The Dressmaker's Gift

by Valpy, Fiona

  They walked on, subdued, alongside the mud-brown waters of the Seine. Mireille stumbled as her shoe caught on an uneven paving stone and he put out a hand to steady her. Wordlessly, he took her arm again and she gleaned a small degree of comfort in his proximity.

  She didn’t want to risk going back into the Métro, so they continued on foot. He told her more of his life in the south as they followed the river upstream. He’d worked as a stonemason and had done his apprenticeship with his uncle who had been overseeing some maintenance work on the Cathédrale Saint-Pierre in Montpellier. He continued to hold her arm but his free hand described the complex, soaring lines of the Gothic arches he’d helped repair, painstakingly carving each piece of honeyed sandstone to fit perfectly where worn or damaged sections needed to be removed. She noticed the strength in his hands, and yet there was a grace in them too. As he talked, she could picture the delicate, lace-like detailing that he was capable of creating from such unyielding materials.

  She told him a little about her life in the south-west too, about the mill house on the riverbank where she’d grown up, about the way the mill wheel was driven, harnessing the power of the water to turn the heavy millstones to grind the grist into flour as fine as freshly fallen snow. She described the kitchen, where her family would gather for meals cooked by her mother using the produce they grew in their garden, and the clear, golden honey that her sister produced from the beehives she tended, to sweeten their days.

  It felt like such an indulgence to be able to talk about such things, sharing their memories with each other, and Mireille found herself wishing that she had more time to spend with this young man. They were approaching the Marais now, though, and in a few more minutes she would hand him over to Monsieur and Madame Arnaud. Then he would be spirited away on the unseen routes of the secret network, passed from one safe house to the next until a guide could lead him on the difficult and dangerous journey over the Pyrenees. She longed to be able to tell him her name, and to give him her address so that this comfortable feeling of connection between them could be continued one day. But she knew that to do so would place the pair of them – and a whole network of other people besides – in a perilous position if he was caught.

  As they neared the narrow entrance at the end of the street where the Arnauds lived, she gently extracted her arm from his, feeling a strong pang of reluctance as she did so, longing to stay close to him for a little longer.

  She heard the shouting just as she was about to turn the corner. There was a harsh cry of ‘HALT!’ followed by a woman’s scream.

  In that split second, Mireille saw, with horror, the scene that was unfolding outside the safe house. A black car was parked at the door and an officer in the dark uniform of the Gestapo was pushing Madame Arnaud into the back of it. At the same time, another soldier had pushed Monsieur Arnaud to the ground and was aiming a couple of vicious kicks at his belly.

  The young man’s fists clenched tight at his sides and his whole body tensed, as if he were about to spring forward and try to intervene.

  Mireille realised with horrible clarity that their presence would surely seal the Arnauds’ fate once and for all, and their own as well. There was nothing they could do to help. She grabbed the young man’s arm and pulled him onwards, passing the end of the narrow street where the safe house, which had provided refuge to so many escapees over the past year, had suddenly become safe no longer.

  In the dusk of the clear Paris evening, Claire had pushed open the tiny square window in her bedroom to allow the evening air to flood in. Soon darkness would fall and she would have to close the window and pull down the blackout blind, shutting out the stars. But now she breathed in the faint smells of coffee and cigarette smoke and listened to the sounds of clinking china which wafted up on the night-time air from the café opposite the end of the road. The streets were far quieter these days since there was very little traffic. Most of Paris’s inhabitants either walked or cycled everywhere. With increasing frequency, clients were sending skirts in to be remade as culottes, which were more practical for wearing on a bicycle whilst still retaining a degree of elegance.

  From this height, she couldn’t see the street immediately below, but she heard the key turn in the lock and the front door open and close. She was always anxious when Mireille was out on her own, watching for her safe return, so it was with relief that she heard the footsteps climbing the metal stairs up to the apartment.

  She pulled her window shut and drew the blind then skipped into the hallway to open the door for her friend. To her surprise, a tall young man wearing a gaberdine raincoat stood behind Mireille. Claire knew better than to ask questions, so she simply stepped aside and let them in.

  The room that had been Esther’s – the room where she had given birth to her baby – hadn’t been used by any of the seamstresses who’d lived in the attic rooms since. Claire and Mireille had always kept the door shut, as opening it would have brought back too many memories, especially for Mireille, who had witnessed Esther’s death when the German plane had dived low to machine-gun the river of refugees fleeing Paris at the time of the invasion. But now they needed somewhere to hide the young Free French soldier for a few days until a new escape plan could be put in place for him.

  Claire could see the fear that flickered in Mireille’s eyes – although she tried to hide it and remain her usual calm and practical self – as they discussed their options. They both knew that the capture of the Arnauds by the Gestapo meant that one of the network’s escape routes had effectively been shut down. Claire shivered when she thought of them being taken to the Avenue Foch for questioning. How long would they be able to hold out if they were tortured? Would they be able to avoid divulging any useful information for the first twenty-four hours of their internment, giving the other passeurs time to cover their tracks and allowing the safe houses to be shut down? Would Mireille be the next member of the network to be arrested if the Arnauds gave the Gestapo what little information they knew about her? And if Mireille were arrested, then would Claire be as well? There would be no arguing their way out of things if they were discovered harbouring a fugitive. But it seemed there was no other option: the apartment beneath the eaves was needed as a safe house now.

  She and Mireille moved aside the row of mannequins which were being stored in Esther’s old room. Each one had been made to the exact measurements of a particular client, although more and more were having to be put into storage these days as clients disappeared or were unable to afford the soaring prices of couture. As the rooms on the floors below had filled up with dressmaking forms, some of the overflow had found its way to the spare rooms on the fifth floor.

  They made up the bed, each donating one of their own blankets, while the young man perched on a chair in the sitting room and wolfed down the heel of bread which Mireille had given him, spreading it with the last scrapings from a jar of rillettes which were more fat than meat.

  Although they tried to work quietly, Vivi heard the to-ings and fro-ings and came out of her room to investigate. When Mireille briefly explained what had happened, Vivi winced with shock.

  Keeping her voice low, although her tone was urgent, Vivi said, ‘You know this is putting everything at a terrible risk, Mireille. We can’t allow the strands of the network to become entangled with one another. His presence here threatens all of us, right to the very top.’

  Claire wondered what she meant by this, but noticed that Mireille seemed to understand the significance as she didn’t ask Vivi to explain further.

  ‘We have no option,’ Mireille whispered back. ‘What else can we do? Turn him out on to the streets with nowhere to go? He’ll be sure to be arrested sooner or later, and he knows where we live now. Even though he’s tough, he’s only human. You know what methods they use to get information out of people. Hiding him here is the safest option. The Arnauds don’t know my real name and they don’t know anything about my background so there’s very little they can give away.’

>   ‘And the dyer? What if they divulge his role? If he’s arrested, we all go down.’

  Mireille’s chin lifted and her dark curls trembled. Claire recognised the signs: this was her friend’s look of determination, not fear, and they all knew how stubborn she could be when she’d made her mind up about something.

  ‘I know, Vivi,’ Mireille replied. ‘But we all understood what we were getting in to. I still believe this is our safest option.’

  A sad smile played over Vivi’s face as she seemed to accept that Mireille was right. ‘Very well,’ she said reluctantly, ‘we’ll hide him then. But none of the others downstairs must suspect a thing.’ She turned towards Claire. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course!’ Claire retorted, indignantly. ‘I’m just as involved as Mireille is. As involved as you, too, I expect,’ she couldn’t help adding.

  Vivienne shot her a wary glance, but then let it go. ‘Come on then, we need to get him sorted out for the night. And this bedroom door needs to be kept locked from the inside. He won’t be able to risk moving around in the daytime. You know how these floorboards creak. Mademoiselle Vannier will be up here like a shot if she hears anyone up here when we’re all supposed to be in the atelier – especially if she suspects one of us might be hiding a man!’

  Claire found it hard to sleep that night. She tossed and turned in the darkness and thought, at one point, that she heard the almost imperceptible pad of bare feet passing her door. Perhaps she’d imagined it, or maybe it was just one of the others going to use the bathroom, she told herself. When she did fall into a restless sleep, it was filled with troubled dreams of men in black uniforms chasing her through the streets, their boots loud on the pavement. As they caught up with her, she woke with a cry to find Vivi crouching by her bed, shaking her awake.

  ‘Hush,’ she whispered. ‘I’m here. Everything will be alright.’

  ‘I was having a nightmare,’ Claire gasped, still shaken.

  ‘Shh, I know. You were talking in your sleep, I heard you through the wall. But it’s okay. You’re alright. We’re all okay. Try to get back to sleep.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘I don’t want to sleep any more, in case the dreams come back.’

  ‘Come on then.’ Vivi held out a hand. We’ll go and make a tisane. We need to be up in half an hour, in any case.’

  They tiptoed past Mireille’s door and crept into the kitchen to put the water on to heat, then sat in a companionable silence, cupping their hands around their bowls and inhaling the sweet-sharp smell of lemon balm tea.

  ‘How long do you think he’ll have to stay here?’

  Vivienne drew her red-gold braid over one shoulder. ‘Not long. Don’t worry, they’ll get him out. And Mireille was right last night – hiding him here is the safest option all round. Now then, you and I and Mireille need to keep to our usual routines at work. It’s absolutely imperative that no one has any reason to suspect there’s anything out of the ordinary going on in the apartment on the fifth floor.’

  Claire nodded and took a sip of her tea. Vivi’s calm presence was reassuring. The three girls were in this together now, bound not only by their friendship but by the secrets that they kept for one another.

  Mireille was wondering how she might find an excuse to visit the dyer the next day, when, fortuitously, Mademoiselle Vannier asked her to go and collect some lengths of fabric that would be needed for making up some of the samples for the autumn collection.

  Her first question when she reached the shop, was whether there was any word about Monsieur and Madame Arnaud. The dyer pressed his lips together grimly and shook his head. ‘We’ve suspended all activity along the network for the time being. There haven’t been any further arrests so far, so it looks like they’ve managed not to divulge any information that could be of use to the Gestapo. God only knows whether the two of them will be able to hold out, though.’

  From the shelves behind him, he gathered up the orders he’d completed for Delavigne Couture and laid the paper-wrapped packages on the counter. Then, reaching into a cupboard he drew out a smaller parcel from behind a pile of colour swatches. ‘Make sure Vivienne gets this. And tell her to keep it hidden for the time being. She won’t be able to use it until we’ve worked out a new route . . .’ He stopped, realising that he’d already said too much. ‘I’ll get word to Monsieur Leroux. Don’t worry, there are other networks that we may be able to tap into until we can get things up and running again. In the meantime, can you keep your visitor hidden, do you think? Come and let me know if it becomes a problem. We must be careful . . . although I know I don’t need to tell you that. Just sit tight for a few days. We’ll work something out.’

  ‘Merci, monsieur.’ Mireille slipped the parcel for Vivi into the inside pocket of her coat and then gathered up the larger packages.

  The dyer held the shop door open for her. ‘Try not to worry,’ he told her. But his reassuring tone couldn’t disguise the tension that was etched into the creases on his forehead.

  During the working day the girls stayed out of the apartment, leaving the young man there alone. He’d promised not to move around, for fear of someone hearing a soft footfall or the creak of a floorboard when visiting the storerooms immediately beneath the fifth floor. Mademoiselle Vannier and the other seamstresses often had to retrieve a client’s mannequin, or go in search of a particular pattern or a bolt of cloth. But in the evening, after everyone else had gone, Mireille, Claire and Vivi could relax a little and their ‘guest’ could be allowed out of his room to share their supper with them.

  His face lit up when he saw Mireille that evening. ‘I have a name!’ he said, brandishing the false identity papers that she’d given him. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: Frédéric Fournier at your service, mademoiselle.’ He made an elaborate bow, taking her hand and kissing it theatrically.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mireille, pretending to look at him appraisingly, although she made no move to withdraw her hand from his, ‘it suits you. But we will call you Fréd. It looks like you’ll be spending a few days here with us, Fréd, so I hope you won’t get too bored, stuck up here with nothing to do.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ he said with a smile that mirrored hers, ‘I have plenty to do. Tonight I am planning on doing my laundry, if I may make use of the facilities in this excellent establishment, and then I hope to spend a most enjoyable evening in the company of my very kind hosts.’ He looked down at her hand which he was still holding and then gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘One of my very kind hosts in particular,’ he said, quietly. And then he raised her hand to his lips again and kissed it with a tenderness, this time, that melted her heart.

  While he was in the bathroom, washing himself and his socks, Mireille went to find Vivi in the kitchen where she was attempting to make a meal that was scarcely adequate for three stretch to feed four. Mireille hadn’t had a chance to tell her what the dyer had said earlier, but she did so now. She also handed over Vivi’s package and passed on the message about keeping it hidden for the time being. Vivi frowned, but said nothing and took the parcel to her room.

  That evening, Mireille and the newly named Frédéric sat up late into the night, long after Claire and Vivi had gone to their beds, continuing to talk about their families and their lives before the war turned the whole world upside down. She was careful to avoid telling him anything that might put her family in danger if he were caught, but it still felt good to share a part of herself with this man and to hear his stories in return.

  In a time and place where they had so little, the hours they spent in each other’s company felt like one of the best gifts she’d ever received.

  After work the next evening, Claire went out to try and find some extra food. The three girls had each chipped in from their savings, so she had a few francs in her pocket in case the grocer might have anything beneath the counter that could be bought by slipping a little extra money into his hand. Usually the girls avoided the black market and made do with their official allocations
of rations, but with an extra mouth to feed they were all hungrier than ever.

  By the time she got home there was a satisfying heft to her shopping bag, where a jar of confit de canard was concealed beneath some dusty potatoes and a bunch of wizened carrots. They would have a feast!

  On the first floor, she was surprised to hear a low murmur of voices coming from the sewing room. Vivi must be working late, yet again, she thought, but she heard a male voice too and wondered whether Fréd had risked leaving the apartment.

  The door stood slightly ajar and through the narrow crack she caught a glimpse of a man’s hand resting on Vivi’s shoulder. It was a gesture of complete ease, of a closeness and a comfortable intimacy which stopped Claire in her tracks. Vivi had never let on that she had a boyfriend. In fact, she rarely went out at all these days and when she did it was usually at Claire and Mireille’s insistence that she join them for a walk or a visit to a local café. If it was Fréd who sat so close to her then he must have made a very fast move. Anyway, Claire had seen the way Fréd’s face lit up whenever Mireille appeared, so it would be all the more surprising if this were him.

  The two figures were intent on whatever it was that Vivi was working on and, as Claire watched, the man’s hand moved from Vivi’s arm to point at something on the table.

  Claire shifted slightly, trying to get a view of the man’s face, but as she did so the bag of shopping swung a little, pushing the door open.

  Two faces looked up at her, startled. And then the man said, ‘Good evening, Claire. It’s nice to see you again.’

  ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Leroux,’ she replied.

  He stood, and as he did so she noticed that Vivi slipped whatever it was they’d been studying so intently on to her lap.

  ‘I’m sorry to have interrupted you,’ Claire said, backing away from the doorway. ‘I just wanted to tell Vivi that I’ve got some supper for us all.’ She held up her bag. ‘It’ll be ready in about half an hour.’