Halévys, and time’s running out. They’re planning something more, something bigger. Not to pick us off one by one, but all of us at once. To round up everyone. So you must help me, Daisy. You must. If not for others, then for yourself and the children.”

  Daisy stared at her. The coldness had faded, and now she was just numb. For nearly two years she had lived with fear, ever since the Germans had first marched into Paris, and her husband, Pierre, had been arrested in his office, his stupid little post in the civil service of which he was so proud. Then the Nazis let him go, which was a relief, and he went back to work, but this time under the supervision of the occupiers, in a new bureau they had set up for agriculture and supply, managing the rationing of food, exactly the kind of petty lickspittle rule-enforcement he relished. So the fear remained, only at a low simmer, and also this terrible sick feeling of dependency on Pierre, this knowledge that her entire existence and that of her children relied on her husband’s ability to remain in the good graces of the Nazis who ran Paris. And meanwhile her neighbors were being deported, her friends and acquaintances arrested at night without warning, so that her street and her arrondissement and all of Paris, really, existed under this suffocating atmosphere of terror, of panic just barely suppressed. What would she do, Daisy wondered, almost absently, if the numbness left her and the panic took its place?

  “But there’s nothing I can do,” she said. “I don’t have any skills. I can’t forge papers or—or listen through keyholes—”

  “Of course not. But you have a husband who is climbing his way up the Nazi ladder, and tonight he’s hosting a dinner. A rather important dinner, from what I understand. Several Germans of considerable rank will be gathered around your table, eating your meat and drinking your wine—”

  “Grandmère, that’s unfair. I had nothing to do with that.”

  Grandmère’s hand went up. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Daisy. I know your heart. All I need to know is the names of the people at dinner tonight, that’s all. Just their names. You don’t need to do anything at all.”

  Daisy gnawed her lip.

  Grandmère put her index finger down in the middle of the paper. “I never wanted you to marry Pierre. He’s a weak man, Daisy. Like watered-down wine. But you insisted, God knows why, a man twenty years your senior. You wanted a nice, respectable husband. I suppose I can understand. A girl who grew up without a father naturally wants to fill this void in her life. And now you have your respectable husband, you have your dear children, God bless them. You have your comfortable apartment in the Eighth. And what has it got you, after all? You don’t love him.”

  “Enough, Grandmère. You don’t understand, not a bit. You never have. You don’t know what it’s like to grow up without a mother or a father, with all the rumors—don’t think I didn’t hear them—in this crazy place, this hotel, like an animal growing up in a zoo, an animal nobody wants—”

  “Don’t say that. I always wanted you. I raised you myself. When your mother died, I wanted to die, too, and you were the only reason I did not simply kill myself with grief, because you needed me, and you were hers. And now I need you, Daisy. I need you to help me.”

  “Grandmère—”

  “Their names, that’s all. Just the names. Please, Daisy. Help me.”

  Daisy closed her eyes and knit her hands together in her lap. She gathered up an image of her children’s faces—round-cheeked Olivier and pale, thoughtful Madeleine—and in the absence of sight, the whiff of pipe tobacco came to her again, mixing up the two ideas, her children and this Monsieur Legrand whose name was almost certainly not Legrand. She opened her eyes again and stood.<
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  “I must get home,” she said. “I’ll think about what you’ve said.”

  Daisy found her way back downstairs without difficulty, clutching the book that she was supposed to return to the bookshop the next day. As she crossed the entrance hall, passing over the very spot where the German officer had stopped her, she felt a shiver on the back of her neck. She glanced to the left, where the noises of revelry still floated free from the Little Bar.

  She thought she saw a face turn away and melt back into the throng of uniforms. But perhaps she was mistaken. Just nerves, she told herself. Now she was seeing Germans everywhere, even when they weren’t really there.

  Chapter Four

  Babs

  The Hôtel Ritz

  Paris, France

  April 1964

  My nerves bounced and tapped on my skin like flies, but when I looked down to slap them away, I was surprised to see they weren’t really there at all.

  “Really, Babs, this is so unlike you.”

  I glanced at my sister, Diana, behind the wheel of her roadster, the wind rippling her headscarf. She met my gaze briefly—at least I think she did since her eyes were hidden behind very large white-rimmed sunglasses—then returned her focus to the road, which, considering how she drove, was preferable.

  I didn’t want to argue with her, knowing I would lose and then agree that we’d best turn around and head back to Langford Hall. Instead, I remained silent as Diana continued to race toward the local train station, as I clutched the side of my door while surreptitiously checking my watch. I didn’t want to miss my train to London’s Victoria where I would catch the Night Ferry and its train to Gare du Nord in Paris, knowing if I missed it, I wouldn’t find the courage again.

  I knew I was mad, throwing away caution and my good sense to meet a strange man in Paris. It was the sort of thing my sophisticated and incredibly beautiful sister would have done in her single days. And perhaps that was the main reason why I’d decided to go.

  We’d slowed behind an ancient tractor whose driver seemed even older than the vehicle. Diana pressed down on the accelerator, the silk ends of her scarf fluttering like angry doves, and passed the tractor, moving back into our lane just as another car approached in the opposite lane. My stomach jumped, lurching up into the place where I needed air to breathe, and I was suddenly very, very sure I was doing absolutely the wrong thing.

  Who would manage the upcoming gymkhana? And who would handle the auditions for the nativity play? It was all very tricky with the feelings of the children’s parents to contend with if their little angels weren’t selected for the roles of Mary, Jesus, the wise men, and the shepherds. Perhaps they should add more characters that might have been present but had merely been ignored in the Bible? And how could I abandon my eldest, Robin, who’d been sent down from Cambridge for drinking? Drinking! The scourge of the Langfords, really. Excessive drinking had been involved on the night he’d been conceived, not that I would ever admit to such a thing. Because then I’d have to wonder if Kit had needed to be inebriated.

  “I don’t know why I’m aiding and abetting, but if it helps at all, Robin will be fine,” Diana shouted over the wind. I didn’t even blink at Diana’s apparent ability to read my mind. It had always been that way between us.

  “He simply misses his father,” Diana continued. “But his uncle Reginald is more than happy to take him under his wing, I assure you. Reggie is thrilled to have a boy to take fishing and with whom to do manly things. I don’t think he’s fully forgiven me for giving him three daughters, so Robin is truly a balm to that sore spot.”

  I only nodded, unable to speak past the ball in my throat. I wouldn’t cry. I was British.

  Diana parked her car and despite my protests, insisted on accompanying me inside, although she allowed me to carry my worn valise. Diana, although four years my senior and a full head shorter, still maintained the grace and poise of the debutante she’d once been and had never handled her own luggage. She frowned up at me. “They might not let you into the Ritz, you know.”

  “Whyever not? I have a reservation.”

  Diana gave her familiar smirk, the one she’d been using since we were eight and four and I’d dared return to the house covered in muck acquired from playing with our brothers and Kit. “Really, Babs. Your valise looks like it was dragged behind a horse in battle. Why didn’t you ask to borrow one of mine?”

  “Do you think they really notice those things?”

  “At the Paris Ritz? I’d say so.” Diana frowned again. “Really, Babs. You have the most beautiful skin and such fine gray eyes. And most women would kill for your figure and bone structure. Why on earth do you hide behind all of those . . . tweeds? You dress like a ninety-year-old woman instead of the thirty-eight-year-old you are.” With a quick tug, she removed my wool scarf, the last one I’d knitted while Kit had been ailing, and replaced it with her silk Hermès with the beautiful blue pheasants strutting all over a pale yellow background. As she gently looped it beneath my chin, she said, “There. Much better. Now you don’t look like a refugee.”

  Her gaze traveled up to my hat—bought on sale at Debenhams—and then down to my legs and feet, respectably clad in lisle stockings and my best brogues. “Babs, I do wish . . .”

  The chuff chuff of an approaching train made me jump, my heart racing now at the prospect of actually stepping onto the train and beginning my journey. The scent of Diana’s perfume wafted up from the scarf, comforting me, allowing me a modicum of confidence. Despite my sister’s shorter stature, she’d never lacked confidence and now, more than ever before, I needed that.

  As the train chugged into the station, I turned to Diana. “Do you still think I’m being reckless?”

  Diana pressed her lips together. “Most definitely.” Then her mouth softened into a smile. “But I also think that recklessness might be the thing we need sometimes to see our lives anew.” She put a hand on each of my shoulders then leaned in to kiss each cheek. “Godspeed, dear sister. And do write at least once. It will be nice to be living vicariously through your life for a change.” She briefly raised her elegant eyebrows, then smiled reassuringly. “Remember you’re wearing a Hermès scarf, and hopefully no one will notice your luggage. Or your shoes.”

  I remembered her words as my taxi pulled up in front of the Place Vendôme entrance to the Ritz, the white awnings and brass lighting fixtures reflecting the bright sun, making it appear as if those passing through the hallowed doors had somehow been anointed. My door was opened by a white-gloved valet and I realized his deep blue uniform with the gold edging was perhaps more fashionable than my tweed traveling suit. I hesitated for a moment, almost believing that if I cowered long enough in the taxi, the valet would forget all about me and I could simply find a side entrance in which to enter without any fuss.

  “Madame?” A white-gloved hand stretched toward me.

  Remembering Diana’s scarf, I took a deep breath and placed my hand in his and allowed him to help me from the taxi. “Bonjour.”

  His eyes flickered imperceptibly. “Bonjour, madame. You are English?” he asked in English with only the hint of an accent.

  “Yes,” I said with surprise. “How did you know?”

  His eyes flickered again as his smile broadened. “Just a guess, madame. This way, please.” He was still looking for my luggage when I finished paying the taxi driver. Or, more accurately, staring at my valise as if it might bite. It was more than past its prime. It had once belonged to my mother and she’d used it as a schoolgirl. I’d brought it on my very brief wedding trip with Kit to the Peak District, and on our overnight trips to visit the children once they’d gone away to school. It was functional and served its purpose and I’d never once considered the need to replace it. Until now.

  I was about to suggest I carry it so as not to sully his white gloves when I was distracted by a couple of women walking past us into the awning-covered arched entrance. They were both slender with short, shiny hair, white sungla
sses, and long, bare legs that appeared longer because of the shockingly short hemlines of their dresses. Men’s heads turned, yet the two women appeared unaware of the attention as they walked up the red-carpeted steps and disappeared inside. I glanced down at the thick hem of my skirt hitting my legs midcalf and felt those same men looking at me but not for the same reason.

  I took a step back, ready to return to the safety of Langford Hall, and found myself facing the Place Vendôme. A tall column dominated the center of the square, and I recalled my brother Charles, who’d read history at Oxford and had thought everyone as fascinated with the past as he’d been, saying it had been fabricated by more than a thousand melted cannons captured by Napoleon’s troops at Austerlitz. A statue of the emperor himself stood at the top, dressed as a Roman emperor, naturally.

  The valet coughed politely, but I couldn’t remove my gaze from the little man at the top of the column. There was something about his pose, or perhaps it was his legendary hubris, that gave me an odd burst of confidence. If a diminutive Corsican could conquer most of the world’s armies, then surely I could step into the Paris Ritz with my tweeds and brogues. And Diana’s scarf.

  “Madame?” the valet repeated, his hand indicating the entrance.

  I managed a smile, then followed in the footsteps of the two young women, feeling a lot like how I imagined Marie Antoinette must have felt on her way to the guillotine. I paused in the threshold, the scent of flowers wafting over me, allowing myself a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine outside. I stood blinking like the village idiot, unable to move forward as two opposing thoughts collided in my head simultaneously.