The Paper Girl of Paris

by Jordyn Taylor

  A butterfly lands next to me on the bench, silent as air. Slowly, it opens and closes its orange-brown wings, revealing a magical bright blue around its body. Whenever I see butterflies, I think of Arnaud. He would want to be a part of this, today. This is for you, Arnaud. I inch my finger across the wood to see if the butterfly will climb aboard, but at the last moment, it flutters its wings and drifts off into the shadows.

  And then I hear it.

  The blast makes it feel like the Earth is splitting in two—a loud, low boom that rattles my ribs and has me gasping for breath. It’s the sound of danger—no, worse. It’s the sound of death itself. Glass shatters. Somebody screams. Then come the boots, as every German soldier in the vicinity rushes toward the explosion. Two of them sprint by so quickly, I feel the breeze left in their wake.

  You’re too late, boys.

  My head spinning and my heart pounding, I hurry back to the safe house. The first part is done—von Groth and his men are dead. Now all I need is that my four friends get back safely. They’ll be fine. I know they will. The hard part was getting the bomb into the restaurant and making it go off. The rest is smooth sailing.

  Please, let them be fine.

  A breathless Pierre-Henri opens the door for me, and there’s a huge smile on his face.

  “We killed Nazis,” he says jubilantly as he pulls me into a bear hug. “You know I always wanted to do that.”

  Marcel and Geronte are sitting at the table. With a stab of panic, I notice Luc and Raphael aren’t back yet.

  “When are the others supposed to be here?” I ask.

  “Should be any minute now,” Geronte says. Marcel keeps his eyes fixed on his watch.

  I can’t stay in here, not with all this nervous energy. I need some space. I go down the hall to the empty bedroom and sit cross-legged on the blanket we left on the floor. Come back, Luc. Please come back.

  I don’t have a watch, but I know it’s been longer than a few minutes. I hear the men murmuring out in the kitchen, and a wave of nausea crashes over me. Is something wrong? Did they get caught? My breathing becomes quick and shallow. He must be in trouble—either hurt or arrested, or both. If Luc is taken away, I will never forgive myself for not telling him how I feel—for not shouting it in the middle of the street when I had the chance, when I was holding his hand. . . . I lie on my back to keep from fainting. The worst has happened. I’ve now lost the two people closest to me in the world.

  Was that the door? I spring to my feet, alert as a hunting dog. I could be hearing things. I don’t know if my mind is working properly.

  And then I hear his voice, asking, “Where is she?”

  He’s looking for me. He’s back. Luc. My Luc. I race into the hall and skid to a stop, just in time to see him appear at the opposite end.

  We race for each other and collide in the middle, a tangle of limbs and hair and breath. I feel as though I’m soaring above the city on newly sprouted wings and watching as all the lights in Paris turn on at the very same time. We did it! We did it! We did it!

  And now I have to tell him the truth about how I’ve felt for a long time, since our afternoon by the river, or longer, even. Maybe it happened the moment I met him.

  “I love you, Luc.”

  He cradles my face in his hands and rests his forehead against mine. “I love you, too, Adalyn.”

  Nothing in this world is certain anymore, but I know for a fact that I’ve never been happier than I am in this very moment.

  “Why were you so late getting back here? You gave me such a fright!”

  Then Luc pulls away, and I get a good look at his face. He isn’t grinning, like I am. My own smile fades.

  “Luc, what’s the matter?” I ask.

  “I got held up because I was waiting for Raphael,” he says. “He never made it to me.”

  “No.”

  Luc nods solemnly.

  “Do we know for sure that he’s . . . that he’s . . .”

  “Not for sure,” Luc says, but his voice shakes. “I . . . I suppose he might have run the wrong way and gotten lost, but . . .”

  He doesn’t need to finish the grim sentence. We both know perfectly well that Raphael wouldn’t have gotten lost—after all, Luc wasn’t stationed that far from the restaurant. If he never made it to the meeting point, then it’s likely he never made it out of the restaurant. I didn’t know him as well as the others, but he was still a friend. This is terrible.

  Luc takes me by the hand and leads me back to the kitchen, where the mood is tense. Pierre-Henri paces around the table with his hands clasped behind his head like a prisoner. Geronte sits at the head of the empty table, drumming his fingers on the tabletop and peering at his pocket watch. Only Marcel seems to have any shred of real optimism left in him; he stands by the door, and at every small sound outside in the hall, he presses his eye up to the peephole.

  “I really don’t think he’s coming,” Luc says to Marcel.

  “He still might!” the boy replies. “You never know.”

  Luc and I join Geronte at the table. Pierre-Henri wanders over, too. Everybody seems unsure whether to celebrate our achievement or mourn the loss of Raphael.

  “He knew what he was getting into,” says Geronte. “You all knew the risk involved, and you decided it was worth it.” He looks around at us one by one, and we all nod. “I think it goes without saying that this isn’t how we wanted things to end up tonight, but we must not forget that we just achieved the impossible. Germany’s grip on France was already weakening, and we just cut off one of their fingers.”

  Geronte is right. We signed up for this work because we’d give anything to defend our country from evil, including our lives. I’m still racked with sadness, but maybe in time, I’ll be able to look back on this night with pride.

  There’s a sharp rap at the door. A pattern that doesn’t sound anything like our code.

  My stomach turns to stone. I see the blood disappear from Luc’s face. Everybody freezes—everybody except for Marcel, who’s been waiting desperately for Raphael to return. Marcel, ever the optimist, never quite as astute as the rest. At the sound of the knock, his face lights up with excitement, and he lunges for the doorknob.

  “Marcel, no!” I shout.

  But the door is already open, and a man throws Marcel into the wall. They tear into the room like wildfire, men in long black coats with their guns drawn.

  It sucks the air from my lungs, except somehow, I’m still screaming. Luc—where is Luc? He’s grabbing me by the wrist. We have to get to the hallway, Luc—to the hallway. We can escape through another room. The magenta sunset. The bedroom has a window. I try to yank him in that direction, but I can’t go any farther. The men keep multiplying. They have us pinned against the wall.

  I hear Luc’s voice. It’s like an echo.

  “I’ve got you,” it says. “I’ve got you, Adalyn.”

  A soldier slams the butt of his rifle into Geronte’s mouth. There is blood. Blood everywhere. Then they seize Pierre-Henri. He screams.

  They’re closing in on us.

  “Hold on to me, Adalyn.”

  And then a rifle butt comes for Luc, colliding with the side of his face. It smashes his jaw, that beautiful jaw forever imprinted in my memory, and I can’t hold on to him any longer, because they’re dragging him toward the door.

  The hand on my wrist isn’t Luc’s anymore. I try to wrench myself free, but he twists my wrist and it feels like it’s about to snap, and all I can do is follow him out to the hall and through the lobby, my screams reverberating off the walls. All that comes out is Luc’s name over and over and over again. The man slaps me. I scream some more. He slaps me again.

  And then Luc’s voice.

  “I’m here, Adalyn!”

  They drag us through the front doors out onto the sidewalk. Through the darkness, two blue headlights swim toward us like the eyes of a shark. The car comes to a stop, and the passenger side door opens and closes with a slam. The man who steps out
has blood on his face, but I would recognize him anywhere. His mouth is like a paper cut. But how? How is he here? How did he survive?

  He barks orders at his men. Marcel, Pierre-Henri, and Geronte are shoved into the back seat of a car. I don’t understand. The bomb—it went off. I heard it go off.

  Von Groth turns around. He looks triumphant. And then his gaze meets mine. It’s dark outside. Maybe he won’t recognize me. But he does. I can see it—the fire rising up and licking the insides of his eyes—the triumph molting into fury.

  “You,” he growls.

  There’s a deafening noise. Not a boom, but a crack. Somebody shoves me hard in the chest. A blood-curdling cry pierces the night. Not me—Luc. Luc is screaming. Why? Now my torso feels hot. It’s burning. Like a fire poker is wedged between my ribs.

  “Adalyn!” Luc shouts. “Adalyn, are you okay?!”

  Am I okay? I don’t know. I have no idea what’s happening. I feel wet, all of a sudden. I look down. That’s when I see the blood.

  Nobody shoved me. Von Groth shot me.

  Blackness.

  I come to on the ground. I taste blood.

  “ADALYN!”

  The stars look so beautiful tonight. Like lights. My blanket of lights over Paris.

  “ADALYN, YOU’RE GOING TO BE OKAY!”

  Okay?

  Luc is asking if I’m okay.

  Did you make it here okay?

  That’s what he asked me.

  Did you make it here okay?

  I was so nervous!

  Did you make it here okay?

  The trains ran smoothly, Luc.

  The trains ran smoothly.

  Chapter 19

  Alice

  He’s vanished. Luc Pelletier, the only person in the world who can tell me about Adalyn, has vacated the premises.

  “We’ll help you look for him,” I tell Eugene and Ruben.

  “Thank you,” Eugene says. “He can’t have gone far.”

  I cram the photos into my backpack as the brothers explain their dilemma to a very concerned-looking Corinne, who happens to be standing in between us at the hors d’oeuvres table. Her jaw drops, and she immediately offers her assistance.

  Paul and I make for the door with our three new companions. Corinne, Eugene, and Ruben are all surprisingly agile, and we canvass the mezzanine in a matter of minutes. There’s no sign of Luc. We make for the escalators, squeezing in two to a stair.

  “I guess he meant it when he said he didn’t want to come,” Eugene says.

  We split up when we get to the lobby. Eugene and Ruben go to check the bathroom, Corinne goes to the sidewalk out front, and Paul and I, who are quicker on our feet, take the rest of the ground floor. Luc isn’t in the café or the gift shop.

  “Look, there’s a back garden,” says Paul, pointing to a sign hanging from the ceiling with an arrow on it.

  We fly down the hallway, our shoes springing off the carpet, until we get to a set of glass double doors that look out on a grassy courtyard. I scan the area, and at last, I see him on a bench in the far corner, half concealed by a tall, flowering bush.

  “You should go ahead,” Paul whispers. “I will go find the others.”

  “I feel like I’m the one who made him angry,” I whisper back.

  “Maybe he’s not angry, just a little anxious.”

  “Paul—”

  But he’s already going back down the hall, leaving me alone to approach Luc, who doesn’t know I’m here yet. Okay. I can do this. For Gram and Adalyn. I push open the doors, walk across the grass, and announce myself as I step around the bush so I don’t startle him.

  “Luc? It’s me, Alice.”

  I’m scared that if I look him in the eye, he’ll get upset again, so instead, I stare at the scar on his jaw. It moves.

  “Alice. I am sorry I left. It is not easy for me to speak about these things.”

  I work up the courage to make eye contact again. Paul, as usual, is right. There isn’t any anger in Luc’s thin face. Only sadness. But I think I see a willingness to talk with me. Even though I’m not any good at emotional conversations, I’m going to do my best here. What would Vivi say right now?

  “Luc . . . I know you didn’t want to come here tonight, but I’m really happy you did. And . . . um . . . even though it’s hard, I would love to ask you a few questions about my great-aunt. I’ve been trying to figure out what happened to her.”

  His mouth twists into an uncomfortable-looking position. I think he’s trying to stop his lip from trembling again. I sit down beside him, my denim shorts and Converse sneakers a sharp contrast to his brown loafers and pleated khakis. I put my hand on top of his. We sit in silence for a few seconds, until he takes a ragged breath.

  “She died,” Luc says.

  I was prepared for that. Still, it’s upsetting to hear it announced so . . . officially.

  “When?” I ask.

  “May 31, 1944.”

  The day after Adalyn’s last diary entry. I open my mouth to ask another question, but close it again when Luc pulls his hand out from under mine. He covers his face and begins to sob.

  I don’t know what to do. How am I supposed to comfort him? I wish I had a pack of Kleenexes in my backpack.

  “What happened that day?” I ask him gently.

  “He shot her,” Luc says between sobs. “She died on the street. Right in front of me. I could not help her.”

  “Who shot her?”

  “A Nazi. He is not important.”

  “Why not?”

  Luc’s shoulders shake harder than ever when he answers me. “Because it was all my fault.”

  Just then, the double doors burst open, and Paul appears in the courtyard, followed by Eugene, Ruben, and Corinne. They look like they’re about to race over, so I hold up my hand and motion for them to wait so Luc can have some time to collect himself. I wish Paul had taken a tiny bit longer to find everyone so that Luc could have kept on talking. “All my fault”? What did he mean by that?

  When Luc spots the others waiting by the door, he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. I give Paul a nod, and he collects chairs for everyone and positions them around our bench. By the time everyone is seated, Luc has dried his tears. He still looks devastated.

  “Luc just told me what happened to Adalyn,” I explain to the others. “She . . . um . . .” I glance at Luc for permission to repeat what happened, and he gives me a small nod. “She was shot and killed by a Nazi on May 31, 1944.”

  Everybody’s eyes widen, but none can beat Corinne’s. “That is the same day my grandfather was arrested,” she says. “He was involved in bombing a restaurant full of Gestapo.”

  Next to me, Luc stirs. He turns to Corinne and draws another ragged breath. “So was I,” he says quietly, “and so was Adalyn.” A chill travels around the group. “Geronte was our leader,” Luc continues. “He was an incredible man.”

  Ruben offers Corinne a tissue, and she dabs at the corners of her eyes. “He really was,” Corinne replies, and she and Luc share a knowing look. To the rest of the group, she explains, “When my grandfather was arrested, he refused to give up any information, so they tortured him extensively. He was old, and his body couldn’t manage it. He died in Gestapo custody, but he never betrayed his network.”

  “The other people from the photographs . . . were they involved, too?” I ask Luc.

  “Yes. Pierre-Henri and Marcel and . . . and Raphael. He was the one who betrayed us.”

  I want to know all about what happened in the attack, including whatever this Raphael person did, but there’s something else I need to ask first—the question that’s been eating at me since the start of the summer. “Luc, do you know why there’s a photo in Adalyn’s apartment of her partying with a bunch of Nazis?”

  “She was not partying with them,” Luc says immediately. “She was spying.”

  “Spying?”

  “Yes.” His voice cracks. “She was the bravest person I ever knew.”

&nbs
p; I’m too dumbfounded to respond.

  “Luc, maybe you should start at the beginning and tell us everything,” Eugene suggests, and everybody in the circle nods in agreement.

  But Luc shakes his head. “I can’t do it,” he confesses. “It is too painful.”

  I look into the old man’s eyes, swollen from crying. It must be terrible for him to dredge up the memories he’s kept locked away for so many decades. He’s had an open wound since Adalyn died, and I want to help him heal it. I lay my hand next to his on the bench.

  “Luc, you said Adalyn was the bravest person you ever knew, but without you, nobody will ever know her story. Her legacy won’t live on.”

  Something shifts behind Luc’s eyes, and he sits up straighter. He puts his hand on top of mine.

  And then he begins.

  It’s late by the time Luc reaches the end of his story, and the fairy lights strung across the courtyard have turned on. Over the past hour, I’ve teared up so many times that the bottom of my T-shirt is wrinkled from being used to wipe off my glasses. Adalyn was doing resistance work from the very beginning of the Occupation. She started by spreading resistance tracts and other secret messages, and ended up spying on the Nazis, who didn’t know she could understand what they were saying. She never told anyone in her family, including Gram.

  I can’t even imagine.

  Luc just finished taking us through the night of the attack, and how it all fell apart. In a sick turn of events, he ended up piecing it together from von Groth himself, who bragged about it while he was torturing Luc for information.

  What happened is this: Von Groth apparently thought Raphael looked suspicious the moment he entered the dining room. He was sweating profusely, and it wasn’t especially hot outside. When Raphael dropped the briefcase, von Groth got up and followed him into the kitchen and out the back door. Raphael tried to get away, but von Groth seized him.

  Then the bomb went off—with von Groth outside the restaurant.

  Von Groth put his pistol to Raphael’s head, and the boy divulged his secrets, including the address of the safe house.

  “Raphael always talked highly of himself,” muttered Luc, “but he collapsed under pressure.”