by Sarah Jio
“What was the matter?” I ask, taking a sip.
“I don’t know,” he says, “but it can’t be good.”
My eyes widen. “You don’t think Luc is in trouble, do you?”
“I hope and pray it is not the case,” he says. “But, mademoiselle, the truth is, these days we’re all in trouble.”
He’s right, of course. We’re all sailing in a ship that’s taking on water. Life rafts are sparse.
I finish my coffee, then place a few coins on the counter before setting out again. What has Luc left for us? What is happening? I want to tear open the envelope immediately, but I know it would be unwise. I’ll wait until I’m home, and safe.
* * *
—
I ARRIVE AT Café du Monde without incident, slipping into a table in a quiet corner, where I wait for Suzette (usually late) to arrive. True to form, she rushes in at a quarter past the hour begging my forgiveness. “I ran into that gossip Madame Simon on the way, and she would not let me out of her clutches!” She sinks into the chair across from me and sets her handbag on the table. “I’m so glad you could meet me!”
Suzette is as beautiful as ever, with her high cheekbones, big green eyes, and hair swept back in the way I could never manage to do mine, even with a thousand bobby pins.
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I’ve missed you so,” she says. “Thank you for coming.”
“The truth is,” I say, “I’ve been a bit…cooped up at home lately. It’s good to get out.”
Suzette scrunches her nose as she reviews the menu. “Cooped up?”
“It’s a long story,” I say as the waiter approaches. After he records our order of two Niçoise salads and a carafe of Burgundy, Suzette leans in to continue our conversation.
“How’s Cosi?” she asks, though I can tell her mind is elsewhere.
“She’s great. You ought to come by and see her one evening. You know she adores you, especially when you do her hair. Lord knows her mother is challenged in that department.”
Suzette nods, looking around the restaurant distractedly. “Right, yes, anytime.”
“What is it?” I ask with the sixth sense that only a lifelong friendship can provide.
She ventures a smile. “So…I met someone.”
“Oh?” I say playfully. “And is this someone, by chance, a man?”
She grins coyly. “Maybe.”
“And are you going to give me the details?” I ask, smoothing my hair. I’d curled it for the first time in days (weeks?) and even put a little lipstick on. It felt good to be out in the world again, if only for a brief afternoon. For a moment we are not two women in an occupied city plagued with fear, but rather, two old friends having lunch in the city we love.
“I’ll get to all that later,” she says uncharacteristically. It’s unlike Suzette to not jump to the chase, but I don’t press her. “You first. How’s Luc?”
I fill her in on the developments of my relationship with Luc, most notably on how things had taken a serious, and beautiful, turn. Her eyes widen. “Finally,” she says with a smile. “After all these years.”
“Yes, apparently I’m a bit slow-moving when it comes to love.”
“Well, if you didn’t make up your mind by next year, I was going to swoop in and marry him myself,” she says with a laugh, in the way only Suzette can be forgiven for.
“You two were,” she adds, pausing to let out a wistful sigh, “written in the stars.”
I smile. “Yes, I think so, too.”
I recall Suzette’s fairly recent debacle with the married restaurateur and wonder if she’s recovered.
She reaches for a slice of bread and butters it. “Will you have children, the two of you?”
“I think Luc wants to,” I say, smiling at the very thought of him. “We’ll see.”
“Well, if you do,” she continues, “you’ll have pretty babies, that’s for sure.”
The thought of our future, and the possibility of having a family together, warms me. Suzette is right. They will be beautiful, with Luc’s brown eyes, my Norman cheekbones. If we have a little boy, I can imagine the plump curve of his face, his eyes big and curious. Joyful like Cosi, but also a bit of a rascal, in the very best way. I smile to myself.
“You will, too,” I say, reassuringly.
“How can you be so sure?” she says with an air of defeat. “All the good ones have been taken. And the rest? They’re off fighting this damn war, or…worse.” She shakes her head. “I may never have a child if I don’t…”
As her voice trails off, I pause to consider what comforting words I might offer my discouraged friend, but I have none. Instead, I reach across the table and squeeze her hand as four German officers enter the café. A hush falls over the room, and anxiety rises in my chest, at first a slow simmer, and soon a full-fledged boil. I tell myself I have nothing to worry about. I am a law-abiding French citizen having a normal lunch with an old friend. The Germans, they say, can smell fear. I refuse to give them a single whiff.
After refilling our wineglasses, the server places two salads before us. I eye the soft-boiled egg, but I am no longer hungry. Instead, I take a nervous sip of my wine as Suzette leans in closer to me, looking over my shoulder out at the tables behind us. “So the thing I wanted to tell you about is…” She pauses.
“The man you met.”
“Well, yes,” she says after a long moment. “But he’s not the usual sort of man I date.”
I smile. “As in not married, or otherwise a scoundrel.”
She forces a smile. “That’s not what I mean. This one is different.”
“Different? How?”
She takes a deep breath, then closes her eyes tightly before opening them again. “His name is Franc,” she continues. “He’s…”
I shake my head in disbelief, piecing together the details before she has a chance to finish. “Suzette. What are you telling me, exactly?”
“I mean, if you asked me two years ago if I’d ever go out with a German officer, my answer would have been a flat no, but…I don’t know, I met Franc, and…well, he’s really great, different than you’d expect. We’ve gone on a few dates, and Céline, he’s truly a gentleman. All this time, I thought they were a bunch of monsters, but the thing is…that’s not true at all.”
At first, I’m in too much shock to speak, but then I find my voice. “I understand that you have feelings for this man, and I understand that the Nazi uniform doesn’t necessarily make someone a monster, but Suzette, do you understand the seriousness of what you’re doing?” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Do you understand the risk?”
My friend furrows her brow as if my words have wounded her, deeply. She’d wanted me to encourage her, delight in her news, even, and here I am scolding her. “I should have expected that you couldn’t be happy for me,” she replies. “I mean, look at you, having the good fortune of having not one but two great loves in your life. Love has come so easily to you, you haven’t any idea how hard it’s been for me.”
My eyes flash with pain. “That’s not fair. How can you accuse me of not wanting happiness for you?”
“I’m sorry,” Suzette says quietly. “That came out wrong.” She sighs. “I only wish for the kind of love you have. You’re lucky.”
I nod, composing myself. “Of course you long for love,” I say. “But at what cost?”
Suzette’s eyes drift off.
“I’m scared, just like everybody else is,” I continue. “I’m scared for Cosi. Scared for Papa. Scared for you.”
“Yes, I know,” she continues. “But Franc isn’t scary. He’s wonderful, really.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
She seems impervious to my concern. “I saw Marguerite Leon at the market yesterday. You know, that half-witted girl from school with t
he horse-shaped face?”
I nod. But I don’t care about Marguerite, her horse-shaped face, or anything else right now other than reasoning with Suzette.
“She’s been going out with the most handsome officer. He takes her to the theater and buys her practically anything she wants.”
I shake my head, exasperated.
“You know those silk stockings they used to sell at La Boutique Rouge that everyone was clamoring for and now no one can get?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond. “He bought her three pairs.”
Suzette has always fancied the finer things in life, but this? I sigh. “And that’s what you want? To be paid for your…company?”
“Don’t be such a prude, Céline. The facts are the facts. Paris isn’t the same, and it may never be. You know as well as I do that there’s a very good possibility of the Allies losing the war.”
I shake my head. “That’s not going to happen.”
“But it might. And if it does, why wouldn’t I want to be on the winning team?”
She continues to talk, but I struggle to listen. What’s happened to my friend? On the exterior, she looks like any other prosperous woman of Paris, with her up-to-date wardrobe and perfectly coiffed hair, but I happen to know the truth. Her family is in financial crisis and has been for some time. The care and treatment for her older brother, Élian, who was born with severe medical problems and is confined to a wheelchair, has drained much of the family’s meager discretionary funds. The family’s future well-being and financial security rests on Suzette’s ability to marry well, and I know she feels the pressure.
I reach my hand out to hers once again. “Oh, Suzette. These are such hard times, for all of us. There are things you can sacrifice, but your dignity is not one of them, nor is your heart. Cut it off with this man. You’ll meet a good Frenchman before you know it. Just you wait and see.”
Suzette doesn’t look convinced. Instead, she sheepishly lifts the cuff of her burgundy velvet dress to reveal a diamond bracelet more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen her wear.
“Where did you get that?”
“He gave it to me the other night when he came to the house to meet my parents, and Élian.”
My eyes widen. “Wait, you let him meet Élian?”
“Yes.”
“Suzette, haven’t you heard the rumors of what they do to—”
“Cripples?” Suzette finishes my sentence. Her eyes flash. “Go ahead and say it.”
“Suzette, you know I love Élian. How can you act as if I’m not on your side, as if I’m…against you?”
Something about her expression tells me that my words are useless. Her mind is made up.
“Do you think I’d actually go out with him if I was worried that any harm would come to Élian?” Suzette exclaims, the color rising in her cheeks. “Franc is as gentle as a lamb, and besides, he told me all about Hitler’s plans. Once the war is over, they will build quality homes for those like Élian, where they can live peaceful lives.” She smiles to herself. “Contrary to what you may think, not everything about the Nazis is bad.”
I can hardly stomach her words. Of course, we’ve all heard of French citizens turning, taken by the charm of friendships with German officers who promise them lavish rewards, high-ranking positions, and other special treatment once the war was over. Rumor has it that on any given night at the Ritz, fashion designer Coco Chanel even shares a bed with a blond officer half her age. But my lifelong friend? I cannot bear it.
“Stop this nonsense at once,” I say, eyes fixed on hers. “I beg of you. Give him the bracelet back. Because if you keep it, you are his possession. Do you understand that? Tell him you’re sorry, but your heart is elsewhere right now. Tell him your mother is sick. Tell him you have diphtheria. Tell him anything. Whatever you need to say, say it, and end it and get him out of your life, and Élian’s. Please, Suzette. You are in danger, and you don’t even know it.”
She tucks her arm under the table as though retreating to the opposite side of an imaginary border.
“Even if this officer, Franc, is one of the good ones, if there is such a thing, what about the others he works with?” I press her. “When they find out about Élian…”
“You’re being paranoid,” she says, fingering the bracelet on her wrist.
“And you’re being a fool!” I throw my arms in the air the way Papa might about something completely asinine, like the married men who come into the shop to buy flowers for their mistresses and wives at the same time and mix up the names on the cards and hardly care. “That bracelet,” I continue, pointing to her wrist and looking closer at the diamonds, which are really quite large. “Have you considered where that even came from?”
“He bought it for me, obviously.”
“We both know that didn’t come from a jewelry shop.”
“Stop, Céline,” she says, as if she herself cannot bear the truth.
But I don’t stop. “I’ll tell you where it came from.”
“I told you to stop,” she says again, this time in a louder voice, drawing attention from the other tables. Tears fill her eyes.
I feel like crying, too, but I take a deep, steadying breath. I remember my promise to Luc. We mustn’t cause a scene. “Please,” I say. “Let’s talk rationally.”
But Suzette isn’t listening. Instead, she bats her eyes and smiles at someone behind me. “Franc!” she says, leaping to her feet as a handsome officer walks toward us with another man. She smiles coyly as Franc reaches for her waist, pulling her toward him in a nauseating embrace. A hush falls upon the café like a suffocating muzzle. Everyone, it seems, is watching us.
“Céline, this is Franc,” Suzette says. “Franc, my old friend Céline.”
Franc smiles. “A pleasure,” he says before introducing his colleague, Ralph, to me. At best, I come off as cold, and very obviously uninterested.
“You two should join us at the theater tonight,” Franc suggests. “We have tickets to the cabaret show at eight.” Eight. In our occupied Paris, the theater, a dinner reservation, or any other event at eight is out of the question, as it collides with the citywide nine o’clock curfew, of course. A proper French meal takes at least two hours, preferably three, so at any given café or bistro, the last seating begins at seven these days. However, if you’re in the company of a German officer, the world is your oyster. As such, most restaurants and high-profile entertainment establishments stay open to cater to the Germans in exchange for protection and special treatment.
“What do you say, Céline?” Suzette asks. I am heartbroken by the look in her eyes.
“I, I…I’m sorry,” I say, taking a step back. “Thank you for the invitation, but I have a…prior commitment tonight.” I smile as politely as I can, reaching for my purse to pay for the meal, but Franc intervenes.
“Beautiful ladies should never pay,” he says, holding out his hand, barring me from depositing my cash on the table. Suzette beams as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out several crisp bills, fanning them like a peacock’s tail. It is more than enough to cover our salads and wine; he leaves an obviously generous tip for our server, which only seems to elevate Suzette’s affection for him.
“You’re too generous, Franc,” she says with a moony expression that makes my stomach turn.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve lost track of time. I must go.”
“Well,” Suzette says, pursing her lips. “It was…nice to see you.” For a moment, I detect a flash of regret in her eyes, but another moment, it’s gone.
I search her face unsuccessfully for any trace of my old friend, the one who didn’t stand for injustice, who once confronted a gang of boys twice her size when they’d picked on her brother.
Papa always said that the Germans have a way of spreading their evil like a disease, and that some of us are more susceptible to
it than others. I suppose I’ve never really believed that until now, when I see it happen with my very eyes.
Suzette has been infected.
CHAPTER 7
CAROLINE
In the morning, I lace up a pair of sneakers that look as if they’ve never been worn. While a run would be out of the question, a brisk walk might do me some good. Dr. Leroy said that exercise is one of the best things I can do for my brain, and she reiterated that on the phone earlier when she called to check in on me.
“I’ve been having these…flashbacks, I guess you could call them,” I told her, describing the recent episodes I’d experienced. “But I can’t really make much sense of them.”
“That’s normal,” Dr. Leroy said, “though annoying, to be sure. Think of it this way. All those memories, all of your past, is there and intact in your brain. It hasn’t gone anywhere, you just don’t have access to it yet. As it downloads—or rather, as your brain’s pathways repair themselves—it will seem strange at first.”
Strange indeed. I select a pair of black athletic leggings and a gray T-shirt from the dresser, cinching the fabric into a little knot at the side, then pull my hair into a loose ponytail and head to the elevator.
Monsieur de Goff looks startled to see me when I arrive on the lobby level.
“Good morning,” I say cheerfully between bites of a juicy apple I picked up at the market yesterday.
“Hello,” he says, eying me cautiously as if I might detonate.
“Nice day,” I say.
He nods.
“May I ask you a question?” He doesn’t respond, so I launch right in. “My apartment, on the fourth floor, do you know anything about its past?”
He studies me for a long moment. “In all the years you’ve lived here, why do you suddenly ask now?”
I think of how many times I must have come in and out of Monsieur de Goff’s foyer over the years, perhaps treating him with indifference, barely uttering a hello. No wonder he’s suspicious of me.