On Sundays, my father and the neighbor, Mr. Frost, would have endless yelling matches over the hedge about Inky ruining my dad's tulips, while my mother made bran-and-honey cupcakes in the kitchen and sighed. She loathed conflict. Heedless of the pandemonium, my little sister Charla would be watching Gilligan's Island or Speed Racer in the TV room, ingurgitating yards of red liquorice. Upstairs, my best friend Katy Lacy and I would be peering out from behind my curtains at gorgeous Evan Frost frolicking with the object of my father's furor, a jet-black Labrador.
It was a happy, sheltered childhood. No outbursts, no scenes. Runkle School down the road. Quiet Thanksgivings. Cozy Christmases. Long lazy summers at Nahant. Peaceful weeks merging into peaceful months. The only thing that scared the hell out of me was when my fifth-grade teacher, the tow-headed Miss Sebold, read out "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. Thanks to her, I had nightmares for years.
It was during my adolescence that I felt the first yearnings for France, an insidious fascination that grew stronger with the passage of time. Why France? Why Paris? The French language had always attracted me. I found it softer, more sensual than German, Spanish, or Italian. I used to give excellent imitations of the Looney Tunes French skunk, Pepe Le Pew. But deep down I knew my ever-growing ardor for Paris had nothing to do with the typical American cliches of romance, sophistication, and sexiness. It went beyond that.
When I first discovered Paris, I was quickly drawn to its contrasts; its tawdry, rough neighborhoods appealed to me as much as the Haussmannian, majestic ones. I craved its paradoxes, its secrets, its surprises. It took me twenty-five years to blend in, but I did it. I learned to put up with impatient waiters and rude taxi drivers. I learned to drive around the Place de l'Etoile, impervious to the insults yelled at me by irate bus drivers, and--more surprisingly--by elegant, highlighted blondes in shiny black Minis. I learned how to tame arrogant concierges, snotty saleswomen, blase telephone operators, and pompous doctors. I learned how Parisians consider themselves to be superior to the rest of the world, and specifically to all other French citizens living from Nice to Nancy, with a particular disdain toward the inhabitants of the City of Light's suburbs. I learned how the rest of France nicknamed Parisians "dog faces" with the rhyme "Parisien, tete de chien." Clearly, they were not overly fond of Parisians. No one loved Paris better than a true Parisian. No one was prouder of his city than a true Parisian. No one was half so arrogant, so haughty, so conceited, and quite so irresistible. Why did I love Paris so? I wondered. Maybe because it never gave in to me. It hovered enticingly close, yet it let me know my place. The American. I'd always be the American. L'Americaine.
I knew I wanted to be a journalist when I was Zoe's age. I first started writing for the high-school newspaper and had never stopped since. I came to live in Paris when I was a little over twenty, after graduating from Boston University with an English major. My first job was as a junior assistant for an American fashion magazine I soon left. I was looking for meatier topics than skirt lengths or spring colors.
I took the first job that came up. Rewriting press releases for an American TV network. It wasn't fantastically paid, but it was enough for me to stay on, living in the eighteenth arrondissement, sharing a place with two French gay men, Herve and Christophe, who became long-lasting friends.
That week I had a dinner date with them at the rue Berthe, where I'd lived before meeting Bertrand. Bertrand rarely accompanied me. I sometimes wondered why he was so uninterested in Herve and Christophe. "Because your dear husband, like most French bourgeois, well-to-do gentlemen, prefers women to homosexuals, cocotte!" I could almost hear my friend Isabelle's languid voice, her sly chuckle. Yes, she was right. Bertrand was definitely into women. Big time, as Charla would say.
Herve and Christophe still lived in the same place I had shared with them. Except that my small bedroom was now a walk-in closet. Christophe was a fashion victim and proud of it. I enjoyed their dinners; there was always an interesting mix of people--a famous model or singer, a controversial writer, a cute, gay neighbor, another American or Canadian journalist, or some young editor just starting out. Herve worked as a lawyer for an international firm, and Christophe was a yoga teacher.
They were my true, dear friends. I did have other friends here, American expats--Holly, Susannah, and Jan--met through the magazine or the American college where I often went to put up ads for babysitters. I even had a couple of close French girlfriends--like Isabelle, garnered through Zoe's ballet class at the Salle Pleyel--but Herve and Christophe were the ones I called at one in the morning when Bertrand had been difficult. The ones who came to the hospital when Zoe broke her ankle falling off her scooter. The ones who never forgot my birthday. The ones who knew which films to see, which records to buy. Their meals were invariably a delight, candlelit and exquisite.
I arrived with a chilled bottle of champagne. Christophe was still in the shower, explained Herve, greeting me at the door. In his mid-forties, Herve was slim, mustachioed, and genial. He smoked like a chimney. It was impossible to get him to stop. So we had all given up.
"That's a nice jacket," he commented, putting down his cigarette to open the champagne.
Herve and Christophe always noticed what I was wearing, if I sported new perfume, new makeup, a new hair style. When I was with them, I never felt like l'Americaine desperately trying to keep up with Parisian chic. I felt myself. And I loved that about them.
"That blue-green suits you, goes divinely with your eyes. Where did you buy it?" Herve asked.
"H&M, on the rue de Rennes."
"You look superb. So, how's the apartment coming along?" he asked, handing me a glass and some warm toast spread with pink tarama.
"There's a hell of a lot to be done," I sighed. "It will take months."
"And I imagine the architect of a husband is thrilled at the whole thing?"
I winced.
"You mean he's indefatigable."
"Ah," said Herve. "And therefore a pain in the ass for you."
"You got it," I said, sipping champagne.
Herve looked at me closely through his tiny, rimless glasses. He had pale gray eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes.
"Say, Juju," he said, "are you all right?"
I smiled brightly.
"Yes, I'm fine."
But fine was far from what I felt. My recent knowledge about the events of July 1942 had awakened a vulnerability within me, triggered something deep, unspoken, that haunted me, that burdened me. I had dragged that burden around with me all week, ever since I'd started to research the Vel' d'Hiv' roundup.
"You just don't look yourself," Herve said, concerned. He came to sit next to me, putting his slim, white hand on my knee. "I know that face, Julia. That's your sad face. Now you tell me what's going on."
T
HE ONLY WAY TO shut out the hell around her was to bury her head between her pointed knees, and cup her hands over her ears. She rocked back and forth, pressing her face down onto her legs. Think of nice things, think of all the things you like, of all the things that make you happy, of all those special, magical moments you remember. Her mother taking her to the hairdresser, and everyone complimenting her thick, honey-colored hair. You will be proud of that head of hair later on, ma petite!
Her father's hands working on the leather in the warehouse, how fast and strong they were, how she admired his skill. Her tenth birthday and the new watch, the beautiful blue box, the leather strap her father had made, its rich, intoxicating smell, and the discreet tick-tock of the watch that fascinated her. She had been so proud. But Maman had said not to wear it to school. She might break it or lose it. Only her best friend Armelle had seen it. And she had been so jealous!
Where was Armelle now? She lived just down the road, they went to the same school. But Armelle had left the city at the beginning of the school vacations. She had gone somewhere with her parents, somewhere south. There had been one letter, and that was all. Armelle was small and red-haired and very
clever. She knew all her multiplication tables by heart, and she even mastered the trickiest grammar.
Armelle was never afraid, the girl admired that about her. Even when the sirens went off in the middle of class, howling like enraged wolves, making everyone jump, Armelle remained calm, in control, she would take the girl's hand and lead her down to the musty school cellar, impervious to all the other children's frightened whispers and Mademoiselle Dixsaut's quavering orders. And they would huddle together, shoulder to shoulder, in the dark dampness, candlelight flickering on pale faces, for what seemed hours, and listen to the drone of the planes far above their heads, while Mademoiselle Dixsaut read Jean de La Fontaine or Moliere and tried to stop her hands from trembling. Look at her hands, Armelle would giggle, she's afraid, she can hardly read, look. And the girl would glance at Armelle with wonder and whisper, "Aren't you afraid? Not even the tiniest bit?" A contemptuous shake of glossy red curls. No, I'm not. I'm not afraid. And sometimes, when the shudder of the bombs seeped through the grimy floor, making Mademoiselle Dixsaut's voice falter and stop, Armelle would grab the girl's hand and hold it tight.
She missed Armelle, she wished Armelle could be here now, to hold her hand and tell her not to be afraid. She missed Armelle's freckles and her mischievous green eyes and her insolent grin. Think of the things you love, of the things that make you happy.
Last summer, or was it two summers ago, she couldn't remember, Papa had taken them to spend a couple of days in the countryside by a river. She couldn't remember the name of the river. But the water had felt so smooth and wonderful to her skin. Her father had tried to teach her to swim. After a few days, she managed an inelegant dog paddle that made everybody laugh. By the river, her brother had gone mad with joy and excitement. He was tiny then, a mere toddler. She had spent the day running after him as he slipped and shrieked along the muddy shore. And Maman and Papa had looked so peaceful, young, and in love, her mother's head against her father's shoulder. She remembered the little hotel by the water, where they had eaten simple, succulent meals beneath the cool, leafy bower, and when the patronne had asked her to help behind the counter, and there she was handing out coffee and feeling very grown up and proud, until she dropped coffee on someone's foot, but the patronne had been very nice about it.
The girl lifted her head, saw her mother talking to Eva, a young woman who lived near them. Eva had four young children, a bunch of rambunctious boys the girl wasn't overly fond of. Eva's face, like her mother's, looked haggard and old. How was it they looked so much older overnight, she wondered. Eva was Polish, too. Her French, like her mother's, was not good. Like the girl's mother and father, Eva had family back in Poland. Her parents, aunts, and uncles. The girl remembered the awful day-when was it?-not very long ago, when Eva had received a letter from Poland, and she had turned up at the apartment, her face streaming with tears, and she had broken down in her mother's arms. Her mother had tried to comfort Eva, but the girl could tell she was stricken as well. Nobody wanted to tell the girl exactly what had happened, but the girl understood, hung on to every Yiddish word she could make out between the sobs. Something terrible, back in Poland, entire families had been killed, houses burnt down, only ashes and ruins remained. She had asked her father if her grandparents were safe. Her mother's parents, the ones whose black-and-white photograph was on the marble mantelpiece in the living room. Her father had said that he did not know. There had been very bad news from Poland. But he wouldn't tell her what the news was.
As she looked at Eva and her mother, the girl wondered if her parents had been right to protect her from everything, if they had been right to keep disturbing, bad news away from her. If they had been right not to explain why so many things had changed for them since the beginning of the war. Like when Eva's husband never came back last year. He had disappeared. Where? Nobody would tell her. Nobody would explain. She hated being treated like a baby. She hated the voices being lowered when she entered the room.
If they had told her, if they had told her everything they knew, wouldn't that have made today easier?
I
'M FINE, JUST TIRED, that's all. So who's coming tonight then?"
Before Herve could answer, Christophe entered the room, a vision of Parisian chic, khaki and cream overtones, exuding expensive men's perfume. Christophe was a little younger than Herve, tanned all year round, skinny, and wore his long salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a thick ponytail, a la Karl Lagerfeld.
Almost simultaneously, the doorbell rang.
"Aha," said Christophe, blowing me a kiss, "that must be Guillaume."
He rushed to the front door.
"Guillaume?" I mouthed at Herve.
"Our new pal. Does something in advertising. Divorced. Bright boy. You'll like him. He's our only guest. Everyone else is out of town because of the long weekend."
The man who entered the room was tall, dark, in his late thirties. He was carrying a wrapped scented candle and roses.
"This is Julia Jarmond," said Christophe. "Our very dear journalist friend from a long, long time ago when we were young."
"Which was merely yesterday," murmured Guillaume, in true gallant French fashion.
I tried to keep an easy smile on my face, aware of Herve's inquiring eyes moving to me from time to time. It was odd, because usually I would have confided in Herve. I would have told him how strange I had been feeling for the past week. And the business with Bertrand. I had always put up with Bertrand's provocative, sometimes downright nasty sense of humor. It had never hurt me. It had never bothered me. Until now. I used to admire his wit, his sarcasm. It had made me love him all the more.
People laughed at his jokes. They were even a little afraid of him. Behind the irresistible laugh, the twinkling blue-gray eyes, the charming smile, was a tough, demanding man who was used to getting what he wanted. I had put up with it because he made up to me every time, every time he realized he had hurt me, he showered me with gifts, flowers, and passionate sex. In bed was probably the only place Bertrand and I truly communicated, the only place where nobody dominated the other. I remember Charla saying to me once, after witnessing a particularly sharp tirade delivered by my husband, "Is this creep ever nice to you?" And watching my face slowly redden, "Jesus. I get the picture. Pillow talk. Actions speak louder than words." And she had sighed and patted my hand. Why hadn't I opened up to Herve tonight? Something held me back. Something sealed my lips.
Once seated around the octagonal marble table, Guillaume asked me what newspaper I worked for. When I told him, his face remained blank. I wasn't surprised. French people had never heard of Seine Scenes. It was mostly read by Americans living in Paris. That didn't bother me; I had never craved fame. I was content with a well-paid job that kept my hours relatively free, despite Joshua's occasional despotism.
"And what are you writing about at the present?" asked Guillaume politely, twisting green pasta around his fork.
"The Vel' d'Hiv'," I said. "The sixtieth commemoration is coming up."
"You mean that roundup during the war?" asked Christophe, his mouth full.
I was about to answer him when I noticed that Guillaume's fork had stopped halfway between his plate and his mouth.
"Yes, the big roundup at the Velodrome d'Hiver," I said.
"Didn't that take place somewhere out of Paris?" Christophe went on, munching away.
Guillaume had put his fork down, quietly. Somehow his eyes had locked onto mine. He had dark eyes, a sensitive, fine mouth.
"It was the Nazis, I believe," said Herve, pouring out more Chardonnay. Neither of them seemed to have noticed Guillaume's tight face. "The Nazis who arrested Jews during the Occupation."
"Actually, it wasn't the Germans--," I began.
"It was the French police," interrupted Guillaume. "And it happened in the middle of Paris. In a stadium which used to house famous bike races."
"Really?" asked Herve. "I thought it was the Nazis, in the suburbs."
"I've been researching
this for the past week," I said. "German orders, yes, but French police action. Weren't you taught this in school?"
"I can't remember. I don't think so," admitted Christophe.
Guillaume's eyes, looking at me again, as if he were drawing something out of me, probing me. I felt perturbed.
"It's quite amazing," said Guillaume, with an ironic smile, "the number of French people who still don't know what happened. What about the Americans? Did you know about it, Julia?"
I did not avert my eyes.
"No, I didn't know, and I wasn't told about it at school back in Boston in the seventies. But now I know a lot more. And what I have found out has overwhelmed me."
Herve and Christophe remained silent. They seemed at a loss, not knowing what to say. Guillaume finally spoke.
"In July '95, Jacques Chirac was the first president ever to draw attention to the role of the French government during the Occupation. And toward this particular roundup. His speech made headlines. Do you remember it?"
I had read Chirac's speech during my recent research. He had certainly gone out on a limb. But I had not recalled it although I must have heard it on the news six years ago. And the boys--I couldn't help calling them that, I always had--obviously had not read or remembered Chirac's speech. They gazed at Guillaume, embarrassed. Herve chain-smoked and Christophe bit his nails, which he always did when he felt nervous or ill at ease.
Silence fell upon us. It was odd, silence in this room. There had been so many joyful, noisy parties here, people roaring with laughter, endless jokes, loud music. So many games, birthday speeches, dancing till the small hours, despite irate neighbors banging from underneath with a broom.
The silence felt heavy and painful. When Guillaume started to speak again, his voice had changed. His face had changed too. He was pale, and he could not look at us any longer. He stared down at his plate of untouched pasta.
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