Telegram For Mrs. Mooney

by Cate M. Ruane

  “Great name, Bubbeh.”

  “She’d touch her fingers to her lips and then to the mezuzah—each and every time she passed through the door.” Daphne shook the thing like a rattle. “Inside is a little scroll, upon which is written the words of Moses.”

  “His genuine handwriting?”

  She laughed. “Goodness, no. The tiny scrolls are written by a sofer, a Jewish scribe of sorts. Now…is that a sofer or a shofar?”

  She looked at me like I was the Webster’s dictionary. One of the words, she explained, was for a trumpet made from a ram’s horn, one for a scribe. Ancient Hebrew was confusing like that. I tried to help her out, mentioning that Lord Sopwith had a chauffeur to drive the Rolls. Daphne rolled her eyes, so I tried again and said, “Am Yisrael Chai.” It was the best I could do.

  Her eyes got wet and glassy. Next thing I knew, she was darting at my mouth with pursed lips. Smack! went our lips. You could say it was my first religious experience. There was the faint sound of a choir of angels singing, “Gloria in excelsis Deo.” I even had a vision: Jack pummeling me with his boxing gloves. My conscience was having a field day as I watched Daphne put the mezuzah in her coat pocket.

  She stood and looked at her wristwatch. “The booksellers will still be out.” Without making eye contact she added, “And see here—best not to mention the kiss to Jack. He might misconstrue what was merely a sisterly kiss.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed.

  We saw the coast was clear and ran from the building, slowing down only when we spotted a row of booksellers. They lined up along the streets, even on rainy days. That’s when they put tarps over the books and waited for the sun to come out. Like me, Jack liked to read. Before the war, he went in for Westerns: Zane Grey was his favorite author, and for good reason. Problem was most Paris booksellers didn’t sell Zane Grey books. But we were striking out anywhere else.

  When we got bushed, we’d rest at a café and people watch. This is what Ma liked to do sitting out on our screened-in porch in East Hempstead. Now the pastime took on new meaning. I kept hoping we’d see Jack walking by, but it wasn’t happening like that.

  I worried that maybe he was in disguise. “He could be disguised as a street sweeper or a delivery man. Or a gypsy,” I said. We’d seen gypsies playing music on the street, and once watched as a gypsy boy picked a Frenchman’s pocket.

  “The Nazis are taking gypsies to internment camps, so I doubt that,” said Daphne, sipping from a bottle of Fanta we were sharing.

  “He might’ve grown a mustache or a beard…grown his hair long like one of ’em Bohemians we keep running into,” I said.

  “Jack? A Bohemian? I think not. Even so, I should recognize him.”

  More than a week passed like this, when during a break back at the Doumer’s apartment, I took up my coloring book. It made me sad thinking about Paul-Henri and most of the cars got colored black and grey. I wondered if he had a wife and kids. I hoped for their sakes that he didn’t.

  I was filling in an Invicta 4½ Litre Sports Model, when I remembered the crossword puzzles Paul-Henri gave me. I brought the crossword book to Daphne, explaining that it might contain a clue leading us to a contact along the Comet Line.

  “You waited this long to show me?” she said.

  “Paul-Henri getting shot shook me up bad and I plum forgot about the crossword clues. Anyways, I tried guessing the words and gave up. Spelling’s not one of my talents.”

  Daphne clicked her tongue, huffed and puffed, shook her head, and pinched my arm before getting down to solving the puzzle. Her know-how of Paris and French was what was needed to break the code.

  “Who is Saint Germain? That’s the baffling part,” I said, scratching my head. “And what does Des Pres mean? Maybe Dédée isn’t good at spelling either.”

  “Wait!” cried Daphne. “Saint-Germain-des-Prés! That’s it! It’s so obvious. It’s a Paris landmark. There’s an ancient abbey by that name and also a neighborhood and a street.”

  “How’s about the date? 1927.” I pointed to the four horizontal boxes. “That’s the year Charles Lindbergh made the flight from New York to Paris. The Spirit of Saint Louis left from an airfield near our house: Roosevelt Field. Did Lindbergh land in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, maybe?”

  “No silly, that would have been a mess! He landed at LeBourget Field, I believe. Maybe it’s not a date but an address. 1927 Boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Any Parisian might have sorted out the clues, Thomas.”

  “You’re so smart Daphne. No wonder Jack fell for you!”

  “That’s definitely the reason, Thomas. You nailed it right on the head.” She took a compact from her pocketbook, looked in the mirror and dabbed her nose with powder.

  An electric shock went through my body as Paul-Henri’s voice spoke from the grave. I grabbed the crossword book and began filling in blank spaces, just as he’d warned me to do. If the book had gotten into the hands of the Nazis, the whole Resistance network might’ve crumbled. I couldn’t let my absent mind ever get the best of me again. Daphne looked on as I scribbled letters into the little boxes.

  “The answer to 21 down is VICTORY,” she said. “And now, let’s not dilly-dally—get your jacket on.”

  We took the Metro to the Mabillon station, even though there was one called Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Daphne said the connection was better and instead of switching trains twice, we would do it once. She had Paris down like the back of her hand and didn’t once look at the Metro map to know where we was going. Saint-Germain-des-Prés was on the left bank of the Siene River, and we traveled under the river to get there, though you wouldn’t know it down in the train. When we boarded the first train, it was empty and we got a good seat, but the second train was crowded and we had to stand holding onto an unreachable strap. I held onto Daphne’s hand instead. Some people looking our way might’ve thought I was her boyfriend.

  We were lucky to board that exact car, because in walked a poet, who began reciting a poem about a grapefruit named Claudette. I thought it was pretty good myself. A couple people tossed change into his hat when he finished and I went to reach into my pocket, but Daphne stopped me. “Don’t encourage him,” she said.

  At another stop three old men came into our car carrying instruments: one had a cello, one had a violin, and one a guitar. Right there in the train, they played a song, and a few people danced in the crowded space. A French lady started dancing with a Nazi, which ruined the whole thing for us. Still, it was a better experience than taking the subway in New York. On them trains you got stinky hobos wanting your spare nickels and loud-mouth preachers who never get to the good parts about treasures in heaven.

  We arrived at the Mabillon station and climbed the stairs to the street level. The place looked like a million other spots I’d already seen in Paris, but Daphne said it was special because it was where the struggling artists holed up—near the university where lots of them studied. There were plenty of bookstores in the neighborhood and we took a look in every one we passed, just in case we might spot Jack hiding behind a paperback.

  The building we were looking for was on the corner of Boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Rue Du Dragon, which I figured was pretty exciting. No dragons though—driven out by all the artists was my guess. Plenty of those all over the place—standing on the streets with easles in front of them, hoping to get discovered. Daphne said most of them were imitating that Picasso fella, who had turned to writing. Ugly, the paintings were. No small wonder he’d needed to switch jobs.

  A young Frenchie, wearing a bowler hat, was painting his girlfriend but it looked like a space ship, not a human being. He was pleased as punch though. He kept standing back from the painting, with the paintbrush in his mouth, smacking his lips and saying, “Oui. Très magnifique!”

  At number 1927 Boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Prés we found a shop on the ground level. Les Misérables, it was called. I figured that they sold corsets.

  “There wasn’t an ap
artment number mentioned in a crossword clue, correct?” asked Daphne. “We’ll have to ring every bell and also inquire at the shop. The frustrating part is that maybe 1927 is a code for building number 197-apartment 2, or 19-apartment 27—. I wish they’d been more exact. We can’t go around telling people we’re searching for a RAF pilot. There are Nazi sympathizers all over the city. People are literally in bed with them.”

  Why can’t the Nazis get their own beds? I asked myself.

  Les Misérables was a book by Victor Hugo, a French writer. I’d tried to read the tome once but it was over my head and I’d returned to the Hardy Boys series. Now I was sorry I hadn’t stuck with it.

  Daphne gave me the baffled look. “Why is a dress shop named Les Misérables? The book hadn’t anything to do with fashion.” She stepped up to the plate-glass window to check out the merchandise.

  I asked her to explain the book’s plot, thinking it held a clue. The book was about a man named Jean Valjean, she said, who is running from the police. He spends twenty years in the slammer for pinching bread to feed his family. When he gets out, an evil cop is still pestering him. He’s forced to take a new identity: he calls himself Monsieur Madeleine and becomes Mayor of his town. Then, when the evil cop discovers him, poor Jean hightails it to Paris and goes on the lam.

  Lowering my voice and pointing to the boutique, I said, “That’s what we’re looking for Daphne: the skirt shop.” She raised her eyebrows like a doubt. “Simple deduction,” I said. “Javert stands for the Gestapo. Jean Valjean stands for the British airmen who are hiding in Paris.” It was then I pulled the LeReine mint pastille tin from my pocket. I’d eaten all the mints, which didn’t matter.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said the saleslady to Daphne when we entered the shop. She was ignoring me, same as they always do. I held out my hand to her—palm up with the empty mint pastille tin smack in the center. The lady’s penciled eyebrows lifted and she said, “Un moment,” and grabbed her purse and keys.

  We went back out to the street and she closed up the shop—locking three deadbolts and then bringing down an iron gate. She looked around and we followed her to a side entrance. Instead of having to huff it up the stairs, we got into a cage that turned out to be an elevator. It jerked up to the fourth floor. We followed her down a dark hallway with creaky floorboards and the smell of boiling cabbage, and into a one-room apartment with nothing but two upholstered chairs that looked like cats got to them. There were wood crates for tables and added seats. The saleslady rubbed her hands together and then lit a heater that was shoved into a fireplace.

  “We were all expecting your arrival much sooner,” she said, getting the ball rolling without so much as a how-do-you-do. “Dédée told us to expect your arrival two weeks ago. What delayed you?” She crossed her arms, tapped her toe on the floorboard, and put a sour look on her face. She would’ve made a great Gestapo agent.

  “Didn’t nobody tell you about Paul-Henri getting murdered?” I said.

  “I know of whom you speak. There was a contingency plan, no?”

  We started spilling our beans, leaving nothing out. She didn’t say much, didn’t even laugh at the funny parts, not that there were many; she just asked a question here or there, always with a poker face.

  “You should have come directly here,” she said. “It’s complicated things. No matter.” She waved her hand. “Tonight I’ll relay what you’ve told me to my leader. He’ll decide where we go from here. Return to this flat tomorrow at 15:00 hours—that’s three in the afternoon. At that time you can speak directly with him. Understood? Three in the afternoon—don’t be late this time.”

  She walked over to a window, pulled back a curtain, and looked down at the street. “Now go—you two first. And don’t stop to speak to anyone on the way.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I HAD TROUBLE SLEEPING THAT NIGHT, what with all the excitement of finding the Resistance and a lead to Jack. While the ladies snoozed, I finished coloring in motorcars of the 1930’s and then got bored. Meanwhile, the sky turned from India ink black to cotton candy pink.

  We’d be escaping Paris soon as we found my big brother. It was time for me to do a little sightseeing like a real tourist—maybe buy a souvenir or two for Ma. I took the key, locking the door behind me. The Eiffel Tower was my destination: the world’s largest Erector Set project. It popped in and out of view all the time—just like when you go to Manhattan and catch glimpses of the Empire State Building from seems like every street.

  I zigzagged my way to that tower, trying for the straight-as-a-bird-flies route, which isn’t easy in a medieval city. By and by, I arrived at a park with a clear view of the tower. There were a few bleary-eyed, chain smoking dog walkers. I passed a German soldier dragging along a toy-poodle and choking the poor mutt. Seeing the Eiffel Tower from a distance, or on a View-Master reel, isn’t the same as standing right under the thing. Each leg is bigger than a tower on the Triborough Bridge. They want you to buy a ticket to walk up to the top, but I leaped to the staircase and past the ticket collector. Climbing the five flights to Sophie’s flat had brought me back to Olympian fitness—Jesse Owens wouldn’t be too far ahead of me in a race. I didn’t break a sweat until nearing the top.

  On the last flight of stairs, my progress was interrupted when I came to the rescue of a man whose knee was troubling him. On top of bad knees, he was missing an eye and wore a pirate’s patch. He leaned on my shoulder and we made the final push together.

  “Irish?” he asked after I introduced myself. “I’m going all the way up,” he said, “to show Hitler who’s on top—even if it means the death of me, a distinct possibility given my scarred lungs.”

  We made it to the observation deck and the man leaned against the railing, gasping for air. “Maurice Piaf,” he said, extending his hand. “Decorated in the last war.” I noticed a few tarnished medals and faded ribbons pinned to his tweed coat. “The Germans used chlorine gas on us in the second battle at Ypres.” He patted his wheezy chest. “The eye got in the way of one of their bayonets. Still, I was one of the lucky ones. 6000 men lost in the first ten minutes. We called it ‘the war to end all wars’ and now look.” He pointed to a gargantuan Swastika flag hanging from the tower. “The lift was sabotaged by the French Resistance last year. Cut the cables, that’s what they did. So that Adolph Hitler would have to walk up if he wanted to gloat over Paris.”

  I took my hand off the railing—not wanting to touch anything that wicked man might’ve had his hand on, a surefire way to get the cooties. “Did Hitler do it?” I asked. “Did he get to the top?”

  “No, he didn’t. That’s why I made it my business to succeed where Hitler failed. 1710 steps. At 76 years of age.”

  “That’s the fighting spirit,” I said, giving him a slap on the back and then the thumbs up. He appreciated the gold star words I was throwing his way—those stars you get from novice nuns who buy them in bulk at the 5&10 and paste them onto anybody’s papers with a B or better. My sister Mary bought the stars on the sly and stuck them to her pop quizzes. I figured Mr. Piaf here deserved a whole pack of stars.

  He reached into his pocket and handed me a piece of metal: shrapnel that had been pulled out of his leg. It was his good luck charm, so I handed it back.

  When I dropped a hint that I was from New York, by comparing the Eiffel Tower to the Chrysler Building, he slapped my back. “One of the happiest days of my life was when Radio Londres announced that the Americans were on their way. My wife and I listen secretly, sitting in the closet with the volume turned down. We celebrated by opening a bottle of 1895 Champagne. It was a wedding gift we’d been saving for our 50th anniversary but we broke it open that very day. It was a cold December evening, with no coal for the fire, but the news warmed our old bones.”

  “My big brother, Jack, he’s fighting Nazis as we speak. Jack joined up with the Canadians the same day that France fell to Jerry. Only he’s missing now—that’s why I’m here in Paris. I gotta find him, see
? We found his Spitfire.” I had to choke out my last words, because I was getting weepy. It happens when I’m around nice grandparent types and telling them a sad story. They never mock you, like kids might do—mock you and maybe even sucker-punch you along with their gang of goons, calling you sissy and words like that. “Jack’s Spitfire was broke up bad and we found dried blood splattered all over the instrument panel.”

  “Well, my wife and I will light a candle every day for Jack’s safety. Every day and that’s a promise. We do it for all the Allied soldiers, but we’ll mention your brother by name.”

  “That’s awfully swell of you. He’ll be glad when he hears it.”

  It was time to be getting back. Daphne would be worried when she found me missing. Maurice said it would be no trouble for him to get down by himself. I said: “I was a Cub Scout, you know,” referring to my solemn pledge to help old ladies cross streets. It applied to one-eyed, lame kneed, wheezy old war heroes, too.

  “Much easier going down,” he said. “First I plan to stay up here a while shouting a few insults in the direction of Berlin. That’s something this 76-year-old veteran can do for the Resistance.” He turned about, getting his bearings, and then shouted, “Viva Le France!”

  I breathed in as much air as could fill both lungs, so’s my chest looked like Mr. Universe. Then I pinched my nose and spun around facing dead east. All the air came out with a shout: “God bless America. Land of the free!” I yelled, so loud my ears were buzzing. Could be that Roosevelt heard me all the way in Washington.

  “Be on the look out for Nazis.” I warned Mr. Piaf, knowing how much they liked sightseeing. “Au Revoir, Maurice.” I flew down the stairs, taking three or four steps at a time, sliding on the railing whenever possible and dashing past the ticket collector who shouted for me to stop.