A Week in Paris

by Hore, Rachel

  Kitty recalled Serge’s wonder and excitement when he’d first described to her the spacious and elegant apartment, the grand reception room hung with blue velvet and lit by glittering chandeliers. Here he’d played on a grand piano of polished ebony for Mrs van Haren and her guests. Milly, who knew who all sorts of people were, had pointed her out in the Champs-Élysées once, a tall, slim and fashionably dressed woman with thick auburn hair, stepping out of an open-topped car.

  ‘She was very good to me,’ Serge went on. ‘I think the truth is, she was sometimes lonely – though you wouldn’t have thought it. But her husband was often away or busy, and anyway he did not share her interests. She married him at seventeen, she told me, before she knew anything about the world and men, and when the heat of their passion burned out they grew apart. She likes to surround herself with talented people, writers and artists and musicians. Some have been her lovers, I think, but not me. She treats me more like a pet, a lapdog,’ he snorted, ‘happy to take any small scrap of attention she’ll throw my way.

  ‘I used to confide in her, but not any more. I told her too much, you see. About my family and how concerned I was that their sacrifices for me should not be in vain. I was terrified, that with the war I would be prevented from continuing my studies. Like the other men here, I feared we’d be called to fight. Some were and few have returned, it is terrible. But one day Mrs van Haren took me aside and spoke to me. She said I’d be all right, that I would not have to go, that she’d spoken to somebody she knew. I was relieved, I can tell you. Though I felt guilt, too – guilt that I was to be spared and my fellows were not.’

  ‘That’s what you were talking about when I saw you that last time,’ Kitty remembered. ‘When we said goodbye, near the bridge.’

  ‘Yes, yes. It seems a lifetime ago, does it not? Before the Germans came.’ At this he stopped, rose from the stool, stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the windowsill and stepped silently to the door. There he listened a moment, then opened it with a sudden movement and peered up and down the corridor. Apparently satisfied, he closed it again, and returned to his seat.

  ‘It is necessary to be careful,’ he said, before taking up his story once more.

  ‘After the Occupation, it did not take long for things to change at Mrs van Haren’s salons. She did not invite me quite so often, but when she did, I went eagerly. I was so grateful to her, you see. Each time I went, some of the faces I used to see had gone and new ones took their place. Gradually I felt less comfortable. The old soldier with the medals I never saw again. One or two of the writers stopped coming and Miss Markwell who worked at the American Library . . . I believe she soon left Paris. Instead there are others, a distinguished German writer, Ernst Jünger, is one. And a French novelist, Louis Claude, an obsequious little man. I remember the first time, a year ago, Kitty, when I found myself shaking hands with a German officer. Think how I’d have gone out of my way not to sit near one in the Métro! Chantelle van Haren introduced us in her drawing room, and what could I do but shake his hand and force myself to smile. It would have been rude not to.

  ‘After that, I promised myself that I would go no longer, that I would turn down the next invitation if it came. But it didn’t prove that easy. The next time, Mrs van Haren wrote me the most charming letter, saying how much my playing had impressed her guests, so I sighed and went once more. And then found myself going again and again. The Germans were on the whole cultured men, and always most civil to me. They asked always for Brahms and Schumann. Never anything modern. However, then the most worrying thing happened.’

  At this he broke off and looked up at Kitty, his face a picture of misery. ‘Do I shock you, Kitty?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps you despise me now, for playing for the enemy. I feel ashamed. Sometimes I think Louis Claude feels the same, for when I meet his eye at these parties he looks away. We laugh at these people’s jokes, we eat the food – good food such as is impossible for ordinary people to buy these days – and drink the best wines. I assume that like me, Louis Claude has his reasons. It’s not something we can speak about. So, do you despise me?’

  ‘Not despise you, no,’ Kitty said slowly, ‘but I find it difficult to understand. Why should you feel loyalty to that wretched woman? I’ve heard about her from my friend Milly, who said she’s amoral, that she uses people.’

  ‘I see that increasingly. I suppose she is using me. She likes to have power over people, to twist things to her advantage. I think underneath her glamour, her sophistication, she is still a child. But a child who plays dangerous adult games.’

  ‘Games?’ Kitty echoed, wondering what he meant.

  Serge was silent for a moment before beginning to explain. ‘Several weeks ago, when I went there I arrived a little early to lay out my music and was surprised to find Mrs van Haren alone with a German officer I’d never seen before. He must have been in his fifties, a veritable Prussian type – you know, sitting with that very taut, upright bearing and with eyes that seemed to look straight through me. She introduced me to him – his name was Propaganda-Staffel Emil von Ullmann – and the way he nodded and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair . . . well, this was the first man I’d ever met of whom I can honestly say I was terrified.’

  Serge lit another cigarette before going on. ‘He was polite enough to me, asked me sharp questions about my studies and my ambitions, and I stammered out answers as truthfully as I could. Madame, however, was in what I could only call a skittish mood. I think she was nervous of him, too, because she was flirting with him and he wasn’t responding. Her desperation was making her tongue run away with her. I was horrified when she started to tell this man about my family – how my mother was Polish, from a long line of musicians, and how well I’d done considering my parents had so little money. I don’t think she meant anything unkind by it, only to draw his interest, but he could see I was agitated and he scrutinized me more closely than ever. Nothing was said, and yet I felt he had seen something in me I’d rather he hadn’t. I held my breath in case she mentioned what I’d stupidly told her about my mother’s claim to be related to Leopold Godowsky, but fortunately she did not. Perhaps she realized she’d already gone too far.’

  He looked at Kitty and she looked back at him, feeling very much at sea. When she didn’t twig he gave a little shrug and said, ‘No matter.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kitty said, ‘but why is Godowksy significant?’ She thought desperately of what she knew about this world-famous Polish pianist, who’d died in New York just before the war. And then she saw it. He was a Jew.

  ‘I think I see,’ she said quietly. ‘I know you lodge with a Jewish family, but I didn’t know you were Jewish.’

  ‘We’re not,’ he said swiftly. ‘That is, my father isn’t, and I’ve never thought of myself as Jewish. My mother’s proud of her heritage, but she’s never wanted anything to do with religion. She’s never come with us to Mass, but nor did she ever attend synagogue.’

  ‘I expect it will be all right. This man von Ullmann – did he say anything, or act differently towards you afterwards?’

  ‘No,’ Serge admitted, ‘but now I don’t know what to do. If I stop attending Mrs van Haren’s parties she might be offended and I’ll lose the commissions her influence attracts for me and maybe her protection. And if I continue to go . . .’ He spread his hands in an expressive gesture. ‘Well, I might attract unwelcome interest.’

  Kitty was quiet for a moment. She understood now why their teacher had been so angry and disappointed in his star pupil. Part of her thought, how could Serge have let himself get into this situation? And she gave silent thanks for Gene. Gene would never have fallen into a trap like that. He was straight as a die, knew right from wrong. His calling as a doctor meant he placed a high value on human life. She thought how he was risking his own life by saving Allied soldiers and airmen from capture by the Germans. A man of conscience. But what of Serge? How had he lost his way? He’d been taken under Mrs van Haren’s patronage before t
he Occupation and told himself he was being loyal to her. And in doing so had slipped into a kind of collaboration and possibly put his whole family in danger. She saw his dilemma very clearly, but could not advise him.

  ‘Perhaps the danger is not as bad as you fear,’ she tried to soothe him. After all, Jews apart from German Jews had not been significantly targeted. Things could be a great deal worse. She remembered fleetingly how some of the black jazz players Gene had loved to hear had been interned. At least they were believed to be alive. Perhaps survival was all that could be hoped for.

  She stood and reached for her bag. ‘I have to go, Serge,’ she said. She’d already left Fay longer than arranged and there were chores to do.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ Serge had been sitting despondent, smoking, but now he leaped to his feet. ‘I can’t blame you if you say no, but it would help me to know I have one true friend.’

  ‘Of course we are still friends,’ she said gently, ‘but I’m not sure how I can help you.’

  ‘No,’ he said with a hollow glance, ‘but to know you do not reject me will be something.’

  ‘Be careful, Serge,’ she said, kissing his cheek. ‘Please, be careful.’

  The way he twisted his mouth into a worried smile did nothing to reassure her as she opened the door and closed it quietly behind her.

  This time, as she made her way back to the entrance, she could not wait to leave the Conservatoire building behind. To get home safely to her husband and child, where she would do her best to conserve the illusion that their little family home was a haven from the storms of the dark and dangerous world outside.

  Over the summer of 1941, Paris became increasingly cut off from the world. Kitty and her husband were experiencing financial difficulties. Gene’s salary was far from generous and he had spent the money that he’d inherited from his grandmother on his studies and setting up house. It worried Kitty dreadfully.

  Communications between Britain and France had become virtually impossible, and Kitty had no knowledge of how her Uncle Pepper was faring. Although England was safe for the moment from invasion – Hitler’s ill-advised Russian campaign had taken up his attention and resources and put paid to that – she missed her home in Hampshire badly, and wished she could find out what was happening there.

  It was difficult, too, communicating with Gene’s parents, but sometimes a letter would reach them, weeks or months after it had been written and with phrases blacked out by the censor. From one of these letters Gene learned that his father was ill. He had been given an operation on his stomach and was expected to recover, so Gene did not become over-concerned. It was an awful shock therefore when a telegram announced that he had died suddenly. Gene was devastated. His relationship with his father had been distant in adult life, not least because of the man’s liking for bourbon, but Gene had warm memories of him from his childhood and he wept for the loss of those halcyon days as much as for the bitter and cantankerous character his father had become.

  He and Kitty spoke earnestly of whether they should try to leave, but the journey was so long and difficult that they would be far too late for the funeral, and then it would be impossible to come back. Gene knew what he had to do – his lot lay with the sick and injured of this war. It was decided that they should stay.

  By July their personal finances became so bad that he wrote to his parents’ attorney in New York. He didn’t wish to bother his grieving mother, he told him, but the fact was that he was very short of money. Fortunately, the man was able to make arrangements to wire some over. Kitty didn’t find this out until much later.

  There was something else she didn’t know. After the visit of Flight Lieutenant Stone there were no more such incidents. Gene told her nothing about his activities, but she guessed that they continued. In particular she wondered if the blowing of the safe house where Gene was to have taken Stone had had repercussions.

  They had a terrible fright one airless night when they were awakened in the small hours by the scream of brakes outside. A car’s doors slammed. Torchbeams strafed the air. Gene leaped out of bed and listened, but no one appeared to enter their building. Instead there came shouts outside and the thump of running feet. A throaty German voice cried, ‘Halt!’ before a crack of gunfire sounded. Shortly after this the car sped off and the street fell silent once more. Eugene went to peep past the blackout curtain, but could see nothing.

  ‘I’m going down,’ he said, switching on a lamp. He started pulling his trousers on over his pyjamas.

  Kitty sat up. ‘Gene, no!’

  ‘I must, sweetheart, in case someone’s hurt.’ She fell back on the bed with a sigh. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful,’ he whispered and went out, shutting the door behind him.

  She lay tense with her eyes closed, listening, waiting. It felt like forever before he returned, but it was actually only a couple of minutes

  ‘Couldn’t see anyone, dark as the devil outside,’ he remarked cheerfully, undressing. He turned off the light and clambered into bed. When he rolled over and put his arms around her she felt his heart thudding against her back.

  She turned and hugged him close. ‘I know you have to do these things,’ she said in his ear, ‘but I hate it. What if something happened to you? What would Fay and I do?’ They’d be alone, poor, defenceless. Her mind ran ahead. They’d be sent to one of the camps, probably. Did they intern young children? She thought they must do if there was no one else to look after them. She ran over the names of people she knew. Who would have Fay? One of the French doctors’ families, perhaps – Dr Poulon, possibly, who’d delivered Fay. Or Lili, but she didn’t know Lili’s employers so that wouldn’t work.

  ‘If anything happens to me, Kitty – not that I’m saying it will – you’ll have the insurance. It’s not much, but it would be something.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’

  ‘No, but seriously.’ He kissed her bare shoulder, then she felt the warmth of his breath on her neck. She thought of something else, the thing that haunted her, that she usually pushed away.

  ‘You’re not doing anything . . . dangerous, are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said quickly – too quickly, she thought.

  ‘Gene?’

  ‘Don’t ask me anything,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all. I cannot tell you.’

  She had heard all she needed to know in the tone of his answer. He’d never spoken to her in that curt way before. She wriggled out of his grasp and shuffled over to the chilly extremes of the mattress.

  ‘Kitty,’ he whispered. ‘Kitty, darling,’ but she would not reply, and when he sought to comfort her, she pushed his arm away. She’d never felt so angry. Or frightened. Were she and Fay worth so little to him that he’d risk his life and maybe theirs helping strangers? And what would happen when America came into the war? They would all be enemy aliens then.

  It took a long time that night for her anger to subside. I’m being selfish. Whatever he’s doing I should be proud of him, she told herself, but part of her refused to be unselfish and proud. She wanted to be safe.

  Summer turned to autumn, and America moved closer to the edge. Snippets of news were greeted by the little expat community in Paris with a mixture of excitement and foreboding. The US government introduced a peacetime draft to call up soldiers for training. In November it repealed the Neutrality Act it had passed in 1939. Eugene and Kitty once more discussed leaving and this time, finally, decided they should do so, for Fay’s sake. They began to put together plans. But then something happened to make them delay.

  It was a miserable rainy day in late November and the pavements were slippery with the last of the autumn’s dead leaves. Kitty held Fay’s hand as they waited to cross the Boulevard St-Michel. They stepped down into the road, but then a cavalcade of motorcycles roared into view and they retreated hastily to the kerb. Little Fay slipped and as Kitty jerked her upwards to stop her falling, she missed her own footing, her left ankle twisting under her. Because of the noise of
the traffic she felt rather than heard the bone break. Quick hands seized her just in time, or woman and child would have fallen under the wheels of the sleek limousine that swept past, its swastika pennants snapping in the wind.

  The accident required an operation to pin the ankle. As Kitty lay in bed in the American Hospital, sick and woozy from the anaesthetic, she knew that their travel plans would have to be put off. For a fortnight at least, Gene said, until the wound had healed and she was confident on crutches.

  On 7 December they woke to the news that the Japanese had bombed American ships in the Pacific port of Pearl Harbor. Four days later, Germany saw fit to declare war on America.

  Once again, Gene and Kitty had left it too late to leave.

  ‘It’s becoming chilly, non?’ Mme Ramond said, getting up to switch on the electric fire that stood before the grate.

  ‘A little,’ Fay conceded, privately thinking it perfectly warm in the room. It must be mid-afternoon, for sunshine still poured in through the window. ‘But what happened, Madame Ramond? Were my parents all right?’ She thought of her mother, injured, trapped in Paris. She herself must have been about two. If only she could remember clearly. There were things she recognized in Paris, the corridor of the apartment block where she’d lived, the sound of glass shattering, other fragments, but she could bring nothing back by will. It wasn’t surprising really. She had been too young to store proper memories.

  Nathalie Ramond put her hand to her face in a brief, protective gesture, then glanced around the room, as though looking for inspiration. Her eyes alighted on the scrapbook lying on the table. It was old, the cardboard cover peeling apart at the corners, the spine worn down to expose the threads that bound it. She lifted it onto her lap and, holding it part-closed to stop loose pages from escaping, she searched until she found the page she wanted. Carefully, she passed the book to Fay, who examined it. And caught her breath.