by Ruth Druart
I looked over at Jean-Luc, but I couldn’t catch his eye in the dark and he was still busy talking with the other gendarme. I hesitated.
“Go home, Cinderella. Don’t wait for your prince.” The gendarme’s mean smile scared me.
“Go on! Go home. Now!”
I walked away, the blood thudding through my veins. I didn’t dare look back. What were they going to do with Jean-Luc? I told myself they were only gendarmes. It wasn’t like they were the Gestapo. What could they do if he hadn’t done anything wrong? Surely they couldn’t arrest him for kissing. I tried to convince myself that he would be fine, that he’d come back for me. But there were no guarantees these days.
On the way home, I went into the church again and lit a candle, praying that they would let him go, that I would see him again.
Chapter Eighteen
Paris, April 22, 1944
JEAN-LUC
Give a weak man a little bit of power, and he’ll abuse it. The gendarmes were a typical example. Jean-Luc was relieved to see Charlotte walking away, but now he had to deal with them. Even though they had no grounds for arresting him, he knew that what little authority they had would be wielded against him.
“Indecent exposure!” The one who’d stopped him laughed. “If we’d left them five minutes longer, we could have booked them for that!”
Jean-Luc took a pack of Gitanes out from his trouser pocket and offered it to the one who’d just spoken. “Well, if I’d been lucky, maybe you could have got me for that. But come on, this is France! It’s our duty to honor our women.”
The atmosphere immediately changed. The gendarme laughed, taking a cigarette, and Jean-Luc offered the packet to the other one, lighting up for both of them with the silver lighter he had inherited from his father. Then, to complete the unspoken pact of brotherhood, he took a cigarette for himself. “You can’t arrest a man for having a little fun, can you?” He paused. “I just got out of the hospital. Injury to the leg and to the face.” He touched his scar. “She was my nurse.”
“Nice!” The gendarme blew a puff of smoke in Jean-Luc’s direction. “I bet she took good care of you.”
“She did.” He laughed.
They joined in his laughter; then, after a little more banter about women, they sent him on his way. He glanced at his watch—almost another hour to go before curfew. That should give him enough time to walk home rather than descend into the Métro’s labyrinth of tunnels. He needed to think. Well, actually he wanted to think about Charlotte. Charlo-tte, Charlo-tte. He caressed her name in his mind, wondering what it was about her. Maybe it was the contradictions he saw in her: confidence laced with insecurity, naïveté tinged with bravado. He could sense a courage that had yet to surface. He imagined it had been stifled by a strict family upbringing where she’d had little opportunity to express her own thoughts. She was like a butterfly not yet free from its cocoon, its beautiful wings still curled up. She was full of something he felt he’d lost. Hope. The thrill of living. He could hear it in her voice when she talked to him. And she wanted to give it to him, place it in his unworthy palm, somehow expecting him to take it and fulfill it.
Then there was something about the way she held herself, something touching about the way she lifted her chin when she talked to him, trying to look more assertive than he knew she felt. He loved to look at her in profile. She had a perfect profile: an intelligent forehead, not too short and not too high, long, silky eyelashes flickering over eyes of the richest brown, only a shade lighter than the large pupils they encircled. Her nose was fine-boned, maybe just a little too long to be perfect, which only made her all the more perfect in his eyes.
He walked back across the bridge, turning right along the quai, glancing over at the closed cafés and bars. What was he doing wandering around like this? Was he tempting fate? Wishing to be arrested? Anything to get out of working at Bobigny. Now he had even less chance of finding a way out. He’d aroused suspicion, so he wouldn’t be able to do anything for a long while. He would just have to buckle down and get on with it. But was that possible? Should it be possible? Maybe he should just disappear; that would still be better than working for the Boches. He could escape to the countryside, try to find the Maquis, hiding out in the hills. With his knowledge of railways, he could help them derail trains. But then who would look after his mother? Who would provide her with a little money?
He soon came to Notre-Dame on the Île de la Cité; it gleamed in the dark, its timelessness indifferent to the war. He thought about going in and lighting a candle, but it was getting too close to curfew; anyway, he didn’t like those tortured gargoyles hanging on the walls, watching you as you entered. Judging you. So he kept walking. Tonight he felt like being alone in the dark, in this city that used to be his.
Chapter Nineteen
Paris, April 28, 1944
CHARLOTTE
I sighed as I watched our maid, Clothilde, grating a large lump of Swedish turnip on the kitchen table.
“Don’t sigh like that, Charlotte.” Maman bent down, looking under the kitchen sink and pulling out a bundle covered in newspaper. “We’ve got pigeon tonight. Pierre killed two this afternoon and I swapped one for that last bit of sugar.” She paused, staring at me. “Pigeon is just what you need. Look at you. You’re even paler than usual.”
I took the newspaper bundle from her and peeped inside. Sure enough, a pigeon lay dead, complete with head and feet. I folded the paper back up, putting the package on the kitchen table, in front of Clothilde. The sight had made me feel sick. I must have sighed again.
“What’s the matter, Charlotte?” Maman frowned at me.
“Nothing.”
“Yes there is. You’ve been very distracted all week.”
“It’s this war. I’ve had enough of it.”
“Don’t you think we all have? But you know it can’t go on forever.”
“But what about all the people who’ve disappeared? Will they come back? The Jews they’ve rounded up?”
Clothilde looked up from her grating, giving me a hard stare. Maman’s frown grew deeper. “I hope so.”
“Hope so? That doesn’t sound like you think they will.”
“There’s not much we can do about it, Charlotte.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s out of our hands. It’s best not to dwell on it.”
“But it’s hard not to dwell on it!”
“When you’re older, Charlotte, you’ll understand that there are some things you cannot change, so you’d better just get on with it and accept them.”
“But what if they’re wrong?”
“It doesn’t make any difference if you can’t change them.”
“Do you know then? Do you know what they’re doing with the Jews?”
“No, I don’t! Just be grateful you aren’t Jewish.”
“What about the Levi family we used to know? Don’t you want to know what’s happened to them? Will we ever see them again? You were friends with Madame Levi.”
“Yes, we were friends, and it makes me sad to know that they have gone, maybe far from here.”
“But where, Maman? Where have they gone?”
“Charlotte! Stop it, will you? I don’t know where they’ve gone!”
Clothilde continued to stare at me. I had the feeling she wanted to say something but didn’t think it was her place.
That evening, we ate our pigeon soup in silence; only the sound of chewing and swallowing filled the small room. My parents wiped their bowls clean with their fingers, there being no bread left. I looked down at my own bowl of gray broth, tiny bones floating to the surface, and pushed it away.
Papa rolled his eyes at me, slid my bowl over, lifted it to his mouth, and slurped.
Before I went to bed that evening, I looked up the word “collaboration” in my old school dictionary. It said: “to cooperate with an enemy invader, or to work together on a joint project.” That meant the French police were collaborating, but I knew that
already. So where did it stop? As far as I could see, everyone was cooperating with the enemy—maybe not willingly, but doing so anyway: serving the Boches meat in the restaurants while going hungry themselves, giving them directions, stepping off the pavement to let them by.
Sometimes people were only too happy to collaborate, like the ones who nodded hello on their way to denounce you, though most denunciations were made by letter. Letters were much safer. Rumors often circulated about who had denounced whom, and what favors they had received in return.
One afternoon, I’d been with a friend when we saw a neighbor whom we vaguely knew shot in the back as he ran away from an identification control. Everyone buried their chins in their collars and hurried home. Wasn’t that collaboration? Pretending that nothing had happened?
Then there were the women—but I’d bet they weren’t giving away state secrets or even denouncing anyone. They were probably just trying to get extra rations for their families; maybe some of them actually fell in love. I wouldn’t dare say it aloud to anyone, not even to my friends, but I thought some of the soldiers looked quite nice and normal. One had smiled at me once and my heart beat quickly as I’d hurried away. I wasn’t quite sure if it was fear, or the thrill of a handsome man smiling at me.
Anyway, we’d been ordered by our government to collaborate. They’d told us to cooperate with the Germans, so that together we could build a stronger, more unified Europe.
When the German soldiers had marched down the Champs-Élysées, Papa took me to watch. “It’s a historic moment,” he’d said, “and we need to see it with our own eyes.” Some people were waving flags, welcoming the tall soldiers dressed in their smart dark uniforms; others stood by silently, their lips pursed. Papa didn’t have a flag and his face was clouded over. “We’re going to have to be very careful,” he’d whispered in my ear.
I’d stared at the tanks, trucks, and men, wondering how I was supposed to feel, and what exactly I needed to be careful about. But that was four years ago now; I’d only been fourteen. A lot had happened since then.
Chapter Twenty
Paris, April 29, 1944
JEAN-LUC
Desperate to see Charlotte the next Saturday evening, Jean-Luc had bought himself some time, working another week at Bobigny. He knew she’d be worried about him, and he knew she’d be waiting for him outside Stohrer at six o’clock on Saturday evening. This time he would tell her about his plan to join the Maquis. Maybe she would come with him. He knew she wanted to leave the German hospital, that she wanted to do something more. He knew she had spirit and courage; she just hadn’t realized how much yet. It was possible. Anything was possible—you just had to believe. And Charlotte had helped him believe again. She made him remember a time when he’d been alive with the excitement of life, when he had dared to hope.
As he sat on the train into Paris that evening, he leaned his head against the hard, cold window, gazing out into the night. Barren unfarmed fields, left open for the birds to peck at, glinted back at him in the dark. The cattle had all disappeared, eaten by the Boches, who liked their steak medium-rare. Why, he wondered, didn’t we protect our country better? Now it was divided, brother against brother. When this war ended, he knew there would be accounts to be settled, families torn apart.
Charlotte was standing there just as he’d imagined, gazing into the empty window of the patisserie. Stopping in his tracks, he lowered his hat over his face as he watched her. Her hands were in her coat pockets, pulling it around, stretching it out over her figure, accentuating her slim waist. Her legs were bare. He felt sorry for the girls, who no longer had stockings. At least the men could wear trousers. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. How he longed to do that for her. Then she took her other hand out of her pocket, holding it over her stomach. He knew how hungry she always was, and a wave of pity washed through him. If only he could take her out to a restaurant, watch her enjoy a proper meal. He was hungry himself, but he hadn’t been able to get anything this time. Taking a step backward, he took out his wallet, counting the thin, overused notes. If he didn’t give his mother any money this Sunday, then he could just about afford dinner for two in a brasserie. The thought excited him. Just this once, he thought. The gendarmes wouldn’t bother them in a brasserie, and he would be able to talk to her properly.
Putting his wallet back, he strode over to meet her. She turned around, looking straight at him. He put his arm around her, pulling her in and kissing her on the lips. She seemed surprised, and he felt her tense up.
He pulled back. “Charlotte, tonight I’m taking you out for dinner.”
“What?”
He stroked her hair, whispering in her ear. “Yes. I’m inviting you.” Taking her arm, he pulled her along.
“What happened with the gendarmes?”
“Nothing, I gave them a Gitane each and they let me go.”
“Thank goodness. I was so worried.” She turned and kissed him on the cheek.
As they continued down the cobbled stones of Rue Montorgueil, they looked out for a brasserie. Soon they came to one on a corner, and he slowed down. “How about this one? Does it please mademoiselle?”
“I… I’m not sure.” She leaned into his ear. “I think Papa said collabos eat here.”
“Collaborators? Maybe, but that might be better.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes it’s best to be right in the hornet’s nest.”
“But what if someone sees us going in?”
He looked around. “There’s no one here. Quick.” He stepped up to the door, holding it open.
As they walked in, a couple of old men in flat caps hunched over their ballons de rouge at the bar turned around to look at them. The smaller one raised his glass and winked at them.
“Bonsoir, messieurs.” Jean-Luc managed a fake smile, sensing Charlotte go rigid at his side.
A minute dragged by, but no one came to seat them, and he began to wonder if he’d been a little brash in choosing this brasserie. His eyes were drawn to an ornate gilded mirror hanging behind the bar, reflecting them both in its blotchy glass. Charlotte looked small and scared standing there next to him. He put his arm around her, and when their eyes met in the mirror, he winked. He watched the anxiety lift as she smiled back at him.
The waitress swanned past with a pichet of wine and a handful of glasses. “Asseyez-vous. J’arrive tout de suite.”
He looked around the narrow restaurant. The large zinc bar took up most of the room, with a couple of tables opposite. Several other small, round tables extended the space toward the back, where it was darker and more private. Taking Charlotte’s hand, he walked over to one of these tables, as far away as possible from the only other couple. He pulled out a chair for her, reaching for her coat, then he removed his own and they sat down.
“What do you want to eat, Charlotte?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been to a restaurant for ages. What do they have?”
He smiled. “It’s just a brasserie. Do you want meat?”
“Yes, okay.”
“Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît?” he called to the waitress. He sounded more confident than he felt.
“Monsieur?”
“Two steaks and a small pichet of house red.”
“There’s no steak today.”
“What do you have?”
“Croque monsieur, quiche, salade d’endives.”
“Charlotte, what do you want?”
“Croque monsieur, please.”
“Two croque monsieurs, mademoiselle, and a demi-pichet of house red.”
The waitress left, giving no indication that she’d heard him. He hoped she wouldn’t spit on their food. He himself might have if he thought he was serving collabos.
A couple of minutes later she reappeared, setting down the small carafe and two glasses. She didn’t pour the wine, but she did leave a saucer of olives. He offered them to Charlotte, and watched as she placed one delicately between her
teeth, biting into its shiny skin, then removing the stone and placing it on the edge of the saucer, next to the stone he had just removed from his own mouth. It felt intimate; what had been in her mouth next to what had been in his. He watched her closely, wondering if she was thinking the same thing.
“I haven’t had olives since… I must have been fourteen or fifteen, when we still used to go to Provence for August.”
“How lovely. I’ve never really left Paris. What’s it like there?” He poured them a glass of wine each.
“It’s… it’s bathed in sunlight, and if you go in June, you can see fields and fields of purple lavender. They grow everything there: sunflowers that face the rising sun, and fields of olive trees with silver-backed leaves.”
“Will you take me there one day?” He held his glass of wine up to the light before breathing in its aroma, then they toasted, their eyes meeting. “To us, in Provence,” he whispered.
Charlotte swirled the wine around in her glass as if unsure whether it was a good idea.
“Try it.” Jean-Luc took a sip. “It’s not bad—for a house wine.”
He watched as she brought the glass to her mouth, tentatively taking a sip.
“It’s lovely.” She licked her lips.
The waitress reappeared and without a word put their plates before them. Jean-Luc’s stomach rumbled at the sight of cheese oozing out the sides of toasted bread.
Charlotte’s eyes grew wide. “It looks delicious.”
“Bon appétit.”
He watched as she picked up her knife and fork, cutting off a small square. Then, just before she put it in her mouth, she paused, looking at him. “Thank you, Jean-Luc.”
“It’s my pleasure. I wish I could do more for you. When this war is over, I’ll take you somewhere special.”
“This is special.” She took another forkful. “It’s wonderful to eat proper food.”
He watched her eating. Then she took another sip of wine, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “Aren’t you hungry?”