by Sarah Jio
Every day, there are so many changes.
Remember that there is still so much beauty in the world.
“La vie est un sommeil, l’amour en est le rêve.”
Ich werde dich vermissen, always,
Luc
I must have reread his letter fourteen times. Whatever in the world does he mean? And what is this cryptic quote, “Life is a long sleep and love is its dream”? He obviously wrote it under duress. I scour the letter again and again. Luc! What are you trying to tell me?
I sigh, retreating to my bed, where I collapse in a heap.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” Cosi asks when she gets home from school an hour later.
I rub my eyes and glance at the clock. “I must have dozed off.”
Her eyes are big and filled with concern. “You’re crying.”
“No, honey,” I say, collecting myself. “I’m fine.”
She finds Luc’s letter on my dressing table, and I immediately regret not tucking it away.
“I don’t understand,” she says, the letter in her hands. “What does Luc mean?”
“It’s nothing, dear,” I say. “Nothing at all. A joke. A silly joke.”
My words don’t faze her. Wiser than any child I’ve ever known, Cosi turns back to the letter undeterred. She’s quiet for a few moments, then turns to me with a satisfied nod. “It’s a riddle,” she finally says, smiling. “Luc is very smart. Mama, don’t you see? He’s left you a secret code.”
“It’s okay, love,” I say, dismissing her sweet attempt to console me. “This is a grown-up matter that you don’t need to worry about.”
Her eyes widen, and I think of what a gift it is to be a child and to see the world through such a simple lens. I don’t want Cosi to lose that gift because of this war, or because of me.
“No, Mama,” she continues. “I get it! The little door at Bistro Jeanty! You know, the secret cabinet with the hot-air balloon and circus animals painted on it, where Luc always leaves a treat for me to find—one for me and one for Monsieur Dubois?”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
“Mama,” she says, pointing to Luc’s letter again. “La vie est un sommeil, l’amour en est le rêve.” Her eyes flash. “These are the same words painted on the door.”
I take the letter in my hands again, looking at it with a fresh perspective.
“Of course!” I say. “How could I have been so shortsighted? Luc is giving me a—”
“Secret message!” Cosi says, finishing my sentence. “And this,” she continues, pointing to the first letter of each sentence. “It’s an acrostic code.”
“A what?”
She smiles. “Luc taught me,” she says. “Only secret spies like us understand it, but, here, let me teach you, Mama.” She plops onto the bed beside me and shows me how the first letter of each sentence spells out a word. “See,” she finally says, her face suddenly ashen. “D-A-N-G-E-R.”
I want to tell her that everything will be fine. That this is just a game, and that she should run along and play hopscotch in the street with one of her girlfriends while I quietly carry the burden of all of this and keep her little world just as she knows it—safe, beautiful, and joyful. And while I might have been able to pull off that perfect charade yesterday, and in all the days before, I know I cannot anymore. Evil has seeped into our world. I see it in Cosi’s eyes as she leans in and wraps her small arm around my waist.
“Everything will be okay, Mama, no matter what,” she whispers, “won’t it?”
“Yes, sweet one,” I say, fighting back tears.
We are in this together now.
* * *
—
I MAKE CRÊPES for dinner, but Cosi hardly touches hers, as does Papa. The three of us sit by the fire after I finish the dishes. Even after the sun sets and darkness falls on the city, we don’t bother turning on any lamps, settling instead for the warm glow of the fireplace. It feels safer that way, somehow, to be cocooned in the protective blanket of darkness.
Later, after Cosi and I are in bed, and she’s fast asleep beside me, I lie awake for a long while thinking about Luc’s letter. Had his training been a guise for something else? Something darker? And the riddle he’d left, hinting at danger and the little cabinet at Bistro Jeanty…Could he possibly have left something there for us? A message? Instructions? As soon as I can, I’ll go and have a look.
I snuggle in beside Cosi. I’m too exhausted to get up to close the drapes in our bedroom; as a result, the moonlight pours in, casting its cool light on Cosi’s cheek and the left ear of Monsieur Dubois. Somehow it feels good to remember that the moon, this very moon, has been around longer than Hitler and his army of terror. Over the course of history, it has seen as much evil as it has seen good. And it’s the same moon that Luc might be looking up at this very moment, wherever he is. I cling to that thought and let it comfort me until I finally drift off to sleep.
* * *
—
“SHAKSHUKA!” PAPA SAYS cheerfully the next morning at breakfast, setting a hot cast-iron skillet on a folded kitchen towel at the table. Cosi’s legs dangle off her chair, and I smile to myself. As much as I want her to grow into the beautiful young woman she is meant to be, I know I’ll always mourn the day that her feet finally touch the floor.
“Shakshuka?” Cosi studies the foreign meal.
I recognize it in an instant, of course. Eggs in a mildly spicy tomato sauce with a tiny dusting of parsley and Parmesan. I smile nostalgically at Papa, remembering the first time Mama made it for me.
“It was your grandmother’s favorite dish,” he says to Cosi.
“Really?” Cosi dips her fork in and takes a bite without any hesitation. “It’s good,” she says, smiling.
“Yes indeed,” Papa says. “Careful, the skillet is very hot.”
“Look at you.” I smile at Papa. “What’s gotten into you? You haven’t cooked breakfast in…years.” But then I remember. “It’s Mama’s birthday—of course!”
Cosi studies Papa’s face. “Do you miss her the way Mama misses my father?”
“Every day,” he says without faltering. “Every single day.”
He walks to the radio on the side table in the living room and switches it on, turning the dial until he hears an orchestra: clarinet—Glenn Miller, of course—that jazzy blend of happy and sad. Mama loved music. She’d have danced with Papa right now, in her slippers, in the kitchen.
She gets up from the table and walks to Papa, peering into his eyes as if searching for something. “Are you sad?”
His smile acknowledges both his pain and her concern. Both tug at my heart, each emotion hitting me with equal force. “I suppose I always will be, sweet child.” He pulls her small body toward his, placing his right hand on her waist, left hand on her shoulder. And they dance to Glenn Miller, in the middle of the living room with dishes from breakfast piled high in the sink, at the center of a war-torn city, and the very heart of a war-torn world.
There is no certainty for us, for anyone. None whatsoever. There is no assurance that our little family will be spared heartbreak or pain. And I have no sense of what today will bring, or tomorrow. But I do know that this sight, my papa dancing with my little girl on a Wednesday morning, is perhaps one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.
And for now, that’s enough.
* * *
—
I WATCH FROM the window the street below, sighing as Papa and Cosi set out on their way. He’ll walk her to school, stand at the gate until she waves from her classroom window, then take his usual path to the shop, unlock the old door, and begin his work for the day. I wish I could join him. I miss being out in the world, feeling the fresh air on my cheeks, breathing in the scents of the city, taking in the cacophony of Paris—a barking dog, the scent of pastries baking, a schoo
lboy humming a song on his bicycle, a couple quarreling on a third-floor balcony. I miss all of it, but especially the old rhythm of my life.
Luc has been gone for three weeks now, but it feels more like an eternity. After the final goodbye we shared, time feels slow and torturous. A fluttery feeling comes over me each time I think about our final night together, which is about nineteen times a day. I like to turn that moment over and over again in my mind. When did I first see that spark in his eyes? At what moment did our lips first meet? Did he lean in first, or did I? The steady, comfortable, fond friendship we’d had for years was infused with an electric energy I cannot explain. All I know is that I think of him morning and night—while I’m braiding Cosi’s hair after breakfast, tying a pink ribbon around her locks, or while I’m wiping the last dish clean from dinner, the embers of Papa’s fire sparking like the butterflies in my stomach when I recall the way Luc looked at me that night. That night.
And though only weeks have passed, it feels more like years. Is he safe? Will he return soon or be forced to be gone longer? I took his advice to heart and kept a low profile, staying home, save one morning when Papa was overwhelmed at the shop. And even then, I wore a cloak with a hood and managed to weave through side streets and alleyways so that when I made it to the shop, I did so almost invisibly.
Alone with my thoughts all day, I often wonder if any of it really matters. Perhaps I’ve been overly cautious. Perhaps Cosi was wrong and Luc’s letter isn’t a warning of any kind, but rather a rushed note from a busy officer with little time to write? To my disappointment, I haven’t received any more correspondence from him, but if he had some important information to impart, surely Gustave would have delivered another envelope by now.
I hang my apron on the hook in the kitchen and watch a bird flying outside the window. It flaps its wings, then swoops down to an awning across the street before taking flight again, sailing off to its next destination. I want to be that bird. I want to be free.
So what if there’s a German officer out there who fancies me? I’m not the first French woman to have a German suitor. It will blow over in time, just as soon as he finds someone prettier at some other café. And while I promised Luc I would make myself scarce, it doesn’t mean forever. Everyone knows that German officers are as fickle as the weather on a spring day. For all I know, that man has completely forgotten about me.
The phone rings and I run to the living room, where it sits on the little marble-top side table by Papa’s wingback chair.
“Bonjour,” I say into the receiver, catching a glimpse of my pale face in the rectangular brass-framed mirror on the wall. Dark, hollow circles hover under my eyes.
“Céline, it’s Suzette.” Her voice is urgent, hurried.
Suzette and I have been friends since childhood. When I moved to Paris she was the only girl in my new school to venture a smile at me. “Two things you have to know about Paris life,” she’d said that first day. “The girls are mean, so don’t take it personally. And, when a boy shows interest in you, always pretend you don’t care, even when you do.” We’ve been friends ever since.
Suzette and I remained inseparable, scaling the steps of the hilly Montmartre neighborhood to and from school each day. With her good looks and striking auburn hair, she always had a line of boys vying for her attention. But it was her confident, irreverent nature that I most admired. Only Suzette could convince someone that it was a good idea to throw a pebble at the living room window of the school’s headmistress, or stand in the rain outside the Ritz for a solid hour because she heard Cary Grant had checked in (he, in fact, had not), or sneak a spoiled egg into the desk of the meanest girl in school. While the majority of her antics were harmless enough, when they weren’t, I was Suzette’s much-needed voice of reason. At the age of sixteen, I talked her out of accepting a dinner invitation from a man at least her father’s age (even if he was quite handsome). The following year, while employed to look after the children of a wealthy family for the weekend, she snuck out after dark to meet a boy at a nearby café, only to return to find herself locked out. After a frantic phone call to me, which, miraculously, did not wake Papa, I pedaled my bike for a mile and met her in front of the house, where she climbed on my shoulders and broke in through the second-floor window. I made her promise never to do anything like that again.
We survived each other’s first crushes: hers, the very arrogant Jean-George, three years her senior, and mine, a quiet fellow named Jacques who moved to Provence with his family the year I turned sixteen. I wrote him two letters; both went unanswered. We shed countless tears over our respective unrequited loves, a fact that now gives us hours of comic relief.
“Can you believe I actually found him attractive?” Suzette said once over coffee.
“I know,” I agreed. “That nose! And Jacques! What was I thinking?”
While one might say that our friendship revolves around the superficial—crushes, fashion, and the like—Suzette has been a constant in my life. Despite her shortcomings, her loyalty runs deep. She stood beside me when Cosi was born, holding my hand as I cried out in pain and reminding me that I wasn’t alone.
Like me, Suzette had also been unlucky in love. Ever since a particularly devastating broken engagement (it turned out that her very handsome, and wealthy, fiancé from a fine family in Lyon preferred…men), she had found herself on the exhausting and seemingly never-ending search for her one true love, or at least someone who would do. The journey, sadly, had been a perilous one, with many unfortunate stops along the way—most recently, the country home of a married restaurateur whose wife happened to pop in with their daughter while Suzette and her lover sipped coffee in bed. Needless to say, things did not end well that afternoon.
“Please tell me you’re free for lunch today,” she says persistently.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, twirling the cord of the phone between my fingers. “I just…can’t today.”
But Suzette isn’t someone who takes no for an answer. “Come on, Céline, it’s been too long. I haven’t seen you in at least two months. You might have grown a beard or a third eye.”
I laugh.
“I miss you,” she continues. “We need a proper catch-up.”
“I miss you, too,” I say, “but it’s just that I’m—”
“Let me guess. You’re busy at the flower shop. I know, I know. Darling, I’m telling you, the flowers can wait. Please, sneak away for lunch. Your father will understand. Besides, I…need to talk to you about something important.”
I recognize the worried tone in her voice. “Is everything okay?”
She sighs. “I’d rather talk in person.”
I hope she hasn’t gotten herself into a predicament. What she doesn’t need is another angry wife in Paris who has it out for her. I fidget with the telephone cord and consider Suzette’s proposal, thinking about how nice it would be to put on some lipstick, get out of the house, and order a Niçoise salad, even if it lacked haricots verts and tuna due to wartime rations. I was so weary of my own cooking, any restaurant meal would do. And I’d be careful getting there. I could take a less conspicuous route to the restaurant and keep my head down. What would be the harm in that?
“All right,” I finally say.
Suzette squeals with delight. “Great. Café du Monde at noon. See you then.”
* * *
—
I PULL ON my cloak, lifting the hood over my head, then lock up the apartment. It’s only eleven, and I have plenty of time to run an errand before meeting Suzette. I remember Luc’s letter and decide to stop at Bistro Jeanty on the way. Madame Jeanty never comes in until at least five, and there will be a lull between breakfast and lunch service. Besides, all the waitstaff know me, so no one will question my presence. I’ll order a coffee and distract the young woman at the counter while I peek inside Cosi’s precious cabinet to see if there is anything to the
riddle she claims to have pieced together from Luc’s letter.
“Bonjour,” my favorite waiter, Jon, says in greeting as I enter the restaurant. “We haven’t seen you and Cosi in a while. We missed you last week.”
“Yes,” I say, “we’ve been…so busy.”
“Ah, but of course,” he says. “Shall I seat you by the window?” He scans the restaurant. “Your usual table is available.”
I shake my head. “No, not today,” I say. “I’d just like a cup of coffee at the counter if that’s all right.”
“For you, mademoiselle, anything is all right.”
While he fiddles with the coffee maker, back turned to me, I inch closer to the little cabinet in the wall.
“You must miss your fellow,” he says, talking to me as he works. “It’s a mystery what he’s doing out there. If I didn’t know him better, I’d guess that he’s in some sort of German training facility. Police officers are turning every day, of their own accord, you know. It’s a shame.”
“Luc would never…” I begin, standing up suddenly just as he turns around.
“Of course not.”
It bothers me that Jon would speculate in such a way about Luc, whose character is unwavering. And yet these dark times have everyone looking over their shoulders.
He turns away, and I crouch again, opting not to press the matter further. I am within arm’s reach of the cabinet door. “I have to say, as tough as Madame Jeanty is, she hasn’t been the same since he’s been gone.”
The hinges creak as I pry the little door open. Inside is a thick envelope, tied with twine. I reach for it and tuck it into my purse, slipping back into my seat at the counter just as Jon presents my coffee. “Voilà!”
“Thank you,” I say, smoothing my hair in the mirrored wall beside me. My heart races. Did he see me tuck the envelope in my purse? “What is this about Madame Jeanty?” I ask, deflecting attention away from myself.
Jon casts a cautious glance toward the kitchen and then back at me. “I know Madame Jeanty can be a tyrant at times, but I’m worried about her. She broke down in tears last night during dinner service.”