by Sarah Jio
“Oh, is she an artist?”
“No,” she says. “But she appreciates it. At least she used to, when she was in better health.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nods. “Life is full of challenges. We all have them. Art has helped me through my own deep valleys. That’s exactly why I opened this studio.” She smiles. “You’ll get there.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m Inès.”
“Caroline.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Caroline.”
* * *
—
I PASS THE market on the way home and stop to admire the late-fall hydrangeas brimming from buckets along the street, their edges tinged with purple.
“May I have six stems, please?” I ask the vendor, an older woman with dark-rimmed glasses, seated on a stool. She nods, and I watch as she expertly trims the stems, and a few leaves, then wraps the ensemble in crisp brown paper before tying it with twine.
I thank her and give her my card.
* * *
—
HOME IN MY apartment, I find a vase under the kitchen sink and fill it with water, placing the flowers inside. They look stately in their spot on the dining room table, and I am struck with the sudden urge to…paint them, but with what? And then, like a flash of lightning, a memory surfaces. I run to my bedroom closet. I know what is tucked away in the far right corner: colored pencils and pastels beside a sketchbook. In my mind’s eye, I see my old self. Sobbing, she shoves these art supplies high up on the shelf, banishing them from her presence, before falling to her knees and weeping.
Why? Why was I weeping?
I collect the pastels and sketchbook and study the flowers in the vase on my table. Hardly looking at the sketchbook, I let my hand take a path of its own on the page.
I close my eyes and hear wind rushing through palm trees again. And then laughter. The scene is foggy at first, and then it comes into sharp focus. I am standing in a kitchen. It’s one of those big, well-appointed spaces you see in magazines, but this one is well loved, not just staged. A cake bakes in the oven. Carrot. There are matches and a box of birthday candles at the ready by the stove. Stan Getz’s smoky-sweet saxophone filters from a speaker somewhere nearby. I’m stirring a pot of marinara sauce; a bit has splattered onto the marble countertop, but I don’t care. I take a sip of wine and sway to the music. A little girl giggles on the sofa. I don’t see her face, just her blond ponytail. And then, warm, strong arms around my waist as he presses his body against me. I breathe in the scent of rugged spice, fresh cotton, and love. I turn around to face him, but when I do…my eyes open.
I am at my dining room table in Paris, alone. The sun is setting, and I have sketched a vase of hydrangeas in intricate detail. I don’t know much of anything right now, just that I so desperately want to go back to that kitchen. I so desperately want to go home.
CHAPTER 8
CÉLINE
As I leave the café, I try to put Suzette out of my mind, for now anyway. I’ve spoken my piece and that’s all I can do. Besides, I have enough to worry about in my own life—namely, Cosi and Papa.
I pull my scarf higher around my neck. The wind is brisk, cruel even, with a bitterness that wasn’t there last week, or even yesterday—the unrelenting kind that weasels its way between buttons and underclothes and seeps through woolen caps.
The first snow would be upon us soon, leaving Paris awash in white. I’ve always loved the city in winter, particularly the way the rooftops look as if they’ve been dusted with a heavy layer of confectioner’s sugar, turning the formerly anemic balcony gardens of winter into scenes straight out of a fairy tale.
Luc will be home before long, I assure myself. We’ll get married and sort everything out. The German officer who I feared would be a problem for me, and for all of us, hasn’t returned. We’ll carry on as we always have, Papa making his beautiful flower arrangements, boxing them up for delivery by Nic; me tending to Cosi, helping at the shop when I can.
I cut through a side alley, bypassing the rue Saint-Placide, where so many Nazis loiter, then exiting for a brief moment on a quiet side street. Just six more blocks and I’d be home.
I glance at my watch: half past one. The gold antique timepiece belonged to my mother, and I’ve worn it since I found it in a jewelry box in Papa’s shirt drawer when I was fourteen.
I look right, then left. I’m eager to make it home so I can open the envelope I found at Bistro Jeanty in a safe place, but I decide to make an unplanned detour to the flower shop to see Papa. There’s plenty of time before Cosi’s home from school, and Papa could use some cheering up. He’s been so quiet lately, hardly saying a word at dinner. Last night, before I could even think about serving dessert, he turned in for the night. He works so hard. Too hard. Luc asked me to be careful, but at what expense? Papa’s health? Our business?
Each morning, my father wakes before sunrise, and he comes home after dark, exhausted and with shadows under his eyes darker than the day before. I can’t let him continue like this for much longer. Yes, I’ll go see him at the shop, I decide. I’ll bring him a pastry from the bakery around the corner, because he probably hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast, which he barely touched anyway. I salvaged the eggs for reheating tomorrow.
“Good day, mademoiselle,” a young man behind the counter says, his back turned to me. When he turns around, I see his flash of recognition.
“Nic! I didn’t know you worked here, too. Between Jeanty and our deliveries, when do you rest?”
He smiles, deflecting my concern. “My family needs the extra income.”
“Well,” I say, “as long as you’re not working yourself too hard.” I order two pains aux raisins and a chocolate croissant for Cosi, and Nic packs them carefully into a bag, ignoring the coins I hand to him.
“It’s on the house,” he whispers.
“Are you sure?”
He nods, shooing me away with a wink as another customer walks in. “Please tell Mademoiselle Cosi I said hello.”
“I will,” I say with a smile and set out along the street that leads to our shop, expertly avoiding wedging my heels into the cobblestones as only lifelong Parisian women can do. (“Step on the balls of your feet,” Suzette’s mother, Madame Claudine de Bont, had said when teaching us how to navigate a city in delicate shoes, “like a low tiptoe.”) I admired her in so many ways—for her effortless beauty, her spirit, and the fact that she took me under her wing and taught me the things my mother would have, had she survived. Claudine could have married any man she wanted. She could have been a countess, an heiress, a first lady. She could be clad in Chanel, right now, at the finest hotel, entertaining dignitaries and the like. But none of that mattered, not to her at least. She fell in love with Suzette’s father, Bertrand, the son of a farmer, and that was that.
Even at the age of thirteen, I could see the love in her eyes. Claudine chose a life of financial instability to be with a man she loved so fiercely. But she hasn’t been rewarded for choosing the path of love, by any means. Her eldest, Élian, was born with severe medical challenges. And while Bertrand loved his wife deeply, he was frequently out of work and struggled to provide for the family.
I think of my recent encounter with Suzette and let out a defeated sigh. I shiver when I recall the way the German officer had looked at her, with lust in his eyes. How could she not see it? How could she not see the danger lurking?
The shop is just a few paces away, and I’m warmed by the familiar sight of our sign hanging from the awning. I remember when Papa hand-painted it, on the balcony of our apartment, when I was twelve. He’d asked for my input on the business name, ultimately settling on my suggestion: BELLA FLEUR. And so it was, Bella Fleur, painted in curly pink lettering on a forest-green background. I thought it was perfect then; I still do now.
“Papa,” I say, walking into
the shop, holding up the bag of pastries. “Surprise!”
But he’s not behind the counter, where he usually is. I proceed to the back room, where I expect to find him trimming the thorns and leaves off a new delivery of roses, or sweeping up stems from yesterday’s orders. But he’s not there, either. In fact, the shop seems entirely empty, and also…askew. A bucket of greenery has been knocked over and water pools on the floor. Shards of porcelain, remnants of one of our finer vases, lie in a defeated pile nearby.
“Papa?” I cry, this time louder. I tell myself not to panic. With Nic working at the bakery today, Papa is maybe out on an important delivery, perhaps to Madame Lumière’s apartment, where she is, no doubt, having one of her fancy dinner parties. She is notorious for phoning in impossible last-minute orders that Papa never says no to.
Yes, he’ll be back soon, I assure myself. But then I hear a faint groan coming from somewhere near.
“Papa!” I see him now, lying on the ground, beside the front window. I must have walked right past him when I came in. I run to him and fall to my knees. “You’re hurt.” I rip a strip of fabric from the hem of my dress and gently dab the blood from his brow, then carefully tie the strip around his forehead, securing it tight enough to control the bleeding.
“Can you move?” I ask, placing a gentle hand on his leg.
He bends his legs, then his arms. “Yes, I’m just fine, dear. No broken bones.” With my help, he sits up. “I must have lost my balance and passed out for a spell.”
“Who did this to you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Papa mutters.
“It does matter,” I say, wiping away a tear.
“When they…” He attempts to stand, then winces in pain.
“Where does it hurt?”
“I’m afraid it’s my back,” he says. I place my hands under his arms as he carefully rises to a stand. “Nothing that a little ice can’t fix.”
“Papa, what happened?”
“I just got a little roughed up,” he says.
“Who did this?”
“Nobody,” he says, brushing off the incident.
“Papa, what sort of nobody?”
He looks off into the distance.
“Was it a German?”
He remains quiet.
“Papa, please. Talk to me.” I look into his tired, sad eyes. The laceration on his eyebrow oozes blood through my makeshift bandage. It will surely require stitches. I make a mental note to call Dr. Bennion, who has been our family physician for years. “Tell me so I can protect you. Tell me, so we can be safe.”
Papa remains quiet.
“Was it the officer who came into the shop, the tall one who—”
“Céline,” he says, “I told you not to worry. It’s only a scratch—”
“But I do worry,” I say. “And I have to know. Was it him?”
He lowers his head and nods.
The phone rings and Papa moves quickly to answer it, but I stop him. “No. Let it go. You are in no condition to continue for the day. I’m taking you home. You need a doctor.”
Except for the day Pierre died, Papa hasn’t closed the shop early in all the years since its opening. I can read his mind: staying is not safe, at least, not this afternoon, but closing the shop early feels like a defeat.
As he deliberates, I reach for the broom leaning against the side wall and begin cleaning up. I kneel down and pick up the shattered remains of the vase that was once my favorite. I let out a sigh as I toss it in the wastebasket then walk to the alley to dispose of the mess, looking over my shoulder three times.
Back inside, I glance at my watch, and when I do, my heart seizes. “Cosi! I was supposed to meet her at the apartment fifteen minutes ago!” By now she must be wondering where I am. What if she wandered off? What if she…
Just then, the door jingles and I nearly collapse with relief when Cosi runs in. “Mama! There you are! I went home like you said, but you weren’t there so I came here.” She searches my face. “Are you cross with me?”
“No, no, honey,” I say, kneeling down to hug her. I squeeze her harder than usual. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t home, love. I hope you weren’t worried. I lost track of time.”
“It’s all right, Mama,” she says quickly. “I wasn’t worried. I…” She pauses when she sees Papa’s face, and runs to him. “What happened?”
He forces a smile. “My dear child, it seems I need to get a better pair of glasses. Somehow this silly grandfather of yours managed to walk straight into a wall today.”
Cosi’s worried expression melts into a smile. “Silly, silly Papa! You ought to be more careful!”
“Yes, I ought to,” he says.
She smiles, then walks to the front window, slowly studying something that’s caught her eye. “That’s strange,” she says, pointing ahead. “Mama, what’s that on the window?”
“What, honey?”
Cosi stares ahead. “The yellow star.”
I look up, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. For a moment, I don’t believe my eyes. This is not real life but a terrible nightmare. And yet, my eyes aren’t lying. The paint is still wet. I hadn’t noticed the crude-looking and hastily painted star when I arrived, and by the look on Papa’s face, he hadn’t noticed it, either.
“Mama?” Cosi asks again. “Why did they do that?”
She knows what the yellow star means. Every man, woman, and child knows. I want so desperately to tell her that, just like Papa’s “silly” accident, this is also a silly mistake, one she needn’t worry herself over. We’ll scrub it off with a little soap and water, and voilà, good as new.
But I don’t say anything. I have no words. Instead, I take her hand in mine, and Papa and I exchange glances. “I’ll just get the keys and lock up,” he says.
Papa finds his coat and satchel, and for the second time in the history of his business on the rue Cler, he turns the sign to CLOSED and locks the door before six o’clock.
I’ve seen Papa cry two times in my life. This is the third.
* * *
—
PAPA NEEDS A doctor, but we can’t risk taking him out in the light of day, so we decide to wait until after dark, when most officers are too distracted with their personal dinner plans to notice an old man with facial injuries. After I’ve made a quick meal for Papa and Cosi, I reach for the address book beside the phone and dial Dr. Bennion’s number. He’s made house calls here before and has always been kind to us. His mother was also from Normandy, and he’s enjoyed sharing stories with Papa of boyhood summers by the sea. Surely he’ll help us now.
“Dr. Bennion, it’s Céline Durand,” I say in a hushed voice, so as not to startle Cosi.
“Yes, hello, Céline,” he replies.
“I’m sorry to bother you after hours, but my father’s been hurt and needs attention.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that,” he says, his voice strangely void of any warmth.
“He was beaten, quite badly. He needs stitches. Could you possibly pay us a visit, or, if that’s an inconvenience, may we come over?”
“Céline,” he says, after a long silence that makes my heart sink. “I’m very sorry, but it’s so late, and, you see, my…schedule is dreadfully full. And…”
“And what?” I say, tears stinging my eyes. Dr. Bennion walks along the rue Cler each day, from his apartment to his clinic. “You saw the star, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
“Of course you do,” I say. “Everyone does.”
“Céline.”
“Don’t pretend that I don’t understand, Dr. Bennion. It’s just that…I thought that you, of all people, would see through what’s happening. But I guess I am mistaken.”
Papa looks anxious. He motions for me to hang u
p the phone.
“Goodbye, Dr. Bennion.” I set the receiver down with a thud, then walk to the sofa and collapse beside Papa.
“My girl,” Papa says, shaking his head. “I know you’re upset, but you can’t talk like that, not to Dr. Bennion, not to anyone, do you understand?” He lowers his voice to a hush. “We have to be careful—now more than ever.”
Our Jewish heritage has always been a concern, but only a whisper in the back of my mind. Papa’s father was French, after all, and so are we. “We’re French citizens,” I say to Papa. “They have no right to—”
“We are French citizens,” he says. “But that doesn’t matter now. Obviously they know the truth about my grandmother. Someone must have reported us.”
There’s no use trying to figure out who. Papa’s wound is still bleeding. “We have to get you help,” I say. “There has to be someone who can stitch you up.” My eyes widen. “Wait, I have an idea. Do you remember that woman who lives in the apartment downstairs? Esther. She’s a nurse. Let’s go see if she can help.”
Papa looks unsure. “Can she be trusted?”
“Yes,” I say, recalling the time she knocked on our door last year to present a bundle of mail, containing several checks, that had been misdelivered to her address. She’d met Cosi that day and seemed nice enough. “We have to get that wound closed up,” I continue, taking his hand. “It needs to be cleaned properly and stitched, or you’ll risk infection. Esther will help us.
“Cosi,” I continue. She looks up from the breakfast table, where she’s busy writing in her journal. It’s filled with the accounts of her days, little poems and sayings she finds amusing—curated by Cosi, and Cosi alone. “I’m just running downstairs with Papa to…drop something off for one of the neighbors.” I hate to leave her, but I also can’t bear to have her see Papa in pain, nor do I want her to hear us speak to Esther. She’ll be safe at home. “We’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
She nods, and Papa and I walk to the door.