A Week in Paris

by Hore, Rachel

  ‘Yes,’ Kitty replied, smiling back at her. ‘We will be happy.’

  Like it or not, Hitler’s expansionist policies and the alarming fate of Austria were the main topics of conversation at the reception. The latest rumour was that the new French government had addressed a letter of protest to Germany, only to be scorned for interfering in what the Third Reich called their ‘internal affairs’.

  ‘Once again everybody will stand aside and let the bullyboy help himself,’ Kitty slipping in amongst a group at the bar, was in time to hear blonde Milly Jenkins say. Milly, a journalist, was the type of energetic all-American girl who had the gumption to walk into any difficult situation and ask shrewd questions about it in English, French or German. She had recently visited Berlin incognito and had written up her experiences in the Herald Tribune. Kitty liked her immensely, whilst remaining a little in awe of her.

  ‘What else do you really expect?’ said Dr Poulon, a gynaecologist colleague of Gene’s whom Kitty had met once or twice before. He was a stocky Frenchman in his thirties with prematurely thinning hair and an affable manner. ‘Military action would be une folie now that Mussolini, Austria’s former protector, is allied with Germany. And since France did not lift a finger to defend the Rhineland two years ago, she will not send any forces to save Austria now.’

  ‘Maybe not fight,’ Milly conceded, ‘but if Britain and America together insisted . . .’

  ‘Gentlemen, ladies, please.’ Gene came across to join them, his good-natured face full of happiness. ‘No politics today. My wife and I,’ here he drew Kitty close, ‘have more important things we wish you to attend to.’

  ‘What can be more important than freedom?’ Milly protested.

  ‘Lighten up, sweetheart,’ Jack, her writer boyfriend, warned – only to be rewarded by one of Milly’s famous quelling looks.

  ‘Oh Gene, let them talk about what they will,’ said Kitty, who wanted everybody to be as content as she was today. She smiled up at Gene. It was rare to see him trussed up in a formal black suit. He was an open-necked-shirt kind of a man, unconcerned about appearance. That was part of why she loved him. She’d quickly discovered that he was more interested in what people were like inside rather than in what they wore.

  ‘While we still have the liberty,’ Milly snapped, unwilling to abandon her soapbox. ‘Unlike in Germany or Austria.’

  ‘That could never happen here, could it?’ Kitty said doubtfully. ‘Not in Paris.’ She had read Milly’s article about the fearful way people spoke in Berlin, guarded in their opinions, even in private, neighbour suspicious of neighbour.

  ‘Not in Paris,’ Jack echoed, and even Bertrand Poulon frowned and shook his head. Not in Paris, the most tolerant and sophisticated city in the world.

  ‘What happens if Czechoslovakia is next?’ Milly demanded, as though laying down a trump card. Czechoslovakia was the last democracy in Eastern and Southern Europe, and its existence depended on French support. ‘There would have to be war then.’ Everyone stared at her, silenced, contemplating the awful thought. What would the French government do if Hitler laid claim to the German-speaking area of Czechoslovakia? France was bound by treaty to go to her aid. No one liked to voice the gloomy answer.

  At that moment a waiter came round with more champagne and they turned to him gratefully, holding out their glasses to be filled with golden bubbles. There wouldn’t be a war. They were in the most heavenly city on earth and they were young and this was a wedding of two lovely people with a wonderful future before them.

  Later, there weren’t speeches as such, just Gene, with Kitty at his side, saying a few simple words about how beautiful she was and how happy she’d made him, and thanking everyone for coming, and Kitty blushing with pleasure and embarrassment, then everyone toasting their happiness.

  Afterwards, Kitty glimpsed the tall, thin, unmistakably English figure of Uncle Pepper talking to Monsieur Deschamps and her fellow pupil Serge, and went over to join them. She was immensely pleased that her uncle had agreed to come, so rarely willing was he to travel these days. The question of Kitty’s studies had already been resolved. She would continue with her present regime. Nothing would change, in the short term anyway.

  They spent a few minutes discussing the composer Maurice Ravel, whom Monsieur Deschamps had known well and who had died the previous year, then the teacher made his excuses and took his leave, and Serge found himself taken up by Miss Dunne and an elderly relation of Gene’s French grandmother.

  Uncle Pepper drew Kitty aside and spoke to her unusually frankly. ‘I’m so relieved, my dear, that you’re happy and settled. He seems a good man, your Dr Knox. I like him, and I feel he’ll look after you. When you get to my time of life, you see, you begin to worry—’

  ‘Don’t say that, Uncle,’ Kitty cried. ‘You’ve years and years to live yet.’ He was only in his late fifties, but to her he had hardly aged. The silvering of his sleek, combed-back hair merely gave him a distinguished look. Always a man of middle-aged appearance, even when young, it was as though he’d finally grown into himself.

  Uncle Pepper chuckled. ‘That may well be,’ he said, ‘but I’ll certainly sleep easier knowing I don’t have to worry about leaving you alone in the world again.’

  Her uncle was not demonstrative, but now he reached out a hand to touch her cheek. ‘Bless you, Kitty, Elizabeth would have been proud of you. I still miss her, you know.’

  And on impulse, Kitty, who could hardly remember her mother at all, leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. While of a solitary disposition, his interests being of the mind, Uncle Pepper had done his best for his orphaned niece. He had encouraged her musical talent and in his quiet, dry way he loved her. She felt tremendous warmth towards him, but also a sadness that it was he who would be alone. Her life was here with her husband now. Paris, not England, would be her home.

  ‘We’ll come and see you often,’ she assured him. ‘And you will always be welcome to stay with us. I know how much you love Paris.’

  ‘I’ve always been happiest sitting before the fire at home and reading about it,’ Uncle Pepper said. ‘But since I’m forced to play the tourist for a few days, I’ve arranged to take in a little art in the company of your Miss Dunne.’

  Kitty and Gene passed a wonderful week’s honeymoon in the South of France, in the shabby grandeur of an old hotel whose balconies hung with bougainvillaea. Golden sunshine fell through the trees, dappling the gardens with shadows. Lush bright flowers bloomed in pots on the terrace and their room overlooked a cobalt blue sea that was warm enough for swimming.

  When each morning she awoke and found the large, comfortable presence of Gene gently snoring next to her, Kitty marvelled at the joy of being so close to another person. She adored the tender way he made love to her, gentle at first, but quickly stirred to passion as together they explored each other’s bodies and found what gave most pleasure. The nights were warm and as dark as velvet, and when their love-making was done they were lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the waves lapping on the beach.

  Most days they rose too late for breakfast, but the hotel staff were indulgent and brought them coffee and croissants on the terrace. They talked about their new life together, their commitment to their respective work, their mutual desire for children. Gene had brought a camera along, and they took each other’s photograph under the trees. Later, when he showed her the results, Kitty thought she looked stiff and shy, but she loved the picture of Gene. He looked so relaxed and happy. It was the way she always wished to think of him.

  When they returned to Paris, they moved into a furnished apartment on the sixth floor of a mansion block of pale ochre stone in St Germain-des-Prés. The street, which rejoiced in the name of Rue des Palmes des Martyrs, was a satisfying mix of neighbourhood shops and residential blocks. The windows in front had pretty wrought-iron juliet balconies. Behind was a paved courtyard with a gnarled old chestnut tree. When the windows were open in summer, they could hear swallows whistle as
they swooped and dived in pursuit of insects. Sometimes a woman’s voice wafted up from the courtyard, crooning sad songs in a dusky voice.

  The flat itself was modest in size, with a light-filled sitting room, a square kitchen and two bedrooms, Kitty’s and Gene’s looking out to the front. There was some difficulty in getting Gene’s wedding present to Kitty, an upright piano, up all the flights of stairs, but it was managed. She’d placed it in a small recess and in order to avoid disturbing the neighbours had laid a folded cloth over the strings inside to mute it when she played. It was made of walnut with beautiful markings, and with its carved legs and music-rest was really very pretty. Kitty bought Gene a gramophone so that they could start a record collection.

  Despite having no more domestic skills between them than a pair of babies, as Milly succinctly put it, they found married life to be delightful. Most days, after Gene left for work, Kitty went to purchase the day’s supplies from the local shops, then continued to her piano lesson or to practise at the Conservatoire. Initially she tried playing at home, but they’d employed a motherly woman named Jeanette to clean two mornings a week and this made Kitty feel self-conscious. She found she concentrated better altogether if she went out.

  Gene worked long hours as ever and was often home late in the evenings. Though she attempted simple meals on the stove for him, the meat was sometimes dried up by the time he got back or she’d burn the vegetables. On these occasions Gene would laugh, which made her cross, but then he’d apologize and they’d go out to a restaurant. Eventually she learned to choose recipes that were quick or wouldn’t spoil. At weekends, they’d see friends, visit a jazz club in Montmartre, or go to the cinema. The American trip was discussed again, but put off till Christmas. Gene could not spare the time. And so the summer slipped by.

  To Kitty, life was perfect, as long as one didn’t read the papers, but soon there was no avoiding the news. It was all that their friends, many of them Americans, talked about, and was the main topic of conversation in the shops. Hitler was deliberately stirring up trouble in the Sudetenland, the German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia, his obvious intention being to snatch it for Germany. If this happened, France was obliged by treaty to go to the Czech government’s aid, but as the French Prime Minister expressed it, was it better to sacrifice several million Frenchmen in battle against Germany’s horrifyingly great military strength or to break the treaty and thereby give up influence in Central Europe?

  Britain’s Neville Chamberlain was also keen to avoid war, and when France and Britain gave in to Hitler’s demands at the Munich Conference in September 1938, the relief of Parisians was palpable. There would be no repeat of the carnage of the Great War. Lovers would not be parted, families would not be left fatherless, mothers would not lose their sons. Not a few, however, felt uncomfortable, watching from afar as Czechoslovakia was carved up.

  Milly, particularly, was outraged. ‘Have you read what Saint-Exupéry says in here?’ she asked Kitty and Gene one late autumn evening, opening a copy of Paris-Soir at the table. Winter was closing in and they’d been forced to retreat inside their favourite restaurant on the Boulevard St-Germain, with its rough wooden furniture and warm country-kitchen atmosphere.

  ‘Are they continuing that ridiculous subscription to thank Mr Chamberlain by buying him a property to fish trout?’ Jack said. ‘“Angel of peace” indeed.’

  ‘Shh. Listen, you’ll like this.’ Milly read in French from the article by the airman-novelist Saint-Exupéry. ‘“When peace was threatened, we discovered the shame of war. When war seemed averted, we discovered the shame of peace.” There, he’s nailed it,’ she said, glaring at them over the top of the paper. ‘Moral failure all round.’

  ‘But we don’t want war, do we?’ Kitty said, shooting an anxious glance at Gene, who rarely expressed a political opinion. If France went to war, what would happen to her and Gene? Where would they go?

  Gene’s hand closed over Kitty’s to comfort her. ‘No, of course we don’t.’

  ‘There’s a chance it’ll come all the same,’ was Milly’s warning. ‘What will France and Britain do if Hitler turns his attentions to Poland?’

  One morning not long afterwards, Kitty awoke early and had to dash for the bathroom to be sick. She put it down to a bad shellfish, but Gene pointed out that she’d been feeling odd before eating the dish in question. When it happened again the following morning, he acted on his suspicions and arranged for her to see his colleague at the hospital.

  Dr Poulon examined her carefully and smiled at her nervousness. ‘There is nothing to worry about. You are in good health and I cannot think you will have any problems.’ Kitty was to have a baby.

  She told Gene when he came home that evening, and he whooped with joy, picked her up and swung her round, kissing her still flat stomach repeatedly until, helpless with laughter, she begged him to stop.

  ‘I’ll be too heavy for that nonsense soon anyway,’ she puffed, smoothing down her skirt. His response was to draw her down onto the sofa and to kiss her thoroughly. She’d never known him so ecstatic and this made her happy, too.

  It took her some time to become used to the changes in her body and the idea of the little creature that was growing, imperceptibly, inside her. Because they’d agreed about having children they had never even discussed taking any precautions during love-making. Month after month had passed without consequence, but Kitty hadn’t worried. It would happen, Gene assured her, and now it had.

  They didn’t tell anyone else at first, and passed the days with a quiet joy, complicit in their secret. After his first unruly burst of excitement, Gene began to treat her carefully, giving constant advice about what she should eat and not eat, and curbing late nights. Kitty was at first touched by this, not least because she felt very tired anyway, but as time passed and she recovered some of her old energy, his solicitude was sometimes annoying. They even had what for them constituted an argument – they who had never argued – when one night they went to a club and Kitty insisted on getting up and dancing with Jack to a particularly lively number. After a minute or two she couldn’t bear the miserable look on her husband’s face and sat down again. Later they made up, clinging to one another on the dance floor for a dreamy slow number.

  After three months they judged the pregnancy to be established and began to tell people. When she broke the news to Monsieur Deschamps, he was effusive in his congratulations, but after that she had the feeling that something had changed. He no longer drove her as hard as he once had, and kept asking anxiously whether he was tiring her. Being pregnant, she learned, meant the world wrapped a woman in a cocoon. There seemed to be a general assumption that her brain had softened along with the lines of her body, and even the bustling French midwife at the American Hospital called her ‘petite maman’, as though she had a label, not a name.

  Still, everybody’s looking after me marvellously, she was able to write to Uncle Pepper in February 1939. And I’m able to continue my lessons much as usual. What she didn’t put into the letter was any mention of the increasingly dangerous international situation. Although Parisians talked about it endlessly, somehow they carried on under the cosy assumption that France wouldn’t be affected. Kitty and Gene and their friends couldn’t see how this would be so, though Kitty tried not to dwell on it.

  Then at the end of March came the news that Milly had predicted. Hitler issued a demand that Poland return the city of Danzig to Germany, together with the ‘corridor’ of land that since 1919 had divided East Prussia from the rest of Germany. In so doing, he was swinging the final axe strokes to the Versailles Treaty, which had imposed so much humiliation on Germany after her defeat in the Great War. Now, with Chamberlain finally promising war if the Führer invaded Poland, France had no choice but to stand beside her British ally.

  Kitty faced the birth of her baby with an increasing sense of anxiety. Should she return to England, to an English lying-in hospital and the relative safety of life with Uncle Pepper? Or should
she stay with her husband? Gene’s work was in Paris and she knew he didn’t want to leave. And she felt she’d be only half a person without him.

  ‘Even if there is a war,’ she heard a man in the queue at the grocer’s say, ‘we have the Maginot Line. Hitler can’t touch us.’ This huge system of bunkers with all their complex fortifications ran for nearly 200 kilometres along France’s eastern frontier with Germany. What the man didn’t mention was its Achilles heel – that it stopped short at Belgium. Still, Gene reasoned when they had dinner with Milly and Jack the same evening, if war broke out, Belgium would stay neutral, so Hitler’s troops wouldn’t come by that way. Surely France was safe?

  And so on 1 September 1939, when Hitler ignored the Allies and marched into Poland, Kitty was still in Paris, waiting for the imminent arrival of her baby.

  Chapter 13

  1961

  ‘I’m sure you have often been told, chérie,’ Mme Ramond said to Fay, ‘that you were born on the exact day that France and Britain declared war on Germany?’

  ‘The third of September 1939. I’m tired of hearing it,’ Fay sighed. ‘What I didn’t know was that it was here in Paris.’ Surely it would say on her birth certificate, though she didn’t remember ever noticing. It was her mother who had applied for her first five-year passport when Fay had come to Paris as a schoolgirl. She brought its replacement out of her bag now and studied it, then regarded her hostess with a doubtful look.

  ‘Something is wrong?’ the woman asked in a soft voice. ‘Let me see.’

  ‘It says London – that I was born in London. Look.’ Fay’s voice cracked with distress. She passed Mme Ramond the document.

  The woman read the entry and exclaimed. ‘That is strange, I agree,’ she said. She was thoughtful as she handed the passport back to Fay. ‘I assure you though, that you were born in Paris. It was in the American Hospital. Your father insisted that it should be there. One of his colleagues was called out of bed specially.’