Lost Roses

by Martha Hall Kelly

  How smart Parisians had been to remove the great stained-glass windows of the cathedral of Notre-Dame and store them for safety, replacing them with pale yellow panes. Victory flags fluttered in the harsh wind from every streetlamp and window.

  But it was horrible to see the endless piles of rubble and boarded-up windows where German bombs had fallen. Though the enemy did not occupy Paris, destruction was everywhere. We passed refugees from the ruined northern regions as they roamed the parks and streets and soldiers who suffered lost limbs and horrible facial injuries as they reached up to me, begging piteously for change.

  Jarushka slowed. I rubbed my hands to warm them and inventoried my wealth, such as it was: One map. Two guns. One pair of well-worn shearling mittens. One dog fur coat and hat. A few Russian pillowcases and Luba’s sextant. How could I ever sell that, her pride and joy?

  We headed off toward Eliza’s apartment on Rue Saint-Roch in the first arrondissement, cruel wind at our backs hurrying us along. I rehearsed my plan to appeal to her housekeeper, young Madame Solange whom I’d known well, for asylum and a warm bed. I would house Jarushka in the stables the Ferridays employed and go about finding Max.

  Once I found Eliza’s building I left Jarushka on the street and rang the bell. The building had survived the war years well; the paper tape artistically arranged on its windowpanes to prevent breakage was the only sign of conflict. How wonderful a real bed would feel at last.

  A white-haired man came to the door, wearing a blue smock and a sour expression. “The servants’ entrance is round back,” he said and started to close the door.

  “I am a friend of Eliza Ferriday’s.”

  He pulled his smock closer. “The Ferridays are not at home.”

  “Please, I have been here before. I know Madame Solange.”

  He eyed my clothes and for the first time I realized what a fright I must look, in my grimy dog fur coat and filthy face.

  “Everyone knows my daughter. She is not here.”

  “I had the pleasure of staying at this apartment with Eliza many times when I was at boarding school in Switzerland, monsieur.”

  “My hearing is not good. Come back when my daughter is here.”

  “I’ve come all the way from Petrograd. The Bolsheviks are killing—”

  “Yes, yes. People come here with all sorts of stories.” He dug into his smock pocket and pulled out two coins. “Here. Take this. That is all I can do for you. All the Russians stay over behind the Grand Palais. You’ll find a room there. Or on Rue Daru. Off with you now.”

  He closed the door and the lock clicked shut.

  I rapped on the glass. “Please tell Eliza I was here?”

  The man pulled down the little window shade.

  I made my way back to Jarushka and realized I had not left my name. I examined the coins. Just two francs but what a gift. With more money I could telegram Eliza back in New York. She would make sure I had access to her apartment.

  Jarushka was hungry and needed rest so we rode to the stables the Ferridays had used, just around the corner from their apartment. Every muscle relaxed when I saw the place there still open and I drove the cart into the brick building. The war had taken a toll on the old livery stable, the barrel ceiling caved in at the rear so you could see the sky. It was not exactly the stables of Versailles but Jarushka could rest there after her long trip and eat as she should.

  A woman came from a stall, a bucket in each hand. “What is this?”

  “The Ferridays sent me. Said you would board this horse on their account.”

  “They are not in Paris. Haven’t been for years.”

  “Madame Solange sent me.”

  The woman eyed Jarushka. “She’s a big thing. Probably eats her weight in hay. Board will be five francs a week, cash up front.”

  “Could you keep her for free if she worked?”

  The woman walked around Jarushka, smoothed one hand down her flank. “Pretty skinny. Might be worth more for the meat.”

  A chill ran through me. “She’s a fine workhorse.”

  “If the wagon stays I will try it. For one week. After that, no promises.”

  “Do you have a position for me? I know a lot about horses. I can sleep in the stall with her.”

  “We are full up now. I’ve taken on too many returning soldiers. There isn’t a decent place to stay in the whole city right now.”

  I agreed to our deal with a handshake and stepped to Jarushka. I encircled her neck with my arms, my cheek against her warmth, and she nudged her velvet nose against my side. What a good friend she’d been to me.

  “Please take good care of her. She will do her very best for you.”

  The woman took her buckets to the next stall. “One week,” she said over her shoulder.

  I hurried out, without a look back, holding back the tears. One week was an eternity after all. I would find Max and be back to fetch her well before then.

  I walked along the Rue de Rivoli and passed by Agnessa’s favorite spot in Paris, the Tuileries rose garden, reduced to a gaping crater by an enemy bomb. I took my rose from my rucksack and sprinkled it with water from the fountain there. It had grown half as much bigger and was prettier than any rose that grew there in summer, with her velvety white petals and golden heart.

  I pulled an old newspaper from the trash and read: DEFEATED GERMANY SURRENDERS.

  At the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, what would become known as the Great War, had finally concluded. Germany, out of manpower and supplies, signed an agreement with the Allies in a railroad car outside Compiègne, France.

  Where to look for lodging? Certainly not in this high-rent neighborhood.

  I headed away from the Seine, toward the theater district. After a day of inquiring about available rooms with no luck, I stopped on a side street and watched the crowd, half the women in black mourning dress. How France had suffered.

  I passed an unassuming building at 6 Rue Chabanais, with a neatly printed sign in the window. Beds to let one franc per night.

  Finding that well within my means I stepped into the place to inquire. It was a clean, well-lit lobby, and I warmed my hands in the glow of the coal fire in the fireplace. Many well-dressed young women sat there talking among themselves. An older woman sat behind the hotel desk, her dark hair caught up in a half turban the color of her vivid blue eyes.

  She stood and slapped open the hotel register. “And who do we have here?” She spoke in my favorite accent of all, Irish.

  “I am Sofya.”

  The woman smiled. “Mary Melange.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you,” I said. I tried to neaten my hair and hid my rough, red hands in my pockets. “I’ve just come from Petrograd.”

  “Long trip.”

  “I’m looking to rent a bed.”

  “Well, you have come to the right place, my dear. I hope you don’t mind me saying but you have the look of aristocracy.”

  I brushed a lump of crusted mud from my sleeve. “Perhaps, under all this dirt.”

  “For seven francs I will assign you a bed for one week, guaranteed no bedbugs, access to the bath, and one towel. We are a female-only establishment with very strict rules. Along with the bed comes a floor custodian you must sign in with every day.”

  “I can only afford one night.” I found one franc and placed it on the counter. What a relief to finally have a bed of my own.

  She tossed it in the cash register with a satisfying little clink.

  “Can I trouble you for a telephone book?”

  She pulled one from behind the counter and held it to her chest. “What do you want with it?”

  “I’m looking for a man.”

  “We have plenty of those.”

  “Named Taras Pushkinsky.”

  “Boyfriend?”


  “Certainly not.”

  She opened the book to the “P” page and turned it toward me.

  I ran one finger down the long column, with not one Pushkinsky. He was here, no doubt, on nefarious business. Why would he even list himself in the directory? A wave of exhaustion crashed over me and I closed the book.

  “Any idea where I can find work, madame?”

  “There’s always need for hardworking girls here. Just talk to your custodian, Oxana. Third floor.”

  “Thank you,” I said over my shoulder as I headed for the stairs.

  I made it up the steep stairs to my floor: one large, open, dormitory-style room, fitted with what must have been fifty beds, pushed next to each other with a bedside table here and there. Most of the beds were occupied with two or more sleeping girls. As I passed, I knew many were Russian, since they had taped to their iron headboards magazine pictures of the royal family, many of the tsar’s daughters, the grand duchesses.

  I found Oxana, a tall girl, who looked to be about twenty-one, with jaggedly close-cropped brown hair that looked like she’d cut it herself. She lay on a bed atop the chenille bedcover, reading a tattered movie magazine. There was something familiar about her as she ate beans from a can with a spoon, the lid still attached. Ordinarily not a fan of beans, I suddenly longed for them more than any dish Cook had ever made.

  “I’m here to see Oxana,” I said in French.

  She sat up. “Shhhh. Can’t you see girls are sleeping?”

  Oxana was clearly Russian, but her French was good.

  I lowered my voice. “Madame Melange sent me up. She said she assigned me a bed and I could take a bath.”

  “Good luck getting a bath. The line is always too long and all beds are all taken. But you can bunk in with me for one franc.”

  “She said—”

  “Onetime offer.”

  “You would gouge a fellow Russian? I hope you realize I will have only one franc left to my name.”

  “I hope you realize you’re not on Nevsky Prospekt anymore. A lot of the girls on this floor are Russian. One princess, a ballerina. Some eat out of trash cans at Jardin du Luxembourg. Best one is near the marionette theater, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m happy to work.”

  She set the can on her nightstand. “Well, that’s good news since it’s required. You may have paid for your bed, but to keep it you must put in your hours.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You are slow, aren’t you? The girls here make their living on their backs. This is the dormitory for 12 Rue Chabanais just next door. Quite a fancy place. You won’t believe the murals.”

  A brothel? My lips could not form the words.

  Oxana pressed her face closer, eyes wide. “Yes, a maison close. You can tell by the numbers on the street above the door. Always bigger and more colorful.”

  She slid her spoon under my jacket front, lifted it, and let it flop closed. “You’re a bit old for the best gentlemen and awfully skinny, but with the lights down low your tits are still good enough to keep your bed. For some of the men that come to Les Chabanais, just being seen with a Russian aristocrat on their arm is enough. And get rid of those trousers for goodness’ sake. On the rare occasions when they wear clothes, girls here wear dresses and black stockings.”

  “I must leave right away.” All at once my temple throbbed.

  “Good luck getting your money back from Madame. Strict no-refund policy. The sooner you start the better.”

  All at once Oxana sat back and squinted at me. “You know I cannot shake the feeling I’ve met you before.”

  “I thought so, too, when we first met.”

  “Moscow Cotillion?”

  “No. I debuted in Petrograd.” I thought for a moment. “The Vienna Opera Ball?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “My goodness. Brillantmont.”

  Oxana breathed a sharp intake of air. “Sofya Streshnayva.”

  “You were a first year when I graduated. Didn’t you have long braids?”

  Oxana ran her fingers through her short hair. “Sold them first thing when I got here. To the peddler on the way to Rue Daru. Paid me two hundred francs but I could make a lot more money if I still had them.”

  She considered me for a moment. “There are a few jobs for girls who sew. Good with a needle?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Every Russian in Paris flocks to the cathedral at Rue Daru. There’s a workshop there, down in the basement, where you can earn a few centimes making dolls if you can tat lace. But don’t tell them you saw me here?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Wait. How did I forget? Don’t tell her I told you, but there may be a job for you in Madame’s office, since her collections girl just quit. She was stupid, with no sense for numbers. I would take it but I don’t know the city well enough. Plead your case to her and see if she brings it up.”

  I waved to Oxana and hurried down the stairs.

  “Hold out for eight francs a week,” she called after me.

  * * *

  —

  FOUR DOORS DOWN, 12 Rue Chabanais was just as Oxana promised, a gaudy lobby, the walls filled with sensual murals. The gilded mirror over the white marble fireplace reflected a group of breathtakingly lovely girls, most foreigners, sitting about in couture dresses as if at a good party, waiting for their husbands off smoking cigars.

  I spotted Madame Melange as she twisted a young woman’s hair into a chignon and secured it with hairpins. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, dear, but you have the look of aristocracy,” she said to the woman.

  I hurried to her. “I need my money back.”

  Madame took me by the arm and led me to the corner. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We made a deal. Besides, this is the best you’ll do in all of Paris.”

  “I can read. There must be some sort of job—”

  “Half the women here can quote Aristotle, my dear. Unless you have a taxi license, no one is hiring Russian women, even to clean toilets.”

  I hugged my waist and paced the silk carpet.

  “Look,” Madame said. “There are two things people will always pay for. Food and sex. I don’t know about you but I’m no chef.”

  Overwhelmed, I covered my face with my hands. What would Father think of me here in this place? Luba would surely figure out some sort of plan. Afon? How I ached for them. How could I find Max all by myself? Where to even start?

  Madame Melange wrapped her arm around me, releasing a wave of gardenia and spice.

  “There, there. Think of it as a new experience. Our customers are some of the richest in Paris and once you freshen up and put on some rouge you’ll be in the mood. We have twenty-one theme rooms here. It can be fun, you know.”

  “I am related to the tsar. My father was finance minister—”

  “An accountant?”

  “Yes. Seems I inherited his way with math. One of my best subjects in school. Too bad there’s no need for such skills here in Paris.”

  “Well, actually I do need a collection agent.”

  “Oh, really?” I asked.

  “You can spare me the act. It’s obvious Oxana told you. But I do need someone reliable. To call on our customers’ homes and fetch monies due. My last agent disappeared with a whole day’s envelopes.”

  At least I would not be the one providing services to the clients.

  Madame counted on her fingers. “It requires a good knowledge of the city…”

  “I have been summering here since boarding school.”

  “And, well, incredible discretion.”

  “I can be the soul of discretion for a price.”

  “You must be here each night before sundown to deliver the envelopes and it pays five francs per week.”


  “Room included?”

  Madame nodded.

  “For nine francs I will balance your books as well. And I would like a bonus if the work is good.”

  “No to the bonus, but I will pay eight francs and no more. We’ll try it one week and see. Start today and you’ll be paid in one week.”

  I shook her hand. “Happy to be your new collection agent, madame.”

  * * *

  —

  THE NEXT MORNING, I set off from the brothel armed with a list of Madame’s clients and two francs of advanced salary. I soon settled into a pattern of constant collection work, sun up to sundown, resting only to grab a quick bite and scan the crowds and school playgrounds for Max. I was proud of my one hundred percent collection rate, mostly from maids who met me at the door and, when I mentioned Madame’s name, paid quickly, eager to be rid of me. I even collected from one woman, who propositioned me, too. I politely declined. How could anyone, man or woman, find me attractive, so thin and haggard?

  On the third day, I made a record number of collections and then treated myself to a warm roll. I was turning out to be a good businessperson. Just like Father. He would be proud of my ability to survive.

  The sun was setting as I arrived at the last home on the list, Rue de Serene, a nice neighborhood, home to many of the ambassadors and politicians who represented a good chunk of Madame’s clients.

  I rapped on the door and waited. The lively café across the street was doing a good business, amber light inside lit up the patrons, a few at café tables still arranged in the cobblestoned courtyard despite the cold.

  A man dressed in a white jacket answered the townhouse door. A butler? How odd to see servants again.

  “Yes?” the butler asked.

  A figure stood in the long dark hallway behind him.

  “I’m here to collect a charge.”

  He leaned toward me and whispered, “Madame Melange?”

  I nodded.

  “Wait here.”

  The man in the hallway counted out some bills and the servant walked by him, toward the back of the house.

  I stepped just inside the door and found the man tall and broad across the shoulders, his shirt unbuttoned and open, his chest exposed. My eyes adjusted to the low light and then I saw the face was familiar. Wasn’t he the man who’d attacked us at the estate? One of the group who kept us prisoner?