Julia

Julia Page 27

by Marty Sorensen

  Part VII - 1940

  Julia and Isabelle arrived in Paris just as the sun was going down. Julia offered to take one of Isabelle’s two suitcases, neither of which was very large. Isabelle was happy to let her share the burden and they set off to her mother’s house in Montmartre. From the Gare Saint-Lazare, they took the No. 12 subway in the direction of Port de la Chapelle, getting off at the base of the hill, the backside of Montmartre. As they walked up rue Lamarck to rue du Mont-Cenis, Isabelle pointed up to the steps leading up the hill to the top of Montmartre.

  “We’ll walk up there soon. It’s a nice exercise up those steps. You can see all of Paris up there, a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower. You’ll love it, Julia. And Place du Tertre, ah, the best crepes in the world.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Oh, but you’ve been there.”

  Julia nodded, but smiled, “Yeah, but this is different with you. You live here.”

  “We’re almost home.” Isabelle turned left on rue du Mont-Cenis and started along the short street that led to more steps down to the lower half of Montmartre. Halfway along the street, just before the steps began, she stopped and dropped her suitcase. She pointed to the small restaurant across the street, Au Relais. “Excellent, she said. We’ve known them for years. Foie gras and escargots. You must try them.”

  “But, here we are,” she said, “32, where my mother lives. Can you believe it? Home.” She pressed on a little bell.

  They waited and a tiny voice came from above. “Oh la la. Un moment!” They looked up in response, and the window was still open on the second floor, but no one was visible. One second later a buzzer sounded and Isabelle pushed open the door and held it for Julia to enter.

  Julia picked the suitcase up and carried it inside the building. There was a small foyer, barely enough room for two people to get by, and not enough for two people with suitcases. It was dark and the walls were dirty and pockmarked. She stood and let Isabelle pass her by, and followed her on the wooden staircase as it wound up to the second floor.

  The tiny voice could be heard up above. “Isabelle. Ma fille. Enfin.” At the landing Isabelle stopped, dropped her suitcase and hugged the petite woman standing just outside the doorway. Isabelle continued up the last few stairs. As she, too, let the suitcase fall, and her bag of clothes, Isabelle stepped away from the woman. She was very short, with hunched shoulders on an emaciated frame. Her plain gray dress hung loosely on her body and her skinny legs ended in plain black shoes with scrapes all over them.

  Isabelle continued in French. “Julia, this is my mother, Christine.”

  Julia saw Isabelle with a genuine smile for the first time since she’d met her.

  The woman smiled, showing a missing tooth on the side, and came to Julia, raising herself up to kiss Julia on both cheeks, then turning to Isabelle. “Ma petite chérie, I see your friend is a beautiful American. And so young.” Christine looked back and forth between the two of them, her eyes the color of amethyst, brilliant, ecstatic. “But come in, please.” She hurried back in the apartment and held the door open for the two of them.

  “Isabelle, you can put your friend Julia in Daniel’s room. Oh, this is a surprise. I didn’t think you would bring an American back with you. Let me go make some coffee. I have wonderful cake from Boulanger Albert, your favorite, a tart aux pommes, they have the best apples from Normandy, you know,” she said, then turned to face the newcomer in her house, “Julia, my favorite tarte, too. Oh-“ she put her hands on her cheeks, “and some Calvados, Albert got it from his cousins. From the farm. Amazing. Beautiful.” She laughed at herself and disappeared around a corner, her elbows moving back and forth like a puppet.

  “She’s an amazing woman,” Julia said, her eyes wide open in surprise at this small dynamo. “You didn’t tell me about her.”

  “No, maybe I’m used to it. She has more energy than little kids. C’mon, follow me.”

  Julia followed Isabelle into a small room, with an old bed covered in a gray blanket. It looked like it used to be white, but over time had lost all its brightness. Over the bed hung a small wooden crucifix, and behind it a dry palm branch. Julia thought how long it’s been since she had done that. Not since childhood. The room looked empty, despite the small varnished table with many scratches on its surface, a chair and a three-drawer dresser against one wall. It was what she expected for a poor French family, where there was no husband to bring in money. But the furniture, just like the furniture when they entered the house, was of very good quality. It seemed old. Not antique as such, but old, well-made, with hand-made carved ornaments. “Isabelle, you have very nice furniture here.”

  “You think so? I didn’t notice it.” Isabelle’s eyes swept the room. “Maybe. It was made by somebody, I guess. But it doesn’t have gold, or inlays.”

  Julia shook her head in disbelief. “Okay, so it’s not Louis XVI or something. I think it’s wonderful handmade furniture. By a real craftsman. You are just spoiled by Paris and don’t appreciate what you’ve got.”

  Isabelle pursed her lips. “Well, I bet you have some real antiques back in New York in your apartment.”

  Julia started to respond, then understood that Isabelle was suddenly asking her about wealth and decided to stop the direction of this conversation. So she lied. “No, nothing like that. We have good furniture, I’ll say that, but probably made in a factory in North Carolina.” Once she heard herself, she went one step further. “Once piece we have like yours, my mother bought in Canada. Made by hand by a cabinet maker in Quebec. A beautiful table.” Now she could not stop, although her next statement was not an invention. “My house where I grew up, in Maine. We had furniture made by hand. But by French-Canadians.” She saw Isabelle’s eyes narrowing. Tired. “But we’re here.”

  “Oh, are you French?”

  “Yes, actually, on both sides.”

  “So your parents spoke French?”

  Julia shook her head. “No, my grandmother. I learned it from her. But not my father, he said it made him sound ignorant. He had a little bit of accent though, and I thought it was nice.”

  “And your parents, are they still there, in Maine?”

  “No. They’re both dead. They died rather young, of Spanish flu, just after I was born.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “No, don’t be. I didn’t know them. My grandmother took me to New York, and I’ve had a wonderful life there.”

  Isabelle nodded and smiled in sympathy. “So, this is Daniel’s room, but he hasn’t been in it for a longtime. The only other people who have been in here have been a cousin from Orleans and some friends from school. I’m right next door.” Then she looked at Isabelle’s bag. “Ah, I forgot, you only have what you purchased on the ship. Well, we have some lovely shops in Montmartre, I’m sure you can find something nice to wear.”

  “Thank you,” Julia said, “but I only need enough to fly back to New York. I think what I have will work well. Maybe a dress. Maybe.”

  “But, while you’re here-“ Isabelle said, frowning.

  “Honestly, I don’t want to be here very long. I’m very happy to be here with your mother, and I’m going to adore the tarte aux pommes-“ then Julia stopped and laughed. “I don’t know about the Calvados.”

  Isabelle touched her on the shoulder and turned to leave the room. “Well, then, I will unpack later. We’ll have my mother’s delicious tart and then walk around the neighborhood for a little while. I promise you we will go find the airline office first thing in the morning.” She smiled and left without closing the door. But a moment later she came back and peeked in the room, eyebrows raised, and said, “We have our own bathroom here, Julia,” sounding as if she had to make at least one point in defense of her living situation. “I’ll show you.”

  When they sat down at the table, Julia asked Christine about the picture of a thin man in a double-breasted suit and tie with a turned-up collar. It looked like someone from earlier in the century, maybe the twenties, or even before
that. He stood smiling, hands in pocket, very relaxed, in front of a car that looked something like a Model-T to her. She was sure who it was, but she wanted to be polite to this woman who had opened up her home to a stranger.

  Christine stopped eating and put her fork down. She looked longingly at the photo then turned to Julia. “Yes, that’s my husband. He was gassed in the first war, you know.” She looked quickly over to her daughter, then back. “I’m sure Isabelle has told you that. He died for France. He was a hero. And he died in my arms, in this house.” She looked like she was going to cry but then seized some courage from within and made a long sigh and said, “He is always with me. He is buried not far from here, in the Montmartre cemetery. If you have time while you’re here, I could take you there-“

  Isabelle touched her mother’s arm, but cut her off with, “Mama, Julia needs to get back to New York. She has a little girl there, I don’t think-“

  Julia smiled at Christine. “No, Isabelle is right. I would like to go there with you, but I must get back. I need to get back to my little girl.”

  Christine frowned. “I don’t understand, why are you here without your little girl?”

  “Mama!” Isabelle’s eyes widened at her mother’s question.

  Julia shook her head at Isabelle. “I understand your mother’s question. I understand very well. It’s not my fault that my daughter-“

  The muscles in Christine’s face tightened as she looked intently at Julia. “Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Julia, please. Please excuse me. You are so young.” She put her napkin up to her face as if to hide her tears.

  Isabelle raised her hands up. “Maybe we’re carrying this a little too far?”

  Christine said, looking intensely at Julia, “What I meant was, I did not mean that it’s your fault. I meant, how could it happen to you? And it is because you are such a young mother. Of course, you must go home to your little daughter.” Then her face lit up in a smile, although her eyes did not agree. “And you can bring her back to Paris if you want. We will keep you safe here.”

  Isabelle smiled at that remark. “I think Julia just needs to go home, Mama. And it’s not very safe here. You know that.”

  Julia put her hand out on the table toward Isabelle’s mother. “I appreciate your kindness. My little Elizabeth would be very happy here, I know. She would just eat tarte aux pommes all day long.”

  Christine laughed at that, but her eyes were still moist.

  “Tomorrow Isabelle will take me to the airline office and I will buy my ticket. When I get home, Christine, will it be all right for me to send you a letter, and maybe a picture of my little girl in the park?”

  “Yes, of course, that would be very nice.” Christine looked over to Isabelle for someone to share her worry about Julia.

  Isabelle’s face showed that she didn’t share the worry. She ignored her mother and stood and picked her dishes up off the table.

  Julia took advantage of being alone for a moment with Christine. “You have a son in New Jersey?”

  Christine smiled, the same broad smile she showed when she saw Isabelle come up the stairs. “Daniel, yes, I want him where he is safe. I could not accept that I have to go visit him in the cemetery, too. Do you live in New Jersey?”

  Julia shook her head. “No, I live in New York, but I could walk to where I can see New Jersey. What town is he in?”

  “He lives in Guttenberg. He said he can see New York, too, at night. That must be famous, no?”

  Julia had no idea what was on the other side of the Hudson River. “With a name like that, of course it is. But it’s not a big town, and to be honest, I don’t know it myself.”

  Christine waved the idea away. “Oh, never mind, but you know, it’s very nice that you live near him. I wanted Isabelle-“, she waited while her daughter came back and picked up more dishes. She looked at her, then continued when Isabelle had disappeared. “I wanted her to stay there.”

  Isabelle stopped, holding a dish in each hand, and turned back toward the table, her face a window of mixed emotions. “I put a stop to that. She won’t go with me, and I won’t leave her. So there you are.” She continued through the small door into the kitchen.

  Julia saw a row of gleaming copper pans hanging above a small stove.

  Christine looked down and shook her head, determined to keep ahead of her daughter. “You know, my father, Victor, he was alive in the Franco-Prussian war. People were killing each other here. You have seen our beautiful basilica at the top?”

  Julia nodded, but kept her lips closed, wanting to know what this intriguing woman had to tell her.

  “Yes, Sacré-Coeur, they built that after the war. My father told me when I was a child that Parisians were killing each other, they killed the archbishop-“ Christine made a sign of the cross. -and priests, and he said people ate rats. I do not want my son and daughter to go through that when the Germans come here. Thank god Daniel is safe. But this foolish girl-“.

  “Mama, don’t talk like that. We are safe.” Isabelle came back in the room and her voice rose. “We have the Maginot line and the Ardennes to protects us. We have the largest army in the world. France can never fall! What we need is a new government. That is all. One that will protect us and serve the people, not the industrialists.”

  Christine shifted in her chair. “Oh my, my daughter, I don’t want to argue politics with you. I love you too much. My life is over, anyway. My father suffered so much, my husband gassed, what do I care about the Ardennes? I have only you and Daniel?”

  “Daniel? There it is, that’s the problem. Mama, why won’t you come with me. I will gladly leave all of France behind if you come with me to America. We can be there with Daniel.”

  Christine sat back in her chair and seemed to fold into herself. “No. I will never leave my husband. Never.”

  “Fine,” Isabelle said, “that’s your decision. I’m staying with you. Paris is for lovers and rats. We will eat rats together then.”

  They looked at each other, and then both at the same time to Julia, who sat with her eyes wide open.

  “I’m sorry,” Julia said. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” The pain in her stomach made her aware that she did not want to get caught up in this family’s problems. Nothing mattered to her except going home to Lizzie. Nothing. “Perhaps I will find a hotel for tonight, and tomorrow I will go to Pan American.” Julia felt sorry she had started all this commotion, and pain between mother and daughter who were being so kind to her.

  Christine stood and walked swiftly to Julia and put her arms around her. “No, my child, tonight, tonight you must stay with us and Isabelle can take you tomorrow.” She walked to Isabelle and put her arms around her. Then she stood back and looked at both Isabelle and Julia. “This beautiful young girl, she is here without her husband and her daughter.” Her eyes misted. “I thought I was tough, having seen so much.” She wiped her eyes with her apron. “Let’s all go tomorrow, huh? To the airline office. Who knows, maybe down there I will feel closer to Daniel than to the dead.” She smiled, but it was not a happy smile, it was the smile of defeat. “Maybe we can all go to America.”

  Isabelle stood in shock. She looked intensely into her mother’s eyes. “Mama, do you mean it?” She put her fingers up to her lips as if in prayer. “Really?”

  Christine held her hands up. “Yes, my daughter, you know if anything, I mean what I say. I just don’t know what I will tell my husband. But you, Isabelle, do you mean what you say?”

  Isabelle looked worried. “Mama, what do you mean? Why are you asking that?”

  “You know very well what I am asking. You think I don’t know what you are doing? Where you go in the evening? You think I don’t see you meeting with your so-called friends down there below the steps. We know who they are.”

  “We? We?”

  “Yes, I know, from Madame Sequin, and Madame Hermel. They know more than I do. You tell me nothing.”

  Isabelle shot Julia a quick look, the
n spoke to her mother. “Mama, I do what I do for France. Just as papa did, just as grandpapa did. But I am not sure what France does for us. So, we are going to America. Did you not just say that?”

  Christine nodded and sighed. “We both said it. And now I must thank this wonderful girl for helping us. Let’s finish the dishes and walk up to Place du Tertre and have some crepes and sweet wine, what do you say? To celebrate. Tomorrow we all start a new life. I will see my Daniel, and you-“ she turned to face Julia with a radiant smile but eyes near tears, -you will see your darling daughter.” She pulled Isabelle and Julia close to her, this small trembling woman, and put her arms around their necks. Then she pulled back. “Let me get my shawl.”

  The three women went out to the street and turned left up rue du Mont-Cenis. As they arrived a few steps later to rue Lamarck, arm in arm, Christine pointed across the street to the Au Relais restaurant. “Wonderful. You must eat there. I ate there as a little girl. I love Madame Roussard. You will like her too. If she likes you back, she will always make something special for you. And, she has a first class wine cellar, with wines from Montmartre. Not every restaurant has that. I must show you that, too. Clos de Montmartre. Every bit as good as pinot noir or Bordeaux that they all go crazy for. And, my dear, the Lapin Agile, you know that?”

  Julia shook her head, amazed at this old woman’s energy and spirit.

  “Ah, that’s where-it’s just a few blocks away-Picasso, see that’s a famous painter I know-he went there in the evening with his friends. Well, he wasn’t famous then.”

  Christine suddenly stopped before crossing the empty street. She pointed again, up the hill toward Sacré-Coeur. “See, you see all those stairs. I’m not going up there. That’s for tourists and photographers and maybe painters.” Then she laughed. “I only use them for coming down. Come on, follow me.” She took them across the street and turned left and led them a little more uphill to rue Becquerel. She stopped and pointed once again to the right in triumph and excitement. “See, right up there, just a few steps past the park, where the old men play petanque, ha, there it is.”

  Julia looked up, surprised to see the top of Sacré-Coeur, so close, it looked like no effort at all to reach it.

  “I always laugh,” Christine said, “when I see people trudging so hard up those stairs on Mont-Cenis, when the easy answer is just around the corner. Of course the smart people just take the bus.” She laughed at her own little joke.

  Isabelle looked at Julia, amazed at her mother’s newfound sense of humor. She touched Julia on the shoulder and whispered to her, “Thank you.”

  A few short quick minutes and they came up along the back end of Sacré-Coeur. An open gate before them led underneath a passageway, a greensward visible beyond it, and some misty part of Paris beyond that in the distance and below them.

  “See, no one here. Tourists are all on the right.”

  Isabelle pulled her mother close to her. “Mama, don’t speak like that. Julia can hear you.”

  Christine laughed, and turned to Julia. “Ah, but you, my dear, you are one of us, you are not a tourist.”

  “Thank you, Madame,” Julia said in appreciation. But inside was the burning fear of being a tourist and not at home with her daughter.

  They wound their way around to the front of the basilica and out to the space overlooking the city. Julia gasped at the view of the Eiffel Tower on the right, shooting far up above the horizon.

  Christine came next to her and had Julia follow her pointing finger a little bit more to the left. “See, over there, you can see it. Our Notre Dame de Paris cathedral. It’s so majestic.”

  Julia looked hard into the distance and found the twin square towers of Notre Dame among all the buildings before them.

  “Come now, girls,” Christine said, as she moved forcefully away from the banister overlooking the city. “Let’s go to Place du Tertre and have our crepes.”

  “And sweet wine you said, Mama.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  They followed the street around to the right and a little bit left and found the open Place with tents and lights and artist stands.

  “Oh, look,” Julia exclaimed, pointing. “I remember that. Look at all the art.” She laughed as she stopped at an artist sitting in a chair drawing a caricature of a young man seated opposite him.

  Isabelle pulled on her. “Let’s go to Chez Eugène. I’m hungry.”

  For two hours the three women ate their crepes, drank some sweet Riesling from Alsace, toured the Place, chatted with artists, and left the rest of the world out of it.

  Julia ate her crepes suzettes, but didn’t drink her wine. She spent most of the time watching the little children run around the restaurant. “Isn’t this beautiful,” she said. “It’s so marvelous for children. So many. So happy. The way they play.”

  A little girl in a red dress came running by and nearly fell. She held on to Julia’s knee to keep from falling, then looked up in shock at the stranger so big before her. But Julia laughed and caressed the little girl’s head and she finally smiled. She looked up at Christine and Isabelle and her eyes misted up. “Just like my little girl. Now you know how I feel. What a mistake I have made. I must get home as soon as I can.”

  “I see,” Christine said, “I know deep down that you are a wonderful mother. My heart goes out to you. You do not belong in France. You belong in New Jersey.” She laughed and put her hand up to her face. “Oh la la, no, I mean New York.”

  Christine eventually became tired. “Come on, now, take me home. At least the steps down are easy for me. Just hold on so I don’t tumble all the way down.”

  The next morning Isabelle and Julia ate their croissants and drank their wide bowls of coffee and milk, then set off for the Montmartre city hall to surrender their travel permits from Le Havre.

  Once inside the building, Julia was not surprised at the number of people milling around inside. She waited a full hour before she and Isabelle could speak to someone at a window.

  “Ah,” the man said. He looked at them over his glasses. The ceiling light reflected off the top of his bald head. His white stubble rustled as it scraped against his dirty collar. “I saw that you just came off the ship at Le Havre.” He shook his head back and forth as he stared at Isabelle. “You are stupid. You were in America and you come back? I know you Isabelle. I know your mother. I knew your father, bless his soul. We went to first communion together. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Monsieur Ducasse,” Isabelle replied, “I know you, too. Your daughter Clémentine went to school with me.” She turned to Julia. “We’re saying all this for your benefit.” Then she turned back to the man and said, “Monsieur, this is my friend Julia. She is staying with me and my mother for a few days. She needs a residence permit, too. And then a new travel permit.”

  They both pushed their temporary travel permits into the booth.

  He nodded and pushed his glasses up on the top of his head and settled back, ready to make a grand pronouncement from behind the counter. “Of course, I can give you a residence permit, and I do so because I know you, Isabelle and your mother. Let me do that. He stamped Isabelle’s card and gave it back to her. “Now, young lady,” he continued, turning to Julia. “You need a residence permit, of course. Please give me your photograph.”

  Isabelle put her hand up to her mouth and opened her eyes wide. “Oh, merde, we forgot all that. Oh, Monsieur, what a mistake. Please forgive us. Naturally, we will go out and do that right away. I know a photographer, well you know him, too, Monsieur Margulis.” She tapped Julia on the arm. “I’m sorry, I should have remembered that you don’t have a residence permit.” She turned back to the man. “Monsieur, please return my friend’s travel permit. She will need it for another day, until we can get the photograph.

  The man smiled as he pushed Julia’s travel permit back to her. “My advice, Isabelle, is to come back tomorrow, early in the morning, before the rush. Then I can help you myself. You won’t have to expla
in yourself again. Please say hello to your mother from me.”

  Isabelle and Julia left the city hall and walked a few hundred meters to the photography shop of Jacques Margulis. Inside, Julia saw that it was a complete photo shop, with film, cameras, frames for pictures, and large developing equipment. One enlarger took up most of the display window facing the street.

  Monsieur Margulis came out from the back through a Middle Eastern-looking curtain. He was tall, with broad shoulders. A dark brown cardigan sweater hung open over a light brown shirt. His black hair stood high on his head, swept back from his face. He did not smile.

  “How may I help you, Isabelle?” He stared at her with an intensity that Julia found disconcerting.

  “Jacques, well, we are here because my friend here needs a residence permit.”

  “A residence permit? You can’t get that from me, Isabelle. You knows that.”

  Isabelle let out a sigh. “No, but she needs a picture of herself to take to city hall so she can get a residence permit there. You know that, Jacques.” Isabelle’s voice conveyed familiarity. She looked steadily at the man.

  Julia wondered just what the look could mean. Were they lovers? Or were they connected some other way? There seemed to be an air of tension between them.

  He slowly shook his head. “Of course, that’s most of my business these days.” He looked at Julia. “If you would come back here, please. I can take your picture, and if you want to come back in an hour, I will have several copies of your photo.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Julia said, smiling. “That’s very nice of you to do it so fast. And to make copies.” This man was for the moment the most important person in the world to her.

  “Yes, you will need to have more than one copy of your photo if you are to survive the government’s requirements, young lady. Please come with me.”

  Julia took Isabelle with her.

  “Oh, sure, that’s all right. I don’t want you to look frightened in your picture.”

  When he had taken her picture, Julia went back out front with Isabelle and looked at the cameras in the case.

  “That’s interesting,” Isabelle said, “cameras. Mama has a camera. I can take pictures of the house and neighborhood for Mama to have when she’s with us in America.” Isabelle frowned and screwed up her face as she realized the she didn't want to say that. She looked sideways at Jacques.

  “If she means it," Julia said, trying to give Isabelle an out if that would help her with the photographer

  “Oh, don’t remind me, Julia. I know she could change her mind at the last minute. But I’m for anything that makes it easier for her to leave France before the Germans come pouring across the border with their panzers.”

  “Your mother is going to America?” Jacques’ voice came from behind them.

  Isabelle opened her eyes wide and raised her eyebrows to show how she felt about her mother's intentions. "That's what she says. She seems quite serious about it."

  Jacques seemed worried. He folded his arms across his chest and put his head down but looked up at Isabelle. "And you? Are you going to go with her?"

  Isabelle nodded as she looked at him with concern for his reaction.

  He hesitated again and looked at Julia with fear in his eyes. "Are you here to take her with you? Do you have some connection with Daniel?" Then he looked back over to Isabelle. "What's going on here? Are you leaving us?"

  "Don't start that, Jacques." For the first time Isabelle showed fire in her eyes.

  Julia turned to go out the door but stopped. She sensed the tension between Jacques and Isabelle, but she didn't want to add to the drama because she wasn't sure it was anything important. Her movement caused them to stop their conversation. This worried her and she turned back. She looked at Isabelle. "I think it might be better if I waited outside."

  Isabelle moved to where Julia stood and said, "No, it's all right, Jacques and I can talk some other time." She pushed Julia to the door and just before shutting it she leaned back in and said, "Thank you so much for helping us out. We'll be back in a couple of hours for the pictures." She continued to push Julia passed the store window. Then they walked together down the street. "Now it's time to go to the Champs Élysées and see about getting an airline ticket back to the United States." She sighed and put her arm around Julia's waste. "For all of us I hope."

  They took the number 12 subway to Concorde and walked the tunnel to number 1, which got them to the Franklin Roosevelt stop. When they surfaced from the subway on to the Champs Élysées they were just opposite a large window that read All Airlines, with logos for Air France, Lufthansa, Pan-American, Swissair and several others. Inside they found the Pan-American counter.

  Inside the building, lit by bright sunlight through the large picture windows, were a long series of counters with airline names behind them. Lufthansa was empty, as they instantly understood. No one even sat behind the counter. But all the other counters except Air France were also empty of people, even though sad looking clerks sat behind the counters waiting for some relief from the boredom. Air France had several people at the counter, who all seemed to be having a conversation at the same time with the clerk.

  Julia and Isabelle looked at each other in disappointment when they saw there must have been at least half a dozen people jockeying for position in front of the Pan American counter. They went closer to see whether they had a chance of talking to someone, when a young man stood up from his desk and walked swiftly over to where they stood, as if he thought he had to come to their rescue. He was barely taller than Julia, with thick black rimmed round glasses. Smoke from a cigarette with long ashes still on the end made him blink. His grey suit looked like he had been in it all night.

  "Excuse me," he said, "I think that you are looking to book a flight on Pan-American." He said this in English with an American accent. “Or perhaps you are looking for information.” He smiled, but appeared that he was weary of answering questions.

  Julia looked at him and smiled. Here was someone who could help her get back home to be with little Lizzie. He was tall and thin with a narrow mustache on his upper lip. His eyes switched between her and Isabelle with great sympathy.

  "My name is Peter Smyth. You'll spend all day waiting to see somebody at that line. I have a better method. I can give you an appointment and you won't have to wait in line." Julia breathed a sigh of relief. "That would be wonderful. I have my passport here and I am ready to fly." She turned to Isabelle and patted her on the shoulder. "This is my friend, Isabelle, who is ready to fly back with me, she and her mother."

  Peter turned to Isabelle and said, "There is no reason we cannot get you both on the same flight." He turned back to Julia and then stepped back to be able to talk to both of them at the same time. "Forgive me for being presumptuous," he said with a little bow. "You are both American, is that right? And you have your travel permits? That's all you need and we can proceed. Of course, you will have to get your own train ticket for Lisbon, but we can issue you your ticket for the Clipper flight from Lisbon to Miami."

  Julia stood there for a moment in shock. She had expected it was simple, you could fly from Paris straight to New York. Just get on the plane and go home. A pain ran down her chest. Lizzie seemed so far away now. “Lisbon? Really? I thought you could fly straight to New York.”

  “I must tell you, never straight to New York-uh-I would like to be a little more personal and helpful. Your name is?” Peter inched closer to Julia and looked into her eyes, then blinked at the smoke twirling up from his cigarette. He twisted away to put it out on a chrome ashtray on a dark wooden table behind him. Then he returned his gaze to her.

  “Julia. Julia Stuart. Thank you Peter. We appreciate all you can do for us, believe me.” She smiled, or tried to appear smiling to him, but inside she felt her life disappearing.

  “Well,” Peter said, “since France declared war on Germany, airlines based in the United States don’t fly here anymore. We only fly out of Lisbon. Unle
ss you have a way to get to England, then you could take British Overseas to Ireland and Newfoundland. Perhaps-“

  Isabelle interrupted him. "Yes I understand," she said, looking directly at Peter. “Julia is American. I am French, and my mother is going with us, she is French, but I have a brother who lives in New Jersey. I just came back from a visit with him. It will be no problem for us to get the necessary travel permit. I am well known to a man in the Montmartre City Hall."

  Peter frowned and made it clear that he was doubtful about her connections with municipal officials. Or maybe he was doubtful that her connections would make any difference.

  "No, it's true, I don't mean to say that I have relationships high up, it's just that I've known this man all my life and so that is what gives me confidence that he will be able to help us out."

  Peter shook his head and looked very sad. "Julia should have no trouble getting her travel permit from the police, assuming everything is in order. She is only going to go home and that's routine. But you, you are leaving France in wartime, and your travel permit will not be so easy to get."

  "Yes, yes," Isabelle said, "we understand all that. I have just returned from the United States and I am perfectly clear on all the requirements. It is only because I have just received permission to travel to the United States and have only been gone for two months, so I have gone through this process and nothing's changed and the permit process will be the same for me. We certainly appreciate your help."

  Peter moved his gaze between the two women and smiled with great sympathy. "In any case, we will not be able to schedule a flight until we have your travel permits in our hands.”

  Julia turned to Isabelle, her heart sinking. She had sent her cable and gotten no response. Now she had to wait even longer to think about going home. And, she thought to herself, Christine, she couldn’t just drop everything and run off to Lisbon. She had to be careful to keep her trip home separate from Isabelle and her mother. I have one goal, she thought, and that’s to get myself home to Lizzie.

  Peter looked at Julia, clearly noticing that she was thinking to herself. He nodded to himself, waiting for her to pay attention, but surely preparing the information he was sure they needed because they had no idea what was in store for them. “And you do know that it is a two-week delay at the very least before you will receive your permits. It is not just the city hall anymore but also the police, and not in the district but at the Paris police headquarters. I wish I could give you an answer that would make you feel better.”

  Julia looked back at him, feeling the need to push this young man, who only knew how bureaucracies worked. “But there must be some way we can speed this up. Is there no one we can talk to?” The idea formed in her mind that Hugh could be of decisive help in getting her out of this mess. If he had not responded to her telegram, or maybe not even have gotten it, then she would send him an urgent letter. She would do it as soon as she finished here, before she even picked up her photographs and went back to city hall for her travel permit.

  Peter turned to face Isabelle. “And I am not one to tell you about getting your permits, Miss, it’s just that you need your travel permits, both of you, and I hope you can get them swiftly.” As soon as he said this, he face darkened.

  “But then you are travelling to Portugal, so you will need your exit visa from France, and your transit visa for Spain and another transit visa for Portugal. And then naturally your train ticket. I’m sorry to go on like this, but you need to know the whole situation. Once you arrive in Lisbon, and believe me, I understand you might have no problem getting all these documents, I must tell you also, once you are in Lisbon, you can be bumped from the flight by people with diplomatic passports. I can only say, I have been doing this job for a month and there are always complications when there is a war.”

  Isabelle became indignant. “Thank you, Monsieur, we are not ignorant of what’s going on. You came over to see if you could help us, but in the end you are only listing complications. People are getting out and city hall is helpful. I think we should be on our way.”

  Julia felt a touch of panic at Isabelle’s criticism. “No, no, Peter, I thank you for your clarification. I have learned much that I didn’t know, and I-and Isabelle, too-“ She touched Isabelle’s arm as she turned for a moment toward her. “We both thank you. These are difficult times.” Then her fear of not seeing Lizzie for a long time prompted her to continue. “I have a little girl back in New York. I’m trying to get back to her as soon as I can. Anything you can do to help us, you know, it would mean everything.”

  Peter smiled, but quickly said, “You must do everything I said. It is up to you to get your paperwork as soon as you can. You must dedicate yourselves to getting that done. That’s the key to leaving France as soon as possible.”

  He held out his hand to Julia, then after shaking her hand, turned to Isabelle and held out his hand, his smiling face showing that he didn’t want to antagonize her more than he already had. Isabelle took his hand, but did not smile in return.

  “Come on,” she said to Julia. “Thank you,” she said to Peter, in her most businesslike voice.

  Peter stubbed his cigarette out on a table behind him. “You’re welcome,” he said, in a voice loud enough to catch their attention before they moved too far away. “One more thing. Let me preface this by saying I don’t know either of you. But keep in mind that Lisbon is full of Gestapo agents.”

  Julia and Isabelle stopped instantly and looked at him.

  “Yes,” Peter said as he nodded, confident he had made an impression on them. “As I said, I don’t know you, but people do arrive in Lisbon and are then whisked away by the Gestapo into Spain and then disappear.”

  Isabelle spoke with indignation. “And just why do you think this applies to us?”

  “I don’t know that it does. But in a way it applies to everybody. I just don’t want you to go off naively thinking that agents of Germany are restricted to German soil. There are too many stories. And, if you don’t mind my saying so, it’s because I think the two of you are very innocent that I offer this advice. Sorry if I offended you.” Peter turned away from them and walked to the crowd of people still pushing each other at the Pan American counter.

  The two women walked back on to the Champs Élysées and stood for a moment in the wind.

  “That was very frightening,” Julia said. She looked at Isabelle in hope of hearing something reassuring. “But you must have known all that.”

  “No,” Isabelle said, slowing shaking her head. “At least not all of it. I did not know that Le Bourget was closed.”

  “Le Bourget?”

  “The Paris airport.”

  “He didn’t say anything about airports being closed.”

  “Not directly. But he said we have to take the train to Lisbon. This is more serious than I thought. This phony war has completely changed French transportation.” She looked Julia directly in the eyes. “I know we don’t concern you directly, but you know, Mama will never leave Paris if she has to do all this.”

  Julia nodded, concerned for her friend, but unable to think of how to help her.

  Isabelle touched her arm. “I see you understand the situation. Then we simply must change plans. We will get you out of the country first thing. As soon as possible.”

  Julia’s heart jumped at this offer from Isabelle to ignore her own situation to help her get back to Lizzie.

  “Be careful what you say at home. We don’t need to get Mama excited. Once she knows how long it’s going to take to get an exit permit, that will be enough for her to forget her own plans. All we need to tell her is that it’s easy for you because you’re just going home. Ah!” Isabelle lifted her head back and then hit herself on the forehead. “There you go. He didn’t mention the most important thing.”

  Julia was now not only insecure, but puzzled. “What?”

  “America. We need a visa to enter the United States. He didn’t even mention that. He was so worried about t
he French police and the Gestapo, he forgot about that important thing. But, then, it’s what will make Mama patient enough. I will tell her that, and she and I will work on getting to the embassy. Meanwhile we’ll get you out of the country.”

  “That’s exceedingly gracious of you,” Julia said. For the first time she felt her stomach settle down. Now she had only to concentrate on getting home to Lizzie without having to worry about someone else first.

  “For now, let’s just go get your permit photographs and go back to city hall, and then we’ll figure out the exact wording for Mama.” Isabelle tightened her lips and looked down but seeing only inside herself. “I think when it comes to actually happening, it may break her heart.” Then she sped up. “Let’s keep moving.”

  As they walked to the subway station, Julia said, “One quick thing. I want to make a phone call to New York. I don’t want them to worry about me.”

  “Fine,” Isabelle said, “it’s not a problem, even in this wartime country. The post office will have phone booths where you can place a call, if that’s what you want. There’s one of those in Montmartre, too. Nearby.”

  “No, I don’t want to wait. It will be late in New York, but someone will answer the phone. We have to do this now.” Her pulse quickened as she imagined hearing Hugh’s voice, and then Lizzie’s.

  They walked the short trip to La Poste on rue Colisée. Inside, people were lined up at the counters for mailing, but the phone booths were empty. Julia went up to the phone counter. “Bon jour. I want to place a phone call to the United States, please.”

  The woman behind the counter took a piece of paper without smiling or looking at Julia. She wore large round glasses that made her look like a child underneath a huge volume of wavy hair. She waited and fidgeted with her pen, then looked up at Julia. “The number please?” She said it in a way that made her displeasure clear, as if her boredom were interrupted.

  Julia told her the number, and the woman wrote it down, then said, again without looking up, “Sit over there. I will call you when the connection has been made.”

  Isabelle pulled at Julia, and they sat along the wall opposite the phone booths. The child-woman behind the counter turned around and handed the piece of paper to someone inside a small window. She looked at Julia and Isabelle to make sure they were still there, then resumed her position behind the counter and looked down at her desk at nothing.

  Julia walked to the woman. “Do you have any idea how long it will take?”

  The woman opened her eyes in surprise. “I beg your pardon? How would I know this? Do you see the clocks on the wall behind me? Do you see Montréal? Is that not the same time as New York? I cannot promise you anything, Mademoiselle. There are connections to be made and…oh, what difference does it make. Please take your seat and wait.”

  Julia returned to sit by Isabelle. The woman lit a cigarette and sat back in her chair, looking at no one.

  Isabelle touched Julia on the shoulder. “Julia, you can’t do anything about it. And neither can she. I know how much you want to talk to your family. I called Daniel once in New Jersey, and I had to wait an hour, even though he has his own phone. You will have to be patient.”

  Julia sank down in the chair, defeated. But her spirits rose when the woman came out from behind the counter and walked to where they were sitting.

  “I am sorry, Mademoiselle.” She hesitated when she looked at the ring on Julia’s finger. “Excuse me, Madame. But no one answers the phone at this number.”

  Julia’s stomach tightened. “But it’s morning there. They are six hours behind Paris. Surely someone-”

  Isabelle interrupted her. “Thank you, Mademoiselle. We will try another time.”

  Julia turned to her. “They can try again,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “No, they-“

  The counter woman interrupted Isabelle. “Oh, yes, if you wish, we will try again.” She smiled at Julia. “As you can see, no one is using the phones now. No one comes in any more. Not since the war started. Let me try once more.”

  But once more no one answered. The woman came back with sorrow in her eyes. “I’m sorry. Sometimes the calls do not go through, and we do not know the reason why. This time, Alphonse asked the New York operator directly to make sure, but then the New York operator didn’t respond. I’m afraid it’s hopeless. They think the German U-boats are trying to destroy the undersea cable. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

  “What about sending a telegram?”

  “Yes, you can do that, but I must tell you, they have to wait for the police to read them before they go out, and that could be weeks. And we have to take down all your personal information. You might try the embassy. Or a consulate.” The woman pulled her blue sweater tight as if she had suddenly become cold.

  Julia was puzzled. “I-I’m not sure what you mean.”

  The woman’s face showed sympathy, but a feeling of superiority. “I understand their telegrams are not censored. So if you can convince someone there-, if you know someone-“ She raised her eyebrows in anticipation.

  Julia understood. She could be an American with connections. Well, if that were true, she would be out of the country already. “Thank you. I have to go there and I will try.”

  Julia thanked the woman and shook her hand, and went to the mailing counter. She said to Isabelle, “Then I will have to send an aerogramme.”She bought the aerogramme and they sat at a café while she composed her letter to Hugh. At the post office she paid for first class expedited delivery of the letter. She asked the clerk, a fat man with graying hair and eyes that seemed to look into nothing, about delivery time and he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head and a jab of pain ran through her stomach at his attitude.

  Isabelle stood next to her and pulled her away after the clerk had stamped the aerogramme and carelessly put it in a pile with his other mail. “He can’t do anything, Julia, he can only put your letter in with the others. Don’t worry so much. They will expedite delivery and it will be faster than you think. Remember what Peter said. First your residence permit, then your travel permit, then your two transit visas. Then you can get an airline ticket.”

  Julia sighed. “Yes, I’m not going to see my Lizzie as soon as I thought.” And she burst out with a cynical laugh. “And maybe at the end the Gestapo will stop me.”

  Isabelle waved the idea away. “Don’t be silly. He thought he was going to play the big man and scare us because he had nothing better to do. Wait a minute.” She turned back to face the clerk and asked him how the post office could expedite delivery when she knew there weren’t even any planes leaving Paris.”

  He gave her a forced smile, as if he were weary of children’s questions. “Madame, if you please, your letter will go from here by boat to London. And by London it will go by aero plane to Newfoundland, and from there it will arrive in the United States. Are you satisfied?” He shook his head the smallest amount as if to keep his annoyance to himself.

  “Oui, Monsieur.” Isabelle gave her best imitation of jolly happiness. She turned back to Julia. “Come on, we have to pick up your photographs.”

  They walked along rue Courtine until they stood before the Jacques Margulis photography shop. The bell on top of the door clanged loudly as they entered. The shop was empty.

  “Hello?” Julia spoke with a soprano voice. When he did not respond, she continued. “Jacques? It’s us. We’re back.”

  Still nothing, but then a door opened in the back and footsteps coming down a stairway announced his arrival. Jacques came through the curtains with his arm raised almost as if in defiance. “All right, I know. I was coming.” He shook his head. “Isabelle, you should show more patience.”

  “Oh, Jacques, please, “Isabelle said, showing the mildest irritation. “You said a couple of hours, so we’re here. Julia is the one who’s impatient, not me. And she has reason to be, doesn’t she? Anyway, may we have the pictures?”

  “Of course. Let me get them for you.�
� He spoke as if his feelings had been hurt, or maybe too much had been demanded of him.

  It didn’t make any sense to Julia. Why this tension between them, the same as before when the photos were taken. Isabelle touched her briefly on the shoulder to assure her.

  “Here they are,” Jacques said, “ready to go. I made three copies. I of course will keep the negative for you, if you like. But maybe if you are leaving you will want to take it with you. Either way. It’s up to you.” He threw an envelope down on the counter as if throwing it away.

  Despite his rudeness, Julia smiled and picked up the envelope. Reading the cost of the pictures, she opened her purse and gave him three francs.

  Isabelle sucked in her breath when she saw the amount. “Jacques. That is not your usual price.”

  Julia stopped Isabelle with a look of dismay. “It’s fine. We asked for expedited service. It is perfectly reasonable. These are not school pictures. You worry too much.” She smiled again at Jacques. “Thank you. I appreciate it very much. You are helping me to get home to see my little daughter, and that means everything to me.” She gave Isabelle another look of disapproval. “But now I want to look at something different.”

  Isabelle started for the door. “Ah, Julia, we want to make it to Montmartre city hall today, we don’t want to be late for that. For you.”

  They arrived at city hall and went down to the hall to Monsieur Ducasse’s office. No one was there, he was at his window, looking bored. He perked up when the two women appeared before him.

  “Ah, hello, you are back, Isabelle. So quick.”

  “No so quick,” she said, “my friend Julia only has today to get her residence permit. And she has the pictures.”

  Julia handed the pictures to him.

  He smiled, almost in nostalgia. “Jacques Margulis. Good. You used our neighborhood photographer. Very wise. If anything happens, he is close by. That is important.”

  “Happens?” Julia said, a small pain jumping in her stomach.

  Monsieur Ducasse looked at her over his glasses like a professor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. You Americans have it too easy. In Europe, in France even, things are always changing. Don’t be upset young lady, it was just me. Those of us who have been through the war, and now our little sitting war with Germany, we always overreact. I worry. You don’t have to.” Then he smiled, but his smile was forced.

  Julia became nervous. “I would like to believe you, Monsieur, but I am anxious to get back to my little girl, and your words do upset me.”

  “Your little girl? Is she here, with you in your hotel?”

  He was prying now, Julia thought. She looked at Isabelle, then turned back to him. “No, she’s in America. That’s why I want to go home.”

  “Oh, that is sad. You came here without your little girl? All alone?”

  Julia thought for a moment, started to turn to Isabelle, then decided to keep it to herself. “No, it wasn’t supposed to be that way. They were coming in a little while, but then when the boat arrived, they said there wouldn’t be any more. Because of the stupid war. So now I have to go back home. We were going to go on a grand tour. You know, Paris, London, Rome. I was going to get us a pied á terre in Paris at first. But everything’s turned upside down and-,”

  Isabelle touched Julia lightly on the hand, out of sight of the clerk.

  Monsieur Ducasse nodded wisely. “Yes, I understand. So many vacations ruined, so much travel disrupted by this stupid war, as you call it. But you mustn’t worry, Madame, we are perfectly safe in Paris. And so is London and so is Rome. France has the largest army in the world. Hitler will never cross the Rhine, I promise you that.-Ah, but I see you are nervous just the same. Here, I have put your photograph on your residence permit. All you have to do is come back next week and present yourself. Here, or the police station, it doesn’t matter.”

  Julia began to worry seriously. “Police station? Whatever for?”

  He shook his head. “No, no, you can come here. I just meant whatever is convenient. You know, Madame, you worry too much. They just want to keep track of you.”

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong,” Julia said with indignation.

  Ducasse nodded again, having heard this statement so many times in his career. “That is not for you to decide.” He looked down at the documents on his desk. “Madame Stuart, it has been decided for you by the Germans. You have been duly noted by the customs officer and the French National Police upon your arrival.” He now felt that he had become his natural self, the lecturer. “You came in this country without any luggage. Do you know what that means?”

  Julia took a step back, but Isabelle put her hand on Julia’s back to steady her. “Monsieur Ducasse,“ Isabelle said, “I think we have what we came for. We will go home now.”

  He acted as if he didn’t hear her. He leaned forward into the window frame. “It means they believe you are here to meet somebody who will take care of you.” His eyes bulged.

  “Oh là là,” Isabelle said, her voice raised. “Nobody is here to take care of her. She is staying with us until she can go back home.”

  At that, he stood up, his eyes burning. “You? You, Isabelle? With your mother? Don’t you think you are already enough trouble for your poor old mother? Now you have to take this stranger on? You socialists, you don’t know when to stop. Beware, I tell you. Beware.” He turned his fierce gaze on Julia. “And you, you American, do you have any idea what you are getting into? You go back home as soon as you can. That’s my advice. The police may be coming for this lady. I have told her mother that already. You are making a big mistake.” With that, he sat down and closed his window and put up a sign that read “Closed.”

  Julia turned away from the window, and from Isabelle, trying to understand what Monsieur Ducasse had just said. The police coming for Isabelle? Images flashed in her mind of Isabelle talking to the police at Le Havre, of strange looks passing between Isabelle and Jacques, of Christine complaining about her daughter going out at night. Suddenly, she had no one to trust. She put her arm out and touched the wall to keep her steady.

  “Julia,” Isabelle said, as she touched her on the arm. “Don’t listen to what he says.”

  Julia backed away and wanted to run but she had nowhere to run. The hallway became small and stifling. Huge men in uniforms and shirts stained with sweat passed her by. Nausea swept over her as the stench wafted in her face. She became dizzy and held her hand up to her forehead, trying to think, but nothing came to her. She had nowhere to go, and the full powerful dread from her folly settled on her. Isabelle’s voice came at her as if from a distance.

  “Julia? Julia?”

  Isabelle swung her arms out to push Isabelle away. Two men stopped as they were going by. One of them put his hands on Julia’s shoulders. She screamed and fell backwards. The man’s strong hands held her up. She felt she might vomit, but Isabelle’s voice became stronger.

  “Julia, you’re okay. Wake up. Look at me.”

  Julia opened her eyes and saw Isabelle’s face directly in front of her, intense, worried, her eyebrows close together, skin flushed.

  “Julia, come on, we’ve got to get some air.”

  Bewildered, Julia found herself surrounded by the two men and Isabelle in the middle. She nodded and took Isabelle’s arm, and let herself be led down the hallway and outside. The cool wind blew her hair up and stopped the nausea. Standing before the ornate wrought iron in front of city hall, she focused on the small merry-go-round across the street. A little girl the same age as Lizzie was holding tight on to the brass pole as her pony went around. Julia relaxed and breathed slowly. She thought the little girl smiled at her and felt better. Turning to Isabelle, she said, “What was that man saying about the police?”

  Isabelle thought for a moment. When she spoke, her voice had a hard edge. “What he meant was that he is a fascist and I am a worker. That’s why he wants me to think the police are coming for me.” She shook her head back and forth to
make her point. “But they’re not. He’s only saying that to scare you. That’s what he does, you know. He scares people so he can be a big man. But he doesn’t know anything.”

  Julia spoke quietly. “But he scares me.” She opened her eyes wide.

  “Sure, because you just arrived. He doesn’t know you, so he thinks he can be tough. Remember, now you have your residence permit, and we can go get your travel permit. Think about it, Julia. That’s all he meant. You want to go home as soon as you can. That’s what we should be doing.” She stepped back and studied Julia. “Are you all right? Maybe we should go home first.”

  Julia nodded, and they went to the corner and turned up the hill and were soon at the base of the steps up rue du Mont-Cenis that led to Christine’s apartment. Julia looked up to see if Christine was looking out her second-floor apartment, but the view was blocked by the dark green leaves of a tree. On the right was a small restaurant with bright yellow walls and a red overhanging canopy. Two white chairs and a table were open on the street.

  Isabelle leaned toward the restaurant and pulled Julia toward the table. “Let’s go into Chez Francis and have something to drink. It will make you feel better.”

  “Oh, no, I need to go back to your apartment and get some rest. That’s what I need, if you don’t mind.” Julia couldn’t stand the thought of being in public in Paris any longer. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go home with Isabelle, but then she felt that Christine would help her sort out the situation. Isabelle she wasn’t sure of, but Isabelle’s mother was somebody she could trust. Somebody who actually made her feel at home.

  Inside the apartment, Julia went to Christine, who was at the kitchen sink, washing small dishes. Christine turned when she heard them come in, and smiled, but then quickly looked alarmed when she saw Julia.

  “My girl, what happened? Are you all right? Come, sit down. Sit, here in this chair.” She pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and led Julia to it, then hovered close to her, touching her forehead. Christine’s eyes almost filled with tears. “Hmm. You don’t have a fever. But you are flushed.” She raised herself up and looked at Isabelle with anger in her eyes. “What happened to her, Isabelle. I thought you would have watched out for her.”

  Isabelle sighed. “Mother, she’s fine. Monsieur Ducasse at city hall said some stupid things. Julia didn’t understand. He mentioned the police and-“

  “Police?” Christine put her hands up to her face. The anger in her eyes changed to fear. “Oh my god, what do you mean?”

  “Mother, please, he didn’t mean anything. He’s just spouting off like he always does. You know what he’s like. You remember when you had to get your residence permit when the war started? How he treated you?”

  Christine sighed and nodded, then put her hands on Julia’s head. “Oh, I see. Yes, my dear, Isabelle is right. You shouldn’t worry about what that man Ducasse says. He thinks he runs the city. He’s so arrogant. My husband didn’t like him at all, even when they were in the army together. You see, he didn’t get hurt at all in the Great War, and so he’s tried to lord it over all of us ever since.”

  “Maybe I should drink something,” Julia said, with a weary voice.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Christine went quickly to the cabinet and brought out a bottle of cognac.

  “Oh, no, not that,” Julia said. “It’ll just make me sick.”

  “Please, do as I say,” Christine said. “Just a sip, it will make you feel better. And I will make you a tartine with some cheese, and then you will settle down.” She poured a little cognac into a small liqueur glass and handed it to Julia.

  Julia smelled the strong cognac and resisted drinking it, but couldn’t resist Christine’s frowning face over her. She closed her eyes and let the warm liquid fall into her throat and felt it burn pleasantly down and rest warmly in her stomach. A quiet peace came over her. She put the glass on the table, put one arm up on the table next to it, and rested her head. She breathed slowly three times, then looked up at Christine’s smiling face. “Thank you, Madame.”

  Christine’s face showed not only sympathy but a small triumph in calming the situation. She spoke in a warm whisper. “Now, my dear, you have your residence permit, is that right?”

  Julia sighed and said, “Yes.”

  “Well, then, you go in and take a nap. Then we’ll figure out what to do. I’ll bring your tartine in to you in just a minute.”

  Julia went into to her room and lay down on the bed, now feeling a little dizzy from the cognac that burned lightly in her stomach. A sharp pain ran down both legs. She closed her eyes and let the world fade away. She heard Christine and Isabelle in the next room.

  “Mama, she’s all right. Make her the tartine and I’ll tell you what happened. It was just too much for all at once. She has to go to the American embassy and get an exit visa—“

  Christine took a loaf of bread and began cutting a slice, but then interrupted her. “A visa? To go home?”

  “Yes, well, you know, this is a war, even if it’s phony. It’s not for the Americans, they don’t care, I’m sure. It’s for everybody else. She has to get a visa from America, they just call it a visa, then she has to get a transit visa from Portugal to take the plane from Lisbon.”

  “Lisbon? Why not Paris?” Christine put butter on the bread and a piece of camembert on top.

  “Because there are no flights from Paris. We can’t help that. Then she has to get a transit visa from the Spanish embassy to take the train for Portugal.”

  Christine shrugged her shoulders and moved her head back and forth. “I don’t like that. They just finished a war in Spain and you know who won that. Fascists. It makes me nervous. And then is she done?”

  “No,” Isabelle poured a glass of wine and began drinking it. “When she has all that, she goes to the Paris police prefecture and gets her travel permit for France. But Mama, it’s all a formality. She’s not in any kind of trouble, so it will take time to go around, but we will be able to do all of it tomorrow, and then we go down to the train station and get her a ticket and see her off.”

  Julia dozed off hearing those words, telling her that everything was all right and she was practically on her way home to Lizzy. When she awoke it was dark and the house was quiet. Someone had put a blanket on her, she felt warm and comfortable, and she went back to sleep.

  When Julia woke again, it was light, the house was quiet, but outside a truck moved slowly along the street. Someone yelled “Bonjour”. She pushed the blankets off and took a step out toward the hallway, then felt her blue linen nightshirt rustle against her legs, and stopped. Was she familiar enough to Christine and Isabelle to come out like this, she wondered. Instead, she put on a dress, and took her little night bag out with her to the bathroom. No one else was visible, so she washed her face and combed her hair, then went out to the kitchen.

  Christine sat at the kitchen table peeling apples, but smiled with cheer in her eyes when she saw Julia. Her voice showed enthusiasm. “Good morning, my dear. Come, have some coffee and a croissant. You must be starving.”

  Julia tried to match Christine’s voice. “Not exactly, but I’d love it. Thank you.” She looked around the room. “Isabelle isn’t up yet?”

  Christine waved her hand and said, “Isabelle. No, she’s already out this morning. She said she had to go see Jacques, you know, the photographer. I have no control over her.”

  Julia was surprised by the remark. “I don’t want to intrude, Madame. But-“

  Christine looked at Julia intensely. “You are not intruding, my little girl. Isabelle thinks very much of you. And so do I. It’s wonderful, you know, to have an American friend who speaks French so well.” She put a large bowl of coffee in front of Julia and put a small pitcher of milk next to it, along with a croissant she laid on the table. “But Isabelle, well—“ Christine seemed to be looking at the table, but it was obvious she was thinking over how much she should tell Julia. “She is a communist, you know.” When she said it, Chr
istine stood still, nodding in finality, and her eyes begged Julia for understanding.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” Julia frowned in a deliberate way, trying to show sympathy. “What’s wrong with that? In America, France is well known for having many communists. We have communists, too.”

  “Yes, of course, you can vote communist, that’s not so bad, it’s just foolhardy. But she’s doing more than that.”

  Julia took a sip of coffee. “It’s delicious. I don’t want to ruin it with milk.” She was going home as soon as she could. There were no communists on Park Avenue and she didn’t care about it. “Isabelle has been very kind to me, and so have you, Madame-“

  “Oh, please, don’t call me Madame.” Christine put her hand on a chair and leaned forward to emphasize her statement. “My name is Christine. Please call me that.”

  Julia hugged Christine and said “Merci beaucoup, Christine.”

  At that, Christine was happy and returned to the other side of the table and pushed strawberry jam and butter over to Julia’s plate, then returned to peeling apples.

  “So,” Christine said, “I don’t know how long Isabelle will be. I think she promised to go around with you today.”

  Julia was glad Isabelle wasn’t there, so she could make the rounds of the embassies today by herself. She was worried that Isabelle would want to spend time at the American embassy asking questions about getting her mother out of the country. She dipped her croissant in the coffee and at it quickly. “Thank you, Christine. She doesn’t need to go with me.”

  “You can find everything yourself?”

  Julia smiled and almost laughed. “No, but I think a taxi can. I saw a stand just below the stairs.” She returned to her room and picked up her purse, then bent down and hugged Christine at the table. “May I say-“

  “Yes?” Christine looked puzzled.

  “You’ve been so nice. May I say I’ll be home for lunch? Maybe the three of us can go down below for something? My treat.”

  “Ah, yes, that would be very nice. I wish you every success today. You are getting closer to seeing your little girl. I know everything will go well for you.”

  “Thank you,” Julia said, as she left.

  Half an hour later she stepped out of the taxi on Avenue Gabriel before the ornate United States Embassy. Her heart speeded up as she walked through the trees in white bloom to the gate.

  A tall young man in a Marine uniform put his hand up. “May I help you, Miss?” he said, smiling but reserved.

  “Yes, thank you, I’m here to get an exit visa to go back home.”

  He nodded. “I see. Certainly. Let me point the way to you.” He stepped out of the way and pointed in to the grey marble building. “You see that door, the one with another Marine in front of it?”

  “Yes,” she said, getting excited.

  “You tell him what you want to do and he will direct you inside.”

  “Thank you very much.” She smiled at him with all her heart.

  He gave her a small salute.

  Inside the building, she was directed to a room of a corridor with the word “Visa” in gold lettering over a door. A young woman in a formal blue suit sat behind a desk filled with paperwork. The woman stood when Julia entered the room.

  “Good Day. May I be of assistance?” the young woman said. Her lustrous dark brown hair lay around her face and on her shoulders. Another smile.

  “Yes, I’m here for an exit visa to go back home.”

  “Certainly,” the woman said, in a perfunctory way. “In preparation, may I ask you, you have your passport with you? And your name, please?”

  Julia nodded. Of course I have my passport, she thought, but then didn’t want to do anything to upset this woman so she took it quickly out of her purse and smiled as she looked the woman in the eye. “Julia Stewart.”

  The woman waved her hand to indicate she didn’t want to have the passport herself. “Thank you, you will need it for your interview. If you would have a seat, please, over here.” She wrote Julia’s name on a small piece of paper, and some word below it. She extended her arm to the left with another smile.

  Julia turned and stopped in disappointment to see what she thought was a group of 20 people, at least, seated in chairs on both sides of the wall leading down the hallway to a door with no description on it.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” the woman said, her voice now sympathetic, “they’re not all here for exit visas. You won’t have to wait, too long. Well, unless someone has a problem, but today it’s gone rather fast. And you’re here in the morning. It’s the afternoon when things start slowing down.”

  She took Julia by the arm, softly, and led her over to an empty chair, then said, “I’ll be right back.” She took her piece of paper inside the door and disappeared.

  Julia looked at the people seated next to her and on the opposite side. All of them looked somber, afraid, or maybe just worried. Were these all people with visa problems? Were they Jews, perhaps? But then she heard someone laughing on her side of the hallway and she felt better.

  The woman came back in and as she passed Julia, she said, “They’ll call for you in a few minutes.” She returned to her desk and to moving paperwork around and stamping it and putting it in neat piles.

  The others waiting with her in the hallway looked at each other, but none of them talked. She thought they must all be here as individuals and no know each other, except for the laughing lady a few chairs away on her right. She felt relaxed. This was the first real progress she had made since she arrived. She hadn’t been here a week even and she was so close to going home. Her hands itched. She wanted to scratch them, but didn’t want to look odd to all these people or the young woman. Finally, she put them together and moved them back and forth over each other in a slow, gentle movement. It didn’t stop the itching, and she felt hot and sweaty.

  The door opened and a middle-aged man with graying black matted hair came out. He was wearing a three-piece gray suit, heavily wrinkled at the elbows, with a wilted white shirt and a perfect red and black paisley bow tie that was too neat for the rest of his clothes. “Julia Stuart,” he called out, looking up and down the rows of chairs, then stopping to look at Julia. The young woman from the desk must have described her to the man.

  She jumped at the sound of her name, but her hands stopped itching, and she felt cool again as she stood and walked to him.

  “Please, come in.” He put his hand on her back and escorted her through the door. He led her past two doors down the hallway, then pointed to a small room with a photo of President Roosevelt, and other photos of people she did not recognize, except for this man posing in several of them, shaking hands with other men. “Please, take a seat.”

  She sat in a hard chair in front of the desk. The room was claustrophobic, the walls dusty, the light dim. The man moved around the desk and sat down, then leaned forward. “Jim Stansfield,” he said, smiling and showing tobacco-stained teeth. He put out his hand to her, and she noticed the tobacco on his fingers as well. “I’m happy to meet you. You may be surprised, but we don’t get many exit visas these days. It’s only since the invasion of Poland, and Britain and France declared war on Germany-oh-I’m sorry.”

  Julia’s head jerked just a little at this and she felt herself blushing and getting hot. He seemed to be a man who wasn’t very important, who didn’t care what he looked like. Who might not be able to help her. He seemed to be more affected by the heat than she was. And he now was worried about the war. A man who worked for the State Department.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you. I deal with it every day.” He waved the thought away. “Just a lot of bureaucratic crap, if you ask me.”

  “But all those people out in the hallway-“ Julia felt guilty being chosen ahead of them.

  “Well, yes,” he said as he leaned back in his chair. “But it’s not what you think. They’re not really here for me. I do exit visas. They have other ordinary, routine visa problems, you
know, they get married, or they get into a little trouble with the law, or they need us to certify-“ He should his head and his jowls wiggled back and forth. “But I don’t want to bore you with that. What is it I can do for you?”

  “I need an exit visa.” He wasn’t boring her, but she didn’t like that he was now going out of his way to be reassuring.

  “Yes. Yes. That’s what Marlene said.”

  “Marlene? The woman at the desk?

  “Yes. That’s her.” This time he gave a slow exaggerated nod, to let her know that he was on top of this, no doubt to try and keep her calm. “You want to go back home. It’s stupid, isn’t this, needing an exit visa to go home. It’s not us, you know.”

  Julia didn’t know. Everything pointed to the possibility of a complication and delay in getting home to Lizzy. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, you are an American and-would you let me see your passport? Might as well do things in the right order.”

  She handed it to him and he flipped through the pages.

  “Oh, my. You just got here. That is unusual.” Her looked at her and then back to the passport open in his hands.

  “Is there a problem,” Julia said, nervousness creeping into her voice.

  “No, no. Not at all. It’s just unusual, that’s all. It’s a long way to come for such a short stay.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said. She felt he was staring at her in order to see whether she was hiding something. “My family was supposed to come over after me, but then my father became ill, so now it’s the other way and I have to go back.” She smiled at him, momentarily relieved that she was able to think of an answer to the predicament. She hadn’t thought they might question her intentions.

  “Oh, I see. Yes, that can happen. I hope your father is all right?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly. I won’t know until I get home.” She now felt comfortable with her lies. And ashamed that she had brought herself to this.

  “Yes, quite naturally. In any case, this is not a big problem. Look, I will take care of this right now.” He opened his door, and with a small flourish took a stamp out, stamped her passport, and put the stamp back, giving her the passport, all with one smooth movement. “Here you are. I am really sorry about your father. If there is anything else we can do to help you?” He raised his eyebrows and waited for her response.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said with a little shake of her head, then put her lips together for a second and continued. “Yes, actually.”

  “Of course, anything. Well, anything within my power.”

  “I need to get on the plane from Lisbon. That’s the fastest way home. And now with my exit visa, I can get a Pan American ticket. But I need a transit visa from both Spain and Portugal. And a travel visa from the French police.”

  He frowned in sympathy. “Sometimes it amazes me. Here we are, we can a picnic on the grass in Paris, but have to move heaven and earth to get out of here. But you shouldn’t worry. You’re not in trouble, so it should go smoothly. The Portuguese don’t care at all. I haven’t heard of problems with them. The Spanish, oh, they can be a little difficult themselves. After all, they did just finish a war themselves. But you didn’t have anything to do with that. So you shouldn’t worry. My advice to you is to go to the bank and get some pesetas and escudos. Have them ready at the border. It will be easy.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.” His advice made her feel more comfortable. “How much are we talking about here?” She had more than enough money to take care of it, but she didn’t want to look stupid getting to Lisbon.

  “Yes, I think-“ He leaned back in his chair and put his hands together. “A hundred dollars in each.”

  “A hundred dollars?”

  “Oh, if you don’t have that-“

  “No, it’s not that-it’s just-I’m surprised, is all. It’s a lot for a little greasing of the palm on the border.”

  “You might think,” he said, “but these days people are leaving Germany in a hurry and they want to be sure, so I hear there’s, um, let’s just say it’s wartime inflation.”

  “Yes, I see.” Julia had not expected to have an education on bribery while she was here.

  “Now, you don’t have to, you know. Your papers are fine, you’re not a refugee.”

  Julia shook her head in a wide arc. “No, no, I appreciate your advice. My goal is to get home not save on travel expenses. Besides, I have all the money I had expected to spend here.”

  “One more thing,” he said. “I can do this for you. I have a friend with the police downtown. I will call him and let him know you are coming. It might help.”

  “Oh, thank you, Sir. It means everything to him.”

  “You just make a big deal about your father, and they’ll be sympathetic.”

  “Can you tell me his name?”

  “Oh no, I can’t do that. You won’t see him. But he will see your application, and it’s then that he’ll think of my intervention.” He stood and offered his hand. “I hope you have a safe and swift voyage home, Mrs. Stewart.”

  Julia’s visit to the Spanish and Portuguese embassies went just Jim Stanfield had predicted. They, too, weren’t much interested in her, and they, too, were very sympathetic to her need to get home to an ailing father. The officer at the Spanish embassy volunteered that he was happy to meet someone so attractive who was not a refugee. Again she learned that it was the French who wanted to place such heavy burdens on normal travelers, and they were just glad to be helpful. She left the Portuguese embassy in a cab for Pan American with a light heart. And she left the airline with a lighter heart still, holding a ticket on the Pan Am Clipper from Lisbon to the Azores to Miami. On the advice of Pan Am’s Peter Smyth, she had also bought a ticket on the Clipper from Marseille to Lisbon. He told her that her documents were impeccable, but you never know when you reach the border. You don’t know who’s standing in line with you. They get in trouble and you are suspicious by being next to them. Why not eliminate one unnecessary leg of her journey? She observed that there were no dates on the tickets. Peter replied that these were extraordinary times, that she will be able to get out in a few days at the latest, and she should not worry about it. He said they couldn’t put a date on the tickets because diplomatic travel dominated these routes and there were heavy days and light days. Julia left Pan Am overwhelmed with information and hurried out the door to find a cab.

  The cab driver waited impatiently on the Champs Élysées while she figured out where to go. Her final stop was the Prefecture of Police, near Notre Dame, just down the street and across the Seine. She had just spent several hours going through embassies and airlines and had no trouble at all. In fact, every one she met was sympathetic and helpful. But the police was a different matter altogether. They, the police, held her fate in their hands. She needed that travel permit, she needed it now to get home to her daughter and her husband. But the thought of an interrogation, however mild, terrified her.

  “Madame?” the taxi driver now became impatient. “Where to?”

  “Montmartre,” she said, spontaneously making the decision that gave her the least fear in her stomach. Home, as it were, as she felt, to Christine and Isabelle. Because she knew that Isabelle would have to go with her. She didn’t have the courage to face the police alone. She remembered the fear and humiliation she had felt at the dock when she arrived in France and the police interviewed her there. Yes, she needed Isabelle to go through this with her.

  She found the street door on rue du Mont-Cenis open, as it often was. On the second floor, she pushed the buzzer to the apartment and waited. The door opened.

  “Julia!” Isabelle said, in an angry voice. But her face did not show any anger.

  “May I come in, I’m exhausted.”

  “Of course, but I’m still upset with you.”

  Christine’s voice came from within. “Julia, is that you? You’re just in time for tea.”

  “Tea?” Isabelle frowned but her
voice didn’t show this, either.

  “Yes. Of course, why not. The British have tea. I don’t know what Americans have, so I did the next best thing.” Christine laughed at her witty idea.

  “Thanks, that’s very nice,” Julia said. And she meant it. “I’m exhausted, and tea is just the thing right now.”

  “And scones,” Christine added.

  “Scones? Oh my, you have gone all out today. Are they French, scones?”

  “Oh no, but you know, everybody eats everybody else’s food today. I did have to ask around for a recipe, and Marianne Desjardin around the corner knew this one. So I can’t vouch for it, it’s not a family tradition or anything, but I took a bite of one and I liked it. So I hope you enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure I will. Let me just put my things away.”

  Isabelle followed Julia into her room. “I missed you today. I’m sorry you ran off without me. Did everything go well?” She looked at the envelopes Julia had taken out of her purse.

  Julia hesitated, not sure what to do with the envelopes and not wanting to go over everything about the day. “Yes, actually, everything except the police.”

  Isabelle folded her arms across her chest and looked serious. “The police?”

  “Oh, no,” Julia said as she sighed, “I didn’t make it to the police today, that’s all. I have my exit visa, my transit visas, and my airplane tickets for Marseille and Lisbon.”

  “Marseille, too?”

  “Yes, Peter, you remember him, at Pan Am, he suggested it. We’ll see how it goes, but he said it would eliminate having to travel to Madrid and deal with more border guards. And he’s right, you know, guards at the French border, and then again crossing into Portugal. So I think I’ll take his advice. I’ll just fly over Spain and not have to worry about it. And save a hundred dollars, as well.”

  “A hundred dollars? For what?”

  “Oh, he said at the Spanish border, a hundred dollars would make sure there I get across easily.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Isabelle said. “But a hundred dollars. I would think twenty would be more than enough. I wouldn’t give them more than ten.”

  Julia thought for a moment about Isabelle’s reaction. This was the first time she had given any indication to Isabelle that she had a lot of money.

  Isabelle interrupted her thoughts. “That’s right, you were in first class on the boat coming over. You have a different idea of what’s expensive.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Julia said, eager to eliminate whatever suspicion Isabelle was harboring. “The man at the visa office said that. I was as surprised as you are. He said there are so many refugees who pay a lot of money, and everyone else has to live with that.”

  Isabelle smiled and changed the subject. “So, you are all set except for the police.”

  Julia moved a step closer to Isabelle. “Yes, so, I could have gone today, but I really wanted you to go with me, if you don’t mind.”

  Isabelle smiled. “Of course I will. I think it’s a good idea. I haven’t been there, you know.” She hunched over in a bit of laughter. “Not that I want to. But they’re quite busy now. We are under martial law. So it will be helpful to help you find your way around that labyrinth. But come, Mama is waiting with our tea. And scones!”

  At the table, as Christine poured their tea from a teapot with purple flowers and gold ornamental leaf, Julia said, “Oh, you do have a very nice teapot.”

  “Isn’t it beautiful? It’s Belclair. My sister,” she blessed herself, “gave it to me for a wedding present. We don’t drink much tea, so it’s stayed perfect. My husband was a coffee drink. Turkish coffee and Egyptian cigarettes. Until-“ Tears filled her eyes. She held the teapot away from the table while she wiped the tears from her face.

  Isabelle stood and took the teapot away from her. Christine went to the kitchen counter and cleaned her face with a towel. Then she came back, smiling, or, rather, attempting to maintain a smile. “Yes, let’s finish our tea.”

  The next day very early, with the sun just barely lighting the, Julia and Isabelle arrived at the corner of the building housing the Prefecture of Police.

  “Let me do the talking at first,” Isabelle said, gently keeping Julia back, but standing in front of her as if to block her way.

  “No, that isn’t right.” Julia stepped around her. “They will think it’s something funny. This is routine, let’s not make it look like I have something to hide.”

  “All right, I suppose you are correct. I am trying to help you.”

  “And you have, and I thank you for it. Anyway, we’re here, let’s just go in. I’m not worried anymore about public offices.”

  Inside, there was a long line in front of the door with a sign reading Travel Permits. They were early, but many others had been even more ambitious. Julia looked at Isabelle, wondering what happened once you got inside the door.

  “Don’t move,” Isabelle said. She moved slowly and leisurely down the hallway, then stopped and looked inside the window. She smiled at the people who looked at her with concern. “Just checking,” she said, to reassure them. Returning to where Julia was standing, she said, “Not too bad, I think. There’s about this many people again inside. We shouldn’t have to wait too long, I think.”

  “Isabelle,” Julia said, “I changed my mind. He’s going to ask me where I’m staying. It’s better if you’re there with me.”

  “You might be right. I’ll wait here. I saw the room, it’s not like an office you go in to, there’s just a couple of people behind desks, so if you need me, then you can easily come get me. But you can go in on your own.”

  When she arrived at the head of the line, in front of a desk, in a dingy room with a man behind the desk who did not look at her. He looked young and bored, and swept his view of his desk from left to right as if he would do anything rather than talk to her. She switched from left to right foot and side but he still paid no attention to her. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He removed his rimless glasses and cleaned them with a dirty handkerchief. He wiped his forehead, then pinched the ridge of his nose with his eyes closed. Then he put his glasses back on and looked at her. He said, "Next."

  Julia was startled and thought for a moment there was someone standing next to her was place she had taken. "Me? "

  "Yes I think you are the one standing in front of me. So when I say 'next' I mean you. Tell me why you're here." His voice had the character of the machine.

  She was glad to stand before him in the morning and not in the late afternoon. "I am here to get a transit visa."

  “A transit visa? I don’t think so. You are in the wrong office, then. Is that what you really want? Or do you even know what you want?”

  Heat began to run down Julia’s spine. “I’m sorry. I don’t know exactly what to call it.”

  “I see. Then tell me what it is you want to do?”

  “I am here to get papers I need to travel to Portugal.”

  “Oh. Now I see. You want a travel permit, do you?”

  “Yes, thank you, that’s it. Thank you for helping me.” She had learned by now that patience and politeness were her two best friends when dealing with bureaucrats.

  He held out his hand again without looking at her. She handed him her passport, her residence permit from the Montmartre City Hall, her exit visa from the American Embassy, and her transit visas from Spain and Portugal. She hesitated and then handed him her airline ticket.

  He read the documents before him and then look at them from right to left and back again. His mouth formed a thin line and then he began to frown and then he raised his eyebrows. He looked up at her and back down again.

  A loud thump from the desk next to them startled her. Her body twitched. The man behind the desk sighed and let out a little laugh. Now he raised his head up to her and smiled, then said, "We're not being bombed yet Mademoiselle." And then he laughed at his own cleverness. Now looking more relaxed, he continued, "Your papers all seem in order, that's a relief. There are j
ust a couple of minor details to clear up."

  Seeing the man more relaxed, Julia smiled at him but then felt foolish because he was not looking at her anymore. "What is it?"

  He looked at her now with a serious face as if the preliminaries were over and trouble had begun. "You are staying at an address on rue du Mont-Cenis?"

  "Yes."

  "That's the street that that leads up to Sacré-Coeur. There are no hotels on that street." Now he looked at her intensely, like a predator would. "So, what do you have to say to that?" Then he gave a sidelong glance at his neighbor as if to let him know that he was being tough. Rolling nervousness fluttered across her stomach. "I don't believe I said I was staying at a hotel. I'm staying with friends."

  "Ah." He nodded and slowly chewed on his lip. "Friends. Who are your friends?"

  Julia let out a great sigh of relief. "My friend," she said as she turned and pointed out to the hallway, "Isabelle is out in the hallway."

  "Well then," he said with impatience, "I suppose you had better go and get her, hadn't you?" He opened his eyes wide to emphasize his point.

  Julia nodded and went quickly and brought Isabelle back with her.

  The man sized Isabelle up. Isabelle looked at Julia and then back to the man.

  "And you are you?"

  "My name is Isabelle Valin. Here are my papers.”

  Julia had an impulse to touch Isabelle but thought of the man seeing that and felt foolish. He looked at Isabelle's residence permit and her identity card and then picked up Julia was residence permit and studied the three of them. He nodded to himself and thought for a moment then said, "All right, so I see your residence is in order. But I noticed that both of you very recently came into the country. How is that?" He shifted his gaze between them, but lingered a longer time on Julia's face and managed a brief glance at her chest.

  Isabelle said, "We came on the same ship from America. I was returning home from a visit with my brother there. I met Julia on the ship."

  "I see." He looked at Julia. "So why are you staying with this lady."

  Julia said without hesitation, "Because she became my friend on this ship. I offered to stay at a hotel but her mother -"

  "Her mother? Now we have a new person in this story." He motioned for Isabelle to follow him over to the corner of the room. They spoke for a few seconds, then he motioned for her to stay there and he came back to Julia. "What is her mother's name?" He raised his eyebrows and looked intently at her.

  "Christine."

  He sat down and motioned for Isabelle to leave the room.

  "I cannot give you a travel permit.”

  Julia’s heart stopped. She felt dizzy and put her hand on the desk to prop herself up.

  “Remove your hand, Mademoiselle. Where do you think you are?”

  The older man on the other desk stopped what he was doing and looked over to them.

  “I’m sorry. I just felt faint. I’m sorry.” She stood straight. “May I get my friend, please?” Julia felt a note of desperation in her own voice.

  "Your friend?" He frowned. "You need your friend. Hmm. There must be something wrong here."

  "No, Sir. I'm dizzy." Her face was hot and felt flushed, nausea flooded her stomach. "I need someone to help me stand up."

  The man waved his hand. "By all means. France can wait for you." His whole face was a sneer.

  Julia went out to the hallway and nearly fell on to Isabelle, who lost her balance and hit the wall behind her.

  "What's the matter?" Isabelle said, alarm in her eyes.

  "I'm not sure, but you need to come back with me and let me hold on to you or I shall faint."

  Julia came back in holding on to Isabelle's arm. She stood and waited for the man to tell her.

  He looked at her and then Isabelle and then back to Julia in feigned confusion. "Are you feeling better now? If you find it too hard to continue perhaps you had better come back another day. But I warn you it won’t get any cooler in here."

  Isabelle touched Julia on the shoulder, then smiled at the man and said, "May I help her if you please. I'm not sure where you left matters when she came out to the hallway. I think she is feeling better now, but French is not her native tongue and perhaps you misunderstood you."

  Julia spoke in a desperate shaking voice, "He said he cannot give me a travel permit." She looked at Julia with reddened eyes.

  "You are right," he said, looking at Isabelle with vindication. "She is lucky to have you here with her because her French is obviously not good enough for the situation." He glared at Julia.

  Julia wanted to say something. She knew there was no deficiency in her French. It was her fear that they would not allow her home to be with her busy. But she knew she could not say that to him. She turned to Isabelle, and was going to ask for help, but decided it was important to face this man. "Perhaps you are right, Monsieur, but it is the heat and not the language that is getting the better of me. You said you cannot give me a travel permit."

  The man shifted in his seat and leaned forward to put his elbows on his desk. "Of course. Is not I who issue travel permits to foreigners, even those who think they speak French fluently. I must refer the matter to my superior. If you will wait here I will take the matter up with him and it's relay his response to you."

  He got up from his chair and moved to an unmarked door at the back of the room. He opened it and walked into a hallway and disappeared.

  "So you see," Isabelle said, "everything is going to be all right, he's just, just," Isabelle shook her head just a little at herself, "he's just required to clear this with someone of a higher rank. It happens all the time you must know that."

  Isabelle didn't have the strength to try to comprehend what Isabelle was saying. There was no reason to believe that this man superior officer would be any less brutal with her. He could have given her a straightforward answer to her request from the very beginning but instead he's been playing with her. "Thank you, Isabelle, I know you want to help me and make the situation looked better. Unfortunately, you are not the one who gives out permits. You would think they would be happy to get rid of me, especially this guy, since he hates foreigners so much." She opened her purse and took out her handkerchief. She wiped her forehead and dabbed at her eyes. "Mostly, thank you for standing with me so I don't fall over and hit my head on his desk."

  The man reappeared, walking in with his back straight and his head held high. "Monsieur Bricot will see you himself. This way if you please." He gestured toward the open door. Then he held it open for them and pointed inside. "It's the door on your left. There is only one door so you can't miss it. You can read his name on the door if that is of some help."

  When they had entered, the door closed behind them. The hallway before them was dirty, lined with cabinets topped with several layers of packages of brown paper wrapping tied with string. As the man had said there was one door on the left, but it was open so there was no name to see. They went in. A small man sat behind a small desk. He smiled at them with uneven teeth including a small gap in the front, below a little reddish-blond mustache, itself below blue eyes under reddish-blond eyebrows. His dark blue jacket had wide gusseted pockets, lumpy from their contents. He was wearing a wrinkled white shirt and a dark red bow tie. Below the tie a lying of buttons strained to keep the shirt together over several rows of belly fat growing ever larger as it neared his belt. His hair was white and combed straight back from his face with brilliantine. On his desk was a picture turned toward him so they could not see what it was, two identity cards, one of which belonged to Julia, and the other of someone unknown. His arms were placed on top of the desk and into dirty French cuffs stuck out from them held together by small gold cufflinks. A gold watch adorned his left hand. A straight white handkerchief line showed on his breast pocket. Two crystal inkwells stood just in front of his very large white hands. A pen lay before them, just right for those stubby fingers.

  “Mademoiselle Stewart, I presume?” He stood and fixed his s
mall blue eyes on her and raised his large bushy white eyebrows, then held out his hand.

  “Yes. How do you do?” She shook his hand.

  “And this is?” He shook hands with Isabelle.

  “Please be seated,” he said, pointing to two chairs behind them.

  Julia and Isabelle moved the chairs away from the wall and sat down in front of his desk.

  “My assistant, Monsieur Wellemans, indicated that you do not feel well,” he said, nodding sympathetically to Julia.

  “I am fine,” she responded. “It is rather stuffy out there, and now the moment is over. Thank you for your concern, Monsieur Bricot.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” he said, his voice dripping with sympathy. “Let’s get right to the point, shall we, and you can be on your way. It is true that my assistant is not authorized to handle foreigners, but I think he tries too hard to make himself be, shall we say, authoritative. Now. As for you, Mademoiselle, I can tell you that everything is perfectly in order, and there should be no problem in issuing you a travel permit as you desire. Your papers are perfectly in order, and I am impressed that we have already had a request from the American embassy to expedite your paperwork. I was told that your father is ill. Is that correct?”

  Julia relaxed for the first time. “Yes. I’m trying to get home to see him.”

  “Is he in any danger?” Monsieur Bricot leaned forward and frowned, which brought his two busy eyebrows so close together that they looked like a little furry animal on top of his nose.

  “No, as far as I know. Well, I don’t know exactly what it is, but just that I should hurry home. So, yes, it is possible he is seriously ill. Otherwise they would not have asked me to come home.”

  “I see, of course, it’s a long way away and these are difficult times.” He looked at her paperwork, then continued. “You did only just arrive here, I see.”

  “Yes,” Julia replied, weary of answering the same set of questions again. “Yes, but life often puts obstacles in our way, doesn’t it.”

  He smiled without opening his mouth and almost interrupted her, saying, “But not by me, Mademoiselle. I approve your travel permit. There!” He picked up a stamp and brought it down on her residence permit, then took another piece of paper, wrote several words and dates on it, then signed it. He looked at her. “Only one small detail, and you will be ready to go to Lisbon.” He shook his head to himself as he said, “A beautiful city. I took my wife there once. So different. Lovely people.”

  Julia looked at Isabelle, who returned the look with her own concern. Was this man playing with them?

  “I see your worry. Not necessary. Your permit will be ready in one week, I am sure. There is always someone else, unfortunately. But, it’s right here in the Prefecture of Police. The final authority always rests with the criminal division. There should be no problem. So, here’s what will happen. You will come back here in one week, next week, same day, as early as you like. You will not have to stand in line again, I promise you. Your permit will be available in the central lobby.” He looked at Isabelle. “You know, perhaps where that is?”

  Isabelle nodded.

  He looked seriously at Julia. “Will there be a problem with the criminal division, Mademoiselle?”

  “No, Sir. I just want to be back home with my father.”

  “Fine, then.” He stood and offered them his hand again.

  Isabelle offered her hand immediately and held his hand strongly as she shook it while smiling.

  Julia offered her hand meekly, barely touching his fingertips, as she kept her head down to avoid looking at him. She turned to leave the room but then realized that she had made a serious mistake with a man who held her future in his hands. She became terrified that he would not approve for travel permit at all and that she would never see Lizzie. So she turned back and smiled, looking at the man directly in the eyes with her head held high while she said, "Thank you very much, Monsieur, I appreciate everything you are doing to help me to get home to see my father before it is too late." She inclined her head to him and waited for his response.

  He nodded and said, "As I said, Mademoiselle, provided everything is in order -."

  Julia's heart was pounding. She smiled with her mouth closed and then hurried out of the room. She waited in the corridor for Isabelle to catch up to her. When Isabelle came up to her, Julia looked for some feeling in Isabelle's face that would tell her that everything was going to be okay. She didn't have to wait long.

  "I think you can take him at his word. I am sure that it is routine to send everything to the criminal division for review. You should calm yourself down. Your ordeal is over, really, Julia. We will come back in a week and everything will be waiting for you. What we need to do now in the meantime is to get your train tickets and you will feel much better."

  Julia's heart was no longer beating at a rapid pace, and her breathing became normal. "But I don't trust that man," she said, holding her forehead with her hand.

  Isabelle took Julia by the shoulders and forced her to pay attention. "No, what it is, is you are just nervous, you want this all resolved now, and it's not going to be. Look it's just something routine, something will deal with next week. In the meantime how about you and me go have a nice long drink." Isabelle nodded and smiled.

  “Listen,” Julia said. “I want to go and get the camera. Can we do that?”

  “Of course, we’ll just stop on the way back home. Let’s go. You’re right, it’s the best thing to do. It will keep us busy this afternoon.”

  Jacques’ face brightened as the two women entered his store. He slid close to the counter with its glass top. “You are back. Anything I can help you with?”

  “I want to buy a camera,” Julia said.

  “Of course. A very good idea. Do you know what kind of camera you have in mind?”

  “No, actually, I don’t. I have never used one. But I want a very good one.”

  “Naturally. You have three choices, Madame. You can get a 35 millimeter Leica. It’s the best camera in the world. German, sure, if that doesn’t bother you. I only have one, because they are not very popular right now. It has a fast lens, and every sort of speed and setting. If you want it I will sell it to you because it’s the best. But you will have to take the instruction booklet and study it, and add a light meter, as well.”

  “A light meter?” Julia said.

  “Yes, but I see this would not be a good fit for you. So I give you two other choices. The simplest would be the Armored Photax.”

  “Now you are amusing yourself, Monsieur.” Julia looked at Isabelle and laughed.

  “No, it’s called that. Look, here it is. Sleek, black, it’s a beautiful thing in itself. It’s very easy to use. Just choose your aperture and choose your speed. And there’s only two speeds. So it’s really for taking pictures in daylight. You could learn to use this in ten minutes. Here, hold it, while I get the other choice.”

  Julia turned the small plastic box around in her hand and looked through the viewfinder.

  “Your other possibility would be an Agfa. He held up a large folding camera. This is only a little more difficult to use. Maybe in an hour you could learn to use it. But the pictures are better. It’s larger film, and has greater clarity. And you could take pictures indoor with this camera if you’re patient.”

  Julia waved him off. “I think I would be fine with this Photax camera. And two rolls of film, please.”

  “Certainly, Madame, and if you like, I’m not busy, I can show you how to use it.”

  Julia turned to Isabelle.

  “I’m sorry, Jacques,” Isabelle said. “We are going to be late. We’ll figure it out ourselves.” Turning to Julia, she continued, “Tomorrow, we’ll go up to Montmartre and practice with the camera, and then come and have the pictures developed, and you’ll have something to show your daughter when you get home.”

  “Yes, that’s a wonderful idea. I’ll take it, Monsieur.”

  Jacques was not giving up. �
�Okay, but may I just say one more thing. You are going to get a lot of pictures out of focus with the tiny camera. With a folding camera, you can move the bellows in and out and focus much more precisely. That’s really the only difference. Except, of course, that you have more apertures and more shutter speeds. It’s up to you. But I tell you what. Take the little camera up to Sacré-Coeur tomorrow and the folding camera. I know you. At least, I know Isabelle, I have known her mother my whole life, so I can trust you. Take them both. Take a roll of film from each, and see if you don’t see I am right.”

  Julia hesitated, then said, “Oh, all right, I see what you mean. Maybe I have something of a photographer in me. I will do it. But I tell you what, I will pay you for the folding camera and the film for both, and we’ll be back tomorrow afternoon with two rolls of beautiful shots of Paris.”

  “And us,” Isabelle added, laughing for the first time, even if briefly.

  Julia then handed the Photax camera and film back. I want the best, she thought, I am not going to take pictures that look like a complete amateur. A Leica is the best, then that’s what I need. “No, I will just take the Leica camera with a light meter and be done with it. I want the camera that takes the best pictures. I want a Leica. Then I will be a good photographer, like-,” she turned to Isabelle and waited.

  “Like Cartier-Bresson,” Isabelle said, and turned to Jacques. “You know, the photographer for Ce Soir.”

  Jacques nodded and seemed maybe to smile a little, but he kept his conspiratorial eye trained on Isabelle. “Ah, mais oui, this camera with the best of all optics will help the American lady become such a good photographer. A rangefinder camera is the most professional. After all, it’s not that hard. It just takes time and practice. The most important thing about photography is being at the right place at the right time. All you have to do most of the time is twist the focus ring until the two images merger.” He winked at Julia.

  “All right, thank you then. I will read the instruction booklet and go from there. We’d better get going.”

  As they walked back to the apartment, Julia looked at the beautiful shiny brown leather case. “Ce Soir, I don’t think I know that newspaper. Is it like Le Monde or Le Figaro?”

  “Oh-not exactly. It’s more of a newspaper for working people, for people who are crushed by industrialists.”

  Julia felt a twinge of uncertainty. “That-that sounds like something radical, Isabelle.”

  “Yes, but we’re not radical. We’re just taking pictures, and if you become good at it, it has nothing to do with newspapers. But Cartier-Bresson is a great photography, so I used his name because Jacques would recognize it. That’s all. Don’t worry, Julia, just take pictures. With that camera, you can’t go wrong.”

  "All right, you're right, but I'm just too nervous. Let's get your mother and walk to the top of Montmartre and have some more crêpes and delicious wine and forget all about this."

  Two hours later they stood overlooking the city of Paris from the terrace in front of Sacré-Coeur. The city below them began to glow with millions of small lights turned on for the evening.

  Julia turned to Christine, and said, "This is the most beautiful city in the world, everyone knows that, everyone sees and when they come here and look out over the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame Cathedral. I will always love this city more than any other, maybe even more than New York, because it is where I have felt such happiness, knowing I will soon see my daughter because you and Isabelle have made it possible. Does that seem crazy to you? Can any city mean that much to someone? I know I lost my daughter in coming here, but I know that you have given her back to me."

  Christine touched Julia's arm and studied her eyes with great sympathy. "You have made it possible, my dear, because you have given your whole heart getting back to your daughter. Since you arrived here you have done nothing, nothing, you know, except do everything you can to see your daughter again. So, no, it is not because of us, it has entirely been your own effort. And that is a very happy thought, so let's go over to Chez Eugène and have some grapes and wine."

  At Place du Tertre, Julia stopped to look at a painting of the window with a green frame and red and yellow flowers in the window box below it. Next to it sat a man in a black beret and black sweater, with a gray mustache and a gray beard cut neatly into a triangle. He waited with a sparkle in his eye, his head cocked.

  "You are not like most of the people who look at my paintings up here. You seem to be studying and not just observing. Am I right?"

  Julia nodded. "Perhaps you are right, and perhaps people study your painting more than you think. It is beautiful and it looks very natural. It looks very Parisian."

  "And you, do you paint? Or do you just look?"

  "Yes I do paint, but I don't do scenes like this. This is a form of landscape, only it has somebody's house instead of mountains and trees."

  "You're very observant." He thought to himself for a moment. "I have no pretense. My work is not going to be shown in the Louvre."

  Julia laughed. "Your work does not have to be shown in a great museum in order to be very good. If it were me I would be happy if someone would just buy it. So far I have not been that fortunate."

  "Yes, you are right."

  Then she thought, oh I said the wrong thing. He thinks I am going to buy it. "Thank you for talking to me," she said as she walked along to the entrance to the restaurant.

  “It’s all right,” he replied. “I’m just waiting for the Germans. They love little paintings like this. I shall make lots of money from the Bosche.”

  Julia felt a rush of air past her and heard Christine’s voice in outrage.

  “Monsieur, you are one of the rats left over from the last time the Prussians were here. You should be ashamed of yourself. The Germans will never reach Paris. Never! We have the world’s largest army and the Maginot line. You will starve if you wait to sell your worthless paintings to Germans.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t get so excited, Madame. Maybe I am mistaken. Maybe France will be strong. I myself was at Verdun in the last war, so I know what we can do. But you must read the papers. The Germans are already massing on the Belgian border. It will not be long. And this time France has been weakened by the communists.”

  A second outraged voice, that of Isabelle, was heard loud as it passed by Julia. “Ah, I see, I supposed you are some kind of fascist, Monsieur. That’s why you love Germans. You are a stupid street painter, you should be happy what the Popular Front has been trying to do for the people.”

  He laughed and nodded in pretense of showing how wise he was. “Yes, I know you, I have seen you giving out your communist newspapers up here. You are the problem, young lady. It’s because of you that I will be able to sell my paintings to the Germans.” Hatred blazed in his eyes.

  A large crown gathered around them. People started shouting, some saying, “Fascist!”, other yelling, “Communist!”

  Julia quickly put herself in between the painter and the two women. “Please,” she said, “can we go have our dessert? Don’t listen to this man. He is bitter because no one wants his trashy paintings. Of course, he thinks the Germans will like them because no self-respecting Frenchman would buy them. Please. For me, let’s forget it.”

  Isabelle and Christine looked at each other and their breathing slowed. Christine took Julia and Isabelle through the crowd into the restaurant and ordered expensive wine and two kinds of crepes for each of them.

  “But it still galls me,” Christine said. “That man. He is a traitor to his country.” She turned to Isabelle. “And he’s been spying on you. I told you that you’re doing dangerous things with that Jacques. Now I have to worry about you even more.”

  Isabelle’s eyes looked out in disgust. “From that man? I don’t think so. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We are going to America, Mama, and the Germans can be somebody else’s problem.”

  Christine shifted in her seat, then drank an entire glass of wine and filled it up a
gain.

  “Mama,” Isabelle said, amazed. “Be careful. You won’t be able to make it down the stairs to our house. What are you doing?”

  Christine waved her away. “It makes me so god damn mad. Who does he think he is? I’ll bet all he did at Verdun was to clean out the latrines.” She sighed and looked at Julia, then smiled at Isabelle. “Yes. We must think of Daniel. We shall soon see him and leave Montmartre to all the rats up here. Garcon,” she yelled, “a bottle of champagne, if you please.”

  “Mama, I think you’re going too far.”

  “No, you two can carry me home if I can’t walk. Listen to them out there, they’re still yelling about us. That’s hilarious. Tonight I celebrate America and distance from Germany. Let them have the whole country.”

  Julia sat, quiet, relaxed, then stood and took her new camera out of her bag. “Come on, let’s start with pictures here tonight.”

  Isabelle looked at her in surprise. “You know how to use it?”

  “I know enough,” Julia said. “I tried it in my room. What’s so hard about turning a lens?”

  Christine sat up straight and ran her fingers through her hair. “Oh, my, I didn’t know I was having my portrait taken.”

  “Isabelle,” Julia said, “sit next to your mother. This will be my first picture.”

  Julia took the leather cover off her camera and held the viewfinder up to her eye.

  “But the light meter,” Isabelle said.

  “Oh, well, yes, the light meter,” Julia said. “I don’t need that. It’s for photography, you know.” She smirked as she emphasized the word. “I’m just taking pictures. If I can see, I can snap. She took a glass of water and put the camera on top of it. As she squatted to look through the viewfinder she said, “But to be safe, I’ll just make it stable.” She squinted for a moment, then said, “Okay, ready, smile.” She pressed the shutter, then took the camera off the glass and stood. “Tomorrow, we shall photograph,” again she said the word as if making fun of it, “all of Paris. And I will have so much to show Lizzie. She’ll be so excited to see them. She will pester me to come up here. She’ll think it’s just around the corner.”

  “No, wait,” she continued. “I need to use a couple of different shutter speeds, just to make sure.” And she made them wait for two more portraits, before they made the way back down rue du Mont-Cenis, holding Christine and the railings and each other down the steps too treacherous for those who’ve had both wine and champagne.

  The next morning when Julia walked out to the main room, feeling heavy and sick but having made an effort to fix her hair and put on some makeup, Christine and Isabelle were silent, staring at Le Monde lying flat on the table. They didn’t even react to the sound of her footsteps, which was unusual for them.

  “Do you have any aspirin?” Julia said, feeling her forehead.

  Christine looked up at her, her face contorted into a grimace, her forehead wrinkled into a frown, her mouth turned downward. “You’re going to need more than aspirin. The Germans have broken through the Ardennes.” She wagged her head back and forth. “I, for one, will not remain one of the rats.” She stood and touched Julia as she went by, trying to smile but not pulling it off. “Of course we have aspirin. That and a strong black coffee will make you feel better, at least as far as your hangover.”

  She brought Julia the aspirin, then sat down again. “We are crazy. I went out this morning for the croissants, and down on rue Custine all the shops were full. People were talking like it was just a holiday. I heard them. They went to the theatre, they went to the park.” She sat back and folded her arms across her chest. Her head was still, but her eyes flicked back and forth between Julia and Isabelle. She laughed, then settled her gaze on Isabelle. “Did you tell her?”

  Isabelle shook her head.

  “Well,” Christine continued her voice carrying a note of triumph and satisfaction, “we have our visas and cards and passports and papers and everything. Bet that’s a surprise. We’re ready before you are.”

  Julia was shocked by the news, a rolling nervousness across her stomach added to the pain in her head. How can this be possible? Are they going to fly to Lisbon, too? She suddenly became worried, thinking of all three of them stuck on the border because Christine or Isabelle’s papers were not in order. She hoped they did not see her reaction, and that she could hide it. “I think that’s wonderful. How did you manage it so fast?”

  Isabelle’s face looked like she had engineered a coup. “You look surprised, Julia. So was I yesterday. Monsieur Ducasse, you remember him, he did it. I thought Mama was being to coy with me, because I didn’t ever believe she would leave her home. It turns out the whole time she was working with Ducasse to get the papers.”

  Julia felt relief that Isabelle didn’t notice her reaction. She turned to Christine. “And I believed Isabelle. I thought it would be harder for you to get your papers. Well, I must say, I’m not sure what all this means. Are you going to go to Lisbon? Do you have airline tickets?”

  Christine wagged her finger. “No, not so fast young lady. We know that we wouldn’t have a good chance in Lisbon. We’re not sure yet. We may go to Bordeaux, or most likely, we will go to Marseille with you, and from there take a boat to Algiers. And from there we shall see.”

  Julia frowned. “That’s a big difference, Bordeaux or Marseille.”

  Christine nodded. “Yes, but we don’t have to decide immediately. We will wait until next week when you have your papers. It depends on whether ships are arriving in Bordeaux or not. If the navy controls the port, and doesn’t let any passenger ships dock, then it’s a waste of time.”

  Julia watched Isabelle give a conspiratorial glance to her mother. “Isabelle, are you sure this is the right thing to do, now? Travel, I mean, without any real destination?”

  Isabelle looked Julia in the eye with a very serious face. “I have papers for my mother to leave this country. It is the right thing to do, no question about it.”

  Christine put her hands up, a stern look in her eyes. “No more arguing. Remember, I am doing this for Daniel and Isabelle, not for myself. Don’t make me think twice about it. We will go to Orleans with you in any case, and then we will decide whether to go south with you to Marseille or west to Bordeaux.”

  “Yes,” Isabelle said, as she stood up and took her dishes to the sink. “That sounds crazy to me, too. We’re not going to learn anything in Orleans. Have your coffee and croissant, Julia, and then let’s go take the pictures you’re so determined to do.”

  “Oh, of course, I’d forgotten. With this headache, anyway.” She picked up the bowl and drank all her coffee, then took her croissant with her to her room. “Let me get my camera, and we’re out of here.”

  One hour later they were standing in front of Notre Dame. Isabelle stood in front of the doors while Julia stood far back to take in a photo of her friend dwarfed by the arched door and the giant Romanesque rose window above it. They reversed positions after Julia made sure that Isabelle kept the settings on the camera.

  “I think Hugh will like this picture,” Julia said, wondering in her heart if he would even look at it. She wanted to compare it to one taken of the two of them when they were here on their honeymoon. Most of all she wanted to show both photographs to Lizzie and tell her that one day all three of them would have their picture taken here.

  “Mama is right,” Isabelle said. “Look at all these people. No one is worried at all. They are all so gay and carefree.”

  “So maybe she’s overreacting. Maybe the Germans will be thrown back.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Isabelle said, looking around the square. “She’s afraid of being a rat. She’s not going to take a chance. In her mind, she’s already moved to America. It may be terribly hard for her to change her mind, but once she does, she’s unmovable.” She pointed to the arched doorway. “Let’s go inside and take some pictures of the stained glass windows.”

  Julia shook her head. “No, let’s not. I haven’t fi
gured out how to work this thing inside. I can only do daylight for now. I want to go take a picture of the American Embassy, the Seine, the Tuileries, the Louvre. Look at the beautiful blue sky, we can walk along the Seine and create memories for me to take back.”

  “And we can remember them when we meet again in New Jersey.”

  “Oh, yes,” Julia said, “I will introduce you to Lizzie. That will be something.” She wanted to imagine them all together in Central Park, but that familiar knot in her stomach told her to be wary. She needed to get home on her own. Lizzie needed her. “Okay, but let’s go over there and take a picture, facing the other way, toward those trees.”

  “As you like,” Isabelle said, smiling. “It’s your time.”

  “Oh, and Shakespeare and Company, that’s near here, too. I want that. Maybe a famous writer will be there.”

  “Shakespeare? In Paris?” Isabelle looked bewildered.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t know. I read about it in the New York Times. Lots of Americans go there. We’re on a long walk, aren’t we?”

  “Wherever you want. All of Paris is at your feet. You have your very expensive camera, so take advantage of it.”

  Julia didn’t notice jealousy in Isabelle’s voice, but she studied Isabelle as she looked around the square in front of the cathedral, her blond curls jumping slightly in the breeze. Isabelle’s hazel eyes betrayed no animosity. Still, Julia felt uncomfortable. She wished at the moment that she had bought a less expensive camera.

  “So where to now?” Isabelle turned to face Julia with expressionless eyes.

  Julia looked up at the towers of the cathedral. “Can we go up there?”

  Isabelle laughed. “I think the question is, can we make it up there. That’s a lot of steps.”

  “Have you ever done it?”

  “Yes, once in school a long time ago. When I was young and strong.”

  “Then we must do it,” Julia said as she walked to the entrance, gesturing for Isabelle to follow her.

  They headed up the narrow spiral stairway, holding on to the sides because the stone steps were heavily worn away in the center. Exhausted halfway up, they stopped at the souvenir store.

  “Look,” Isabelle said, “the plaque, Quasimodo and Esmeralda.”

  “It’s so, historical. Victor Hugo. "I read that in high school," Julia said, and then she smiled in amusement. "It wasn't too long ago, I saw the movie, very said." She narrowed her eyes and remained inside herself for a moment. "I remember, Hugh didn’t want to come up here." Julia pursed her lips and drew a long breath. “Thank you for coming up with me. I feel rested now, let’s finish the climb so I can take more pictures.”

  At the top, Julia marveled at the gargoyle, took a picture of Isabelle next to one leaning out over a bannister, its head resting on its hands, its hands on the bannister. She stood for a full minute looking at the view before she took a picture of Sacré-Coeur gleaming white on top of Montmartre in the distance. “There, that will be a reminder for us all of where you used to live.” She looked at Isabelle to make sure she followed her pointing. “From here, knowing the picture was taken from the tower of Notre Dame, it’s a real story of Paris for all time.”

  Julia waited for a reaction from Isabelle.

  Isabelle came close and put her hands on Julia’s shoulders. Her hazel eyes opened wide. “Julia.” She waited a moment. “Julia, do you realize what you have done?” She waved her head back and forth ever so slightly. “It’s because of you that my mother is coming with us to New Jersey. Daniel and I owe you a huge debt of gratitude.” She took her hands away. “I don’t think you understand how much this means to me, Julia.” She gestured at the city below them, down to the gray green waters of the Seine. “Being up here, alone with you, just you, me and this ugly gargoyle. Looking out over Paris. It’s made me realize how important you are to us.” Now Isabelle’s eyes were focused intensely on Julia. “But, whatever happens, you have one and only one goal, to get back to your daughter. I haven’t forgotten that.”

  Julia felt close to tears. “Thank you. I really appreciate that. I feel so close to you at this moment. You are like my sister, Isabelle.”

  Isabelle hugged her, then said, “All right, then, let’s go take the rest of the pictures.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, Julia stopped Isabelle. “Wait. I want to light a candle.” She walked to the North Rose Window, underneath it’s stained glass art of the Virgin Mary holding her Christ Child. “A mother holding her baby,” Julia said. She lit a candle and stood for a moment with her hands clasped on her chest. Then she nodded and walked back toward the cathedral doors.

  As they walked out from the cathedral, pushing their way past tourists speaking Spanish and Italian and English, Julia led Isabelle across to the far side of the plaza to the corner with dark green trees. She pointed to the intersection of the corner.

  “So stand over there, Isabelle and—“ Julia looked around, then asked a young man in a blue beret with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth to take their picture.

  “Oh, that’s a Leica. I’m afraid I couldn’t.” He shook his head, took a step back and held his hands up as he tried to smile without losing a cigarette.

  “Yes you can,” Julia said in a reassuring voice. “I’ve already focused on my friend. You just have to click the shutter, on top, here.”

  He nodded sheepishly, through his cigarette away and took the camera. “If you wish, but I’m not responsible.” He bent over a little and moved back and forth in his imitation of a photographer.

  “No you’re not,” she said as she put her arm around Isabelle’s waist and felt Isabelle’s hand pulling her close.

  The man took the picture and first turned the camera around in his hand, then handed it back to her.

  “Merci, Monsieur,” Isabelle said, still looking at him with wary eyes.

  He gave them a little salute and walked swiftly away, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, you know,” Isabelle said with a frown. “He could have run away with it.”

  “Yes, you’re right, maybe, but there are gendarmes over there, and we could just have screamed.”

  “You think so.”

  “Oh come on, everything’s all right. Don’t be such a worry wart.”

  “Sure. I don’t want to be a worry—wart, is that it? Where to next?” Him

  They used up the two rolls of film at the Eiffel Tower, the American Embassy, the Tuileries, the Louvre, the Seine. They didn’t make it to Shakespeare & Co. bookstore, but Julia didn’t care. She had her souvenirs. Taking the pictures, thinking of showing them to Lizzie gave her a sense of relief. Of knowing that she would be home soon, and this horror of separation would be over. In just a few days. With just one more piece of paper.

  "Come on," Julia said as they walked down the steps to the metro. "I want to get these pictures to Jacques today."

  They dropped the pictures off at the photographers shop and went home to see what Christine had made for them. And they were very pleased to find her waiting with the table full of delicacies.

  "Oh la la," Isabelle said. "That looks wonderful. Beef bourguignon, chocolate mousse." She looked over at Julia in expectation of a similar response.

  Julia smiled as she looked at the table, at the beautiful dishes with blue patterns. "Oh it's beautiful, it's Delft isn't it?"

  Christine was overjoyed at the response. "I'm so happy you recognize it. It's from my grandmother. We couldn't afford that by ourselves, but she left it to me, and she told me herself that I would get it. So I only bring it out for special occasions. I am not going to take it with me when we leave, so now is a good time to set it out."

  "You know what," Julia said, "when we are all together in the United States and we can wave to each other across the Hudson River, then I will see that you get a replacement set of dishes."

  "Wait," Isabelle said, laughing, "I don't think you can see each other across the river."
r />   What a stickler, Julia thought to herself. "Oh some places you can, and you have to know who it is, but you can do it." Then she waved the idea away. "It doesn't matter anyway, because we will be close enough."

  "Well, I'm starving," Isabelle said, "and I'm not going to wait that long." She said down without waiting for the others and unfolded her white linen napkin.

  Julia and Christine joined her.

  They ate in silence for a long time, then Christine said, "What was it like today out there? Did you see any refugees? Are people still going out like nothing is happening?"

  Julia swallowed the potato that was in her mouth and said, "You're right. There was nothing special about today. No matter where we went there were people having a good time, as if there were nothing to worry about."

  "And maybe they're smarter than my mother," Isabelle said as she looked across the table with worry in her eyes. "Maybe the French Army is just as good as they say it is." They ate in silence for a long time, then Christine said, "What was it like today out there? Did you see any refugees? Are people still going out like nothing is happening?"

  "You're right," Julia said, "everyone we saw today looked like they had no idea what was going on."

  Isabelle nodded, "I think you're right Mama, they all believe that France cannot be defeated." She looked down at her lap, thinking for a moment. "I wonder how you will feel when we arrive in America," she said as she raised her head and looked across the table at her mother, "and nothing has happened. You have lost your apartment and everything in it, including these beautiful heirloom dishes, and you have nothing and France is still standing, glorious as ever."

  Christine laughed and shook her head at Isabelle. "I don't care about the glory of France anymore. The glory of France," she continued, fire in her eyes, "is lying dead in the cemetery down the street. The glory of France didn't do my husband any good when he suffered all the years from being gassed." She threw her napkin down on the table. "I don't want all this. I want you and Danielle safe in America. To hell with the glory of France. I can't wait to apply for American citizenship.” She sat, hunched over, wringing her hands, still agitated, moving about in her seat. “Yes,” she said as she glared at Isabelle, “it’s true. I’ve changed. I choose life. I choose the love of my family. I choose you and Daniel. To hell with my friends. I’m not going to sit here for the rest of my life scared whether the Germans are going to come pouring across the Meuse River and destroy glorious France. I want peace.” She stood and raised her voice. “Do you hear me? Do you understand me, Isabelle?”

  Isabelle sat mute, staring in shock at her mother, her eyes wide, her face long.

  “Do you?”

  Isabelle nodded.

  “Then don’t question my resolve any more.” She sad back down and sighed. “Sometimes I think I am stronger than you.” She waved her hands around wildly. “You go around and deliver your communist newspaper, and I think you are in danger, I worry about you, but you are just too careless and you think you are safe.”

  “Mama—“

  “No more, Isabelle.” Christine pointed her finger at her daughter. “Let’s enjoy our dinner. And then, I have something special for you. For our last nights in beautiful Paris.”

  Isabelle looked at Julia, then back to her mother. Her lips were tight together in submission.

  “I have something arranged. To celebrate going to America. I wasn’t going to tell you until later, but now I think we need something to calm us all down. Wait a minute.” She stood and went to a dark wooden cabinet in the corner. “Let’s have some cognac.” She brought the bottle and three small snifters and put them on the table. After she poured some of the cognac into each glass, she handed one to Isabelle and Julia, then sat down and raised her glass. “Vive la France,” she said in a low voice. Then she raised her voice and said, very loud, “Vive l’Amerique.”

  Julia and Isabelle repeated the words in unison, the three of them clinked their glasses together, and then they sipped in silence.

  “What’s the surprise,” Julia said, looking sideways at Isabelle.

  “Well,” Christine said with a self-satisfied smile, “I’ve arranged for us to go, tonight, to the Folies Bergère.”

  Isabelle and Julia looked at each other in amazement.

  “You’re joking,” Isabelle said.

  “No, we’re going to see Josephine Baker doing the Danse Sauvage.”

  “Mama,” Isabelle said, her hands over her face. “She’s half naked in that.”

  “I don’t care. It’ll be fun. It will make us feel like we’re already in America.”

  “I’m game if you are,” Julia said to Isabelle.

  “Come on, help me with the dishes,” Christine said, “and we’ll make the first show.

  They were down the steps and on the subway in five minutes, and it seemed almost that fast and they were standing in line on rue Richer for the Folies. They were not disappointed. Josephine Baker was at her best, the jazz was exciting, the champagne almost very good, and the crowd, along with Christine, Isabelle and Julia, completely lost and away from the idea of refugees, Germans and police. For a couple of hours.

  And then, on the way home they talked of tomorrow, when Julia would go down to the Prefecture of Police and pick up her travel permit.

  In the morning, Julia was up when Paris was still dark. She opened the window to the street, and looked down past the steps to rue Courtine, where a waiter in Café Bruxelles was opening the door and putting out tables and chairs in the ghostly light of the street lamps, and then was transformed into a yellow stage when the café lights came on. Turning left, up the hill toward Sacré-Coeur, the steps seemed to lead nowhere, except to heaven. Up there, beyond that hill and down again lay her destination. And her heart. Julia stayed at the window and watched Montmartre wake up. Across the street the lights came on at Au Relais, down the hill they came on at Chez Francis. People slowly walked downhill below. From somewhere the sweet smell of baked goods. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes. Listened to Paris. A child’s footsteps brought her to home, New York, and Lizzie. She opened her eyes and morning light changed the sky to light gray.

  Julia closed the window. The house was still quiet. She went to her room and arranged her few possessions, just for something to do. Slippers slouched along the hallway, the bathroom door opened and closed. She walked on tiptoes to the door and left the house.

  On the subway the people were different. More of them were tired, their clothes were dirty, their eyes furtive. As she left the metro and walked to the police station, she seemed to be joining lines of people as if drawn by some magnetic lines of force, until she entered the building, and found herself unable to find the window that held the papers of her freedom. A long time she jostled, pushed, waited, moved ahead, and finally she stood before a frustrated man with a barely shaven face and haggard eyes who listened to her and turned to his left and opened a drawer and fingered through small folders and stopped, then took something out, looked at it, looked at her, looked at it again, then put it down on the counter, turned it to face her, put a pen next to it and told her to sign at the bottom. Then he stamped it, shoved it to her, and turned away from the window and ignored her. She left, pushing her way past the incoming lines of people, walked back to the metro, saw the same lost people, left the subway, walked up rue du Mont-Cenis and pushed the button to the apartment, waited for the buzzer, went upstairs, and found Christine and Isabelle sitting at the kitchen table, looking at her, waiting to hear.

  “I have it.”

  They both sighed.

  “Have some coffee.” Christine poured dark coffee into the bowl that was waiting in front of the third chair at the table.

  “Thank you.” Julia drank from the bowl, wiped her lip, and put the bowl down on the table.

  “Did they give you any trouble?”Isabelle stared into her bowl and did not look up.

  “No.”

  “We are ready.” Christine’s voice was solemn, det
ermined.

  “You have your train tickets.” Julia looked at the enveloped marked SNCF on the table. “Where’s your luggage?”

  “It’s in the bedroom. There’s not much.” Isabelle answered.

  “I don’t want to wait,” Christine said. “I’m leaving this house, so I don’t want to stay any longer than I have to. I have my picture of my husband. The rest I bequeath to the rats. Small or big.”

  “We’re all going to Marseille?” Julia’s voice hung in the air with finality.

  Christine and Isabelle stood simultaneously and pushed their chairs in to the table.

  “To Marseille.” Christine picked the tickets up from the table and put them in her purse. “We each have just one piece of luggage. Just enough for the trip.”

  “Wait,” Isabelle said. “Sit down.” She smiled impishly.

  Christine and Julia looked at each other. Isabelle went to her room and came back out. She was holding fingernail polish. “Sorry for the last minute delay, but I’m going out in style.”

  Christine and Julia gave in and joined her and all three soon wore bright red lipstick and fingernails.

  "Are you really going to just leave all this here?" Julia said. "I'm going home. I have nothing to take with me except what's in my small suitcase. You have your whole life here in these rooms."

  Christine stood and turned around to survey the room. She went to the china cabinet and opened the door. Holding up a piece of her grandmother's fine porcelain, she said, "This?" She went into the kitchen and banged on a shining copper pot above the stove. "This?" She came back and sat in a plush chair near the window to the Street. The velvet on the arms had been rubbed down, and the seat cushion was depressed. "This?"

  Julia's voice betrayed her fear. "What about your family pictures? The one on the wall of you and your husband in front of the Eiffel Tower?"

  Christine nodded. "Yes I understand that. I have a picture that I am taking with me of our marriage. That was my happiest time of my life. Of course I am taking that with me. But Daniel has pictures that we gave him when he left. Those will do for me. I don't have time to sell this. We're at war. This is a depression. I made a decision in a hurry. I'm going to leave in a hurry. I leave all this to the rats."

  Isabelle stood and went to the window. She opened it and looked up and down the street.

  "What's going on?" Julia became nervous. She didn't understand how this was going to proceed and that made her feel insecure.

  Isabelle spoke while still looking out the window. "Look at the beautiful flowers down at the bottom on rue Courtine. You would think this was just a beautiful spring day. Look at Monsieur Calvert, there is on his bicycle bringing home his daily long baguette." Her voice carried the nostalgia that seemed to creep over her, thinking about all the ordinary things that French people do every day. "I don't see him, Mama." Isabelle looked back in the room at her mother. "Don't worry, Darling, he will be here. He's not going to be down there, he's going to be up on rue Lamarck. He will ring the buzzer."

  "Julia," Isabelle said, "I think we should tell you now."

  Julia's stomach tighten. She looked at Christine and then Isabelle. Her eyes began to sting. Are they going to just leave her behind? Are they just going to send her out on her own. She had always wanted to leave without them, but now she felt trapped, having no control over her destiny. Over seeing Lizzie.

  Christine came and took Julia sent. "I see you are worried, my second daughter, but please don't be."

  Julia was not reassured. All she had done since he had arrived in France was planned for a way to get back to New York and Fifth Avenue and Lizzie. The last few days were an exhausting whirlwind of bureaucratic complications. It had all been done. They seem set to go. But something is holding them up and she didn't know what it was. She put on a brave face. "Are you waiting for a taxi? I thought we were going to take the subway. We don't have much to carry. What's going on?"

  "We are not going to take the train," Isabelle said while continuing to look up the street. "We have a better solution. Monsieur Ducasse is going to take us all in his car.”

  Julia became even more worried. The car? Why was that better? The idea of a train, a big long heavy train full of people, was much more secure to her than a little car. "Why is he taking us?"

  Christine, sympathy in her eyes, came to Julia and held her hand. "My darling, my second daughter, do not worry. This is much better than taking the train."

  "I don't understand," Julia said, "I have my tickets. You have your tickets. Why did you change? Why do you trust this man? I'm confused. I feel like —," she pulled her hand away from Christine.

  Christine side and tears began to well up in her eyes. "Oh please do not talk like that. Believe me I understand your fear. If it is what you want we will of course take you to the Gare de Lyon and you can get on your train to Marseille. We would never do anything to interfere with you getting home to your daughter, Julia." Christine stared intensely into Julia's eyes. Her eyes were no longer filling with tears but with cold determination. "But believe me we had to accept his offer. There are so many more options with the car. We can go where we want."

  "Wherever we want?" That remark said Julia into a tailspin. "We have only one place to go. I still don't see why we need a car."

  Isabelle closed the window and came next to Julia. "Mama is not telling you everything. Monsieur Ducasse has another advantage."

  Julia frowned. “I’m going to take the train. You can do whatever you want. I am going to take the train. I can get to the Gare de Lyon by myself.” She stood and went to pick up her suitcase.

  The buzzer sounded. Julia put her suitcase down, feeling trapped.

  Christine went to the window, pushed it open, and looked down. “You are here. Thank god. We’re coming right down.” She came back and addressed Julia. “We will take you to the train station. It’s not out of our way. Jules—Monsieur Ducasse— can explain it all to you on the way. If you want to get out and take the train, you will make me cry. But I’m going to cry anyway when we separate at Marseille.” She touched Julia on the face. “I just want to be with you as long as I can.”

  “Mama,” Isabelle interjected, impatience in her voice.

  Christine nodded. She picked up her suitcase, looked around the room one last time, and walked toward the door. She did not look back to see who was coming with her. She know only to move forward.

  On the street, Jules Ducasse was waiting, his black Simca 8 berline idling by the curb. On the street and not behind a window, he was thinner and taller than Julia expected. He tipped his black hat. He was wearing an impeccably pressed black suit, a clean white shirt and a plain gray tie. “Good morning, ladies. Thank you for being punctual. Here, let’s figure out how to get all this luggage on the ca” On the top of the car a luggage rack had been installed with belts that were hooked on to the top of the door frames. One suitcase had already been tied down. He quickly put the women’s suitcases on the top and tied them down with robe that he took out of the small trunk. “Après vous, Mesdames,” he said with a slight bow. He opened the front passenger door for Christine, while Isabelle and Julia hunched over to climb in the back seat. Ducasse got in, started the car, adjusted the throttle, waited for the motor to calm down, pushed the throttle back in, and put his hand on the parking brake. Then he turned around in the car and said, smiling, “Are we all ready?”

  They all answered yes in unison.

  “You have a very nice car, Monsieur,” Isabelle said.

  “Thank you”, he said as he backed uphill to rue Lamarck and made a three point turn to go downhill. “It’s really a Fiat. The French government doesn’t want you to know that. For me it’s been a very reliable car.” He let out the clutch and moved slowly downhill past Au Relais. “So. Where are we going?”

  Isabelle laughed. “We thought you had that already figured out.”

  “Oh, I have,” he said, “for me. And also for you and your mother. We are all going to the s
outh of France, and from there we will see. I have family in Provence. You want to go to North Africa. No, my question is for the young lady so quiet in the back.”

  “Yes?” Julia said, biting her lip. He held her arms tight across her lap, and moved her eyes to Monsieur Ducasse but kept her head straight.

  “I understand you want to go to Gare de Lyon. You intend to take the train to Marseille. Is that right?”

  Julia nodded to his image in the rear view mirror. The car turned the corner on to rue Custine.

  “Ah, well. First of all, we are going in that direction before we leave Paris and head to Orleans. So it is not a problem. But I must tell you, Mademoiselle, that you are making a grave error.”

  Christine turned to look at Julia, who sat still and quiet, hunched down in the back.

  “Let me explain it to you,” he continued after for a moment but hearing no reply. “You will simply not get on the train.”

  “But I have tickets,” Julia said, fear stabbing her heart.

  “So do thousands of others,” he said, looking at her still in the mirror with cold eyes. “Someone will already be in your place. All these refugees, not just the Belgians now, there are French from the Northeast. And they are all going the same way.

  Julia reached forward and touched him on the shoulder. “But surely, Monsieur, you—you work in the mayor’s office, you—“

  “Oh no, not now, not with this madness. I cannot do anything.”

  Julia’s voice rose in panic. “But surely you know someone?” She looked at Isabelle, who touched her on the arm and looked at her with sympathy but said nothing.

  Ducasse shook his head. “Those are railroad people. I work in city hall. I’m sorry.”

  Christine twisted around, holding the back of her seat to face Julia. Her eyes were full of compassion. “Now you see, my dear, why you must come with us. You have no choice. This is the right decision.”

  Isabelle pulled at Julia’s arm. “You must come with us.”

  Julia was overwhelmed by these three people. She sat back and gave in. “Yes. I understand. I will go with you.”

  Ducasse nodded with satisfaction. “Let me tell you, all three of you, the advantages of coming with me. First, I will be honest. For me, it would be impossible to drive alone. There are soldiers coming this way. The first colonel we see would just get off his horse and take it for himself. Or maybe others. These are desperate people in desperate times. So, the three of you, you are now my family. I will tell you something else. If you must be my family, I have papers for all of us.”

  “What?” Julia said, in total surprise. She looked at Isabelle, who just shrugged her shoulders.

  “Mama? Did you know this?” Isabelle said, leaning forward.

  Christine smiled. “Yes, I plead guilty. I’m not going to leave everything I ever had behind and then go unprepared.”

  “But I can’t pass as your family,” Julia said, her voice choked with emotion.

  Ducasse waved her concern away. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to act as my daughter. No one will question you. Just trust me.”

  Julia took Isabelle’s hand.

  “But that’s not all,” Ducasse said, “I also am prepared to use my office along the way if need be. All the villages father out are setting up roadblocks, and that is where I can be of some help. I have documents, and hand stamps I can use to intimidate stupid country people. They will know that I have powerful allies in Paris. We shall have no trouble at all. I have thought of everything. There in the trunk, I even have a placard that says Red Cross. If we have to. Trust me, Mademoiselle, you are in safe hands. Ah, there we are.” He pointed to the right. “It’s the road to Orleans. We are on our way. We’ll go on the Boulevard de la Bastille.” He turned quickly to Julia. “Very famous, no?” He turned back just in time to avoid a collision with a three-wheeled black delivery truck stopped to pick up baguettes from a bakery. “We’ll be out of Paris sooner than you think. And you understand we take a route out of Paris that is not well known. Down the rue des Archives to get to the bridge across the Seine.”

  “Faster than the Germans, I hope,” Christine said, fear stalking her voice. She turned around to look at Isabelle, who leaned forward to touch her on the shoulder. Christine turned back, but kept her hand on top of her daughter’s.

  “And faster than the refugees,” Ducasse replied, “I promise.”

  In the back, Julia watched Isabelle and Christine, then shook her head and ran a hand through her hair. She felt warm, and undid the top button of her brown dress as Paris slid by outside her window.

  VIII Carolyn – Paris – 1980

  Carolyn walked through the gold and white doors into the lobby of the Hotel des Archives. The elegant upholstery on the Louis XIV chairs and the red faux-Persian rug were worn out in spots. A musty smell hung everywhere. Not the best place, but an old place, and right in the middle of the 4th arrondissement as Nathalie had suggested. A large red painting with a scruffy black frame glared opposite the dark stained wood-paneled wall behind the front desk.

  “Good morning,” she said to the clerk. “I made a reservation for a room yesterday. Stuart, Carolyn.”

  The clerk, a middle-aged man in a charcoal and green uniform with large round glasses and graying hair combed straight back, smiled politely, said in a perfectly factual voice, “Oui, Mademoiselle, we have reserved a room for you. Just for tonight?”

  “Oh no, Monsieur, I will need a room for at least a week.”

  He nodded. “You are here as a tourist, I presume?”

  “Not at all.” Carolyn felt inner joy as she continued. “I am going to live here in the 4th arrondissement. I’m just staying at the hotel while I look for an apartment.”

  He looked over his glasses at her.

  “Is something wrong, Monsieur?”

  He sighed and hesitated before telling her. “I am sorry, but this is the 3rd arrondissement.”

  “But the map—“

  “I don’t know about your map, young lady. If you look across the street—“ He pointed out the door. “You will see city hall for the 3rd arrondissement. You can’t question that.”

  “But it’s so close to the Beaubourg Museum.”

  He laughed a little laugh of derision. “Oh. That. You want to be close to that?”

  Carolyn didn’t quite know how to take his condescension, how serious he was. “No, not right next to it.”

  “Ah,” he said, relaxing, knowing he may not lose a customer. “It’s the same neighborhood, really, the same people. You’re just right next to it, the museum. In truth, the 4th ends at this side of the museum there.” He frowned and thought for a moment. “Do you have a special need to live in the 4th?” He looked at her directly for the first time.

  Carolyn didn’t know how to answer. It was Nathalie who suggested it. She shook her head. “No, it’s just that—there are art galleries near the museum, and that’s what interests me.”

  “Of course, we have galleries here, too. But let me tell you something.” He leaned on the counter to be closer to her, looking around first to see if anyone was judging his performance. “Let’s just say that here you’re in the 3 and a half arrondissement. There’s no boundary line. It’s all the same place. 3, 4, it’s all just for the politicians.”

  She smiled with relief. “Oh, well, then it doesn’t make any difference, Monsieur—“.

  “Oh,” he said, “Hervé Villechaize, at your service. No, it doesn’t. Not one bit. Except they have the ugly building.” He chuckled to himself as he completed the paperwork. Then he put his pen down and looked at her more again because he remembered something. “Look, it’s the Marais, think of it that way. You’ll find your art galleries down every street.”

  “And an apartment?”

  “Oh,” he said, “those too. I recommend you find a real estate agent.” He laughed again, showing that he had a lot more sense of humor in him once you were acquainted. “We have even more of those. And what they have is
all in the window. Just look around, you’ll find it very easy, I assure you. Are you looking for an elegant apartment?”

  Ah, there you go, she thought. Pegging me for an American. Funny, coming from someone in this careworn hotel. “Elegant? No,” she replied. “Just enough to get by.” Then she thought to eliminate the issue. “Starving student, you know.”

  “Ah. Well, we don’t have a garret,” he said, once more with his little chuckle.

  He gave her a room overlooking the park on one corner, and a small outdoor café on the other. Perfect. She put her things away and went for a walk. She waved to him as she walked out the door. “On the hunt!” But she reached behind her to stop the door from closing, and she peeked back in. “And thank you Hervé.” Her smile showed him she meant it.

  Carolyn walked down rue des Archives for three blocks, then turned right three more, and repeated this trajectory until she was back in front of the hotel. Now she had developed a first sense of this neighborhood. Narrow streets with narrow sidewalks. No spectacular buildings or vistas, just Paris, apartments and street-level stores. Cafés, hair salons like Il Fait Beau, and the many real estate and insurance offices, one on every block, small grocery stores. And the many small art galleries. She looked at the apartments available in the window fronts and found that there were all kinds that she could be happy with. Finding a place to live was not going to be a problem.

  She did the same again going left out the door instead of straight, and caught the feeling of the other side of the street. This time she did not note the hair salons or cafés, but paid attention to the art galleries. While there were several with old paintings, with impressionists and old masters, most of them were full of contemporary works of art.

  Gradually, as she walked back to the hotel, taking several trips down side streets, she came to understand that this wonderful neighborhood in Paris, this Marais, was the perfect home for her. She never imagined she could live in a quiet neighborhood and be surrounded by this vibrant, urban life. Even the cars, going by on every street, were quiet and slow compared to the zooming avenues of San Francisco or New York. People walking with small bags of groceries, with baked goods, with flowers. But people walking. In New York they walked, but they were always in a hurry. Here, people were all taking their time getting home. That was it. They all seemed to be going somewhere near, somewhere warm and inviting. No business. Just living.

  Back inside the hotel, Hervé greeted her with a thumbs up. “I can tell by your face Mademoiselle, that you have had a successful journey around the Marais.”

  Carolyn smiled at him, because he has become her first real French friend, someone who seems to care about her. It wasn’t just his thumbs, up in greeting. It was on his face, too, in his eyes. Almost like family. For a moment she felt a little sad because she would be leaving him soon. She was sure that tomorrow she would find her apartment.

  “Yes,” she said, holding up two fingers in a victory gesture in his style. “I’ve seen enough already to think of this as my future home. There are a lot of apartments small enough for me.”

  He winked at her. “But what if you find a nice French boy?”

  Carolyn narrowed her eyes and squinted at him, to let him know, even if she wasn’t really serious, she didn’t like it. “Oh la la, no Monsieur. Not for me. I’m not here for l’amour. I’m here for myself, for art. None of these smooth talking French men for me.”

  He was embarrassed and put up his hands in defense. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mademoiselle.” But then he narrowed his eyes, too. “I will say no more.” He moved his hand across his mouth as if he were zipping it shut. “So you will be leaving soon?”

  “Yes, I’ll find an apartment tomorrow. There are so many with one bedroom. And, so many have high ceilings. That’s another great thing about Paris. It’s so good for painting. High windows to catch the light.” She stepped back from the counter.

  “I haven’t thought of that.” Hervé cleaned some imaginary dust off the top of the counter. “You must be tired. Thank you for your conversation.” He bowed slightly to her, and gave her a meek smile.

  She sensed maybe he wasn’t used to having long conversations with clients of the hotel. “Yes, you’re right.” Carolyn went up to her room and took a long hot bath, then opened a bottle of Chablis and decided to call Beatrice. It was still morning in New York.

  “Hello?”

  Carolyn hesitated at the sound of her aunt’s voice. Did she really want to start talking back home this soon after arriving? “Hi. It’s me, Carolyn. In Paris.”

  Excitement permeated Beatrice’s voice. “Carolyn, how wonderful. I was afraid I would never hear from you again.”

  “Oh, now that’s an exaggeration.”

  “You were very angry when you left.”

  “But now I am in Paris. Who can be angry.”

  “I’m happy to hear you say that. Have you talked to your mother?”

  Carolyn put the receiver down in disappointment. She looked out her window at a woman playing with a small child in the park across the street. “It’s too soon for that. I don’t know when it will ever be time for that.”

  Now she waited while Beatrice thought. “Okay, you’re right, it was just an impulse. Tell me, then, where are you?”

  The warmth in Beatrice’s voice began to work on Carolyn. “In the Marais.”

  “Oh, the Marais. 3rd or 4th?”

  Carolyn smiled to the phone. “You do know Paris well, don’t you. 3rd, actually. Across the street from the mayor’s office. In a very small hotel on the rue des Archives. I think I’m close to getting an apartment.”

  “You do work fast. You don’t think you’ll have trouble finding one?”

  “No, not at all. I don’t need much. It’s just for me. I did decide I need a bedroom so I can set up a kind of artist’s studio.”

  “That makes me feel better. You sound like you have a plan.”

  “I think so. I’m not sure about the art yet. Not exactly.”

  “Don’t worry about that. You’re doing fine.”

  “Listen, Beatrice, I’ve got to go. I’m pretty bushed, walking around all day. I’ll call you again.”

  “Wait, what about your phone number?”

  “I’m at the hotel. I’ll call you when I have my own phone.”

  “What should I tell your mother?”

  Carolyn felt cold. “Tell her whatever you like.”

  Beatrice sighed. “Yes. All right. I understand. I love you, Carolyn.”

  “I love you too.” She hung up.

  The next morning she went to three different real estate agents, until she found an apartment that was right for her. On the rue du Temple, and, as she required, old enough to have high windows flooded with light. And as she learned for herself from walking around, it had to be high up to avoid being in the shadows. With an elevator. That she learned from the real estate agent. She knew the agent, Marie-Claire, herself typically Parisian thin and well-dressed, with elegant gold jewelry and a pearl necklace, was figuring her for a rich American. Why else would a girl barely past twenty be renting her own apartment in the Marais?

  Carolyn had to put pressure on the agent to not show her big apartments. “I want just enough for me. Up high. Elevator. Facing north or northwest on a corner.”

  The agent did better than that. Which made Carolyn feel better. Two helpful French people in a row. It made her feel lucky. Marie-Claire showed her an apartment on the seventh floor, with elevator of course, in an older building, she said. Which was a joke. There were no newer buildings in the neighborhood. Maybe the elevator made the difference.

  An elevator that barely held one person. But it went to the top efficiently and that’s what mattered to Carolyn.

  The amazing thing was that this apartment was not on the street. Not even on the corner. It was in the middle of the block. And it faced a park. There was nothing whatsoever to block the light coming in from the windows. The amazing windows looking out on the park on rue d
e Sévigné. She wanted to sing La Bohème out loud. The windows were ten feet high, Marie-Claire said. The ceiling twelve. And two windows. Wide. Carolyn wanted to give her a hug, and Marie-Claire stood still, obviously thinking if this emotional American wanted to act like she was back home—. Carolyn shook her hand. “Thank you, Madame. This is perfect.”

  Now, she thought, my life begins.

  Hervé was visibly sad to lose his best customer, but he consoled himself by helping her with getting a telephone, and giving her advice on where to find furniture. “Au revoir, Mon Ami,” he said, shaking her hand and giving her a polite bow.

  “I’ll come by and see you once in a while,” she replied. “You’re just around the corner from Café Sancerre.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” he said, but he sounded like he didn’t believe her. He raised his eyes up to heaven. Then he waved her off. “Welcome to Paris.”

  Carolyn walked the few short blocks to her apartment, and christened it with a bottle of Moet & Chandon Dom Perignon Brut. The walls were still bare. She would take her time on that. And she had been modest with her furniture. She looked around the room.

  The small corner light wood cabinets and cook top next to a white sink substituting for a kitchen. The floor, nice looking varnished wood, seeming new. She would have to pick up some area rugs. Maybe a large Persian rug dominated by red.

  Her bed, for one person, she felt good about that. There were no plans to need anything bigger than that. It was a day bed, useful as a second sofa. The dark blue quilted coverlet gave it an air of practicality. Her sofa itself was red and wide enough for three people. The simple oak table stood in the center of the room, big enough for four people, that was fine with her. On top she had already placed a crystal bowl with red apples, oranges and ripe peaches, topped by a cluster of dark purple grapes. She stood and looked at the still life-in waiting and decided it might well do for her first painting.

  Along one wall stood a long dresser, painted ebony, a nice contrast to the sofa and daybed. Modern, but not too artistically modern.

  She was in no hurry. More furniture could come as time went on and life developed and she knew who she was in Paris, France.

  Carolyn drank up her glass of champagne and poured another. There were no plans to go out today. The windows were open and a cool breeze blew into the room. Outside dark clouds were moving and she watched the rain as it approached across the rooftops of Paris. Beautiful Paris, even in the rain. Wary, she closed the windows as the first small drops hit her face.

  Into her bedroom with a new glass of champagne. Totally empty. Not a bedroom. The walls were Colombe Blanc, white dove. Like a hospital. The high windows, the high ceilings, the huge white walls, perfect for a painting studio. The painters had put two huge architect’s lamps with adjustable heads and necks on the walls so she could place lighting anywhere she wanted when the sun had gone down. She twirled around to catch the light of the whole room, drained her final glass of champagne and went back out to the main room.

  The only thing missing were the tools of an artist. She remembered what Nathalie had told her, about sketching around Paris. All she needed for that was a sketch book and graphite pencils. Which, this being the Marais, she found a few blocks away, an easy walk when the rain had stopped, in the Rogier shop. On the way back she couldn’t resist, and stopped in to see her friend Hervé in the hotel. He was shocked to see her walk in the lobby. His smile was wide and genuine.

  “Oh, Mademoiselle, I didn’t expect to see you so soon. I hope you haven’t been thrown out by your landlord.” He laughed at his little joke, then stopped, his frowning face betraying his worry that he was having fun at her expense.

  “No, Monsieur, I have not. As you see, I have just purchased my first art supplies, and was passing by on my way home. Just to say hello, and to thank you again for your help.”

  “Ah, thank you. Perhaps when you have a showing in a gallery you will invite your little friend?”

  She smiled at that. “You are quite premature, Monsieur, but I assure you that you will receive an engraved invitation. But you will have to wait a long time for that. I must hurry now, before it rains again.” Carolyn waved her sketch book at him and left the hotel. Before arriving back at her apartment she stopped at Les délices de Marais and took forever to decide on her dinner. Finally, after frustrating two clerks, she brought home a baguette, naturally, and then sliced filet mignon of pork, a little bit of foie gras, a beautiful little duck pâté. And a small rosé.

  When she arrived home and had put her packages on the counter of her little kitchen corner, she looked around and noticed she didn’t have a wine rack. And she had forgotten cheese. And she felt like she wasn’t Parisian. A true Parisian would go out and get the cheese. Now. So she did, to the laughter of the clerks she had just finished frustrating. She tasted a Roquefort and a Camembert before settling on a thin wedge of local Boursault. The wine rack would have to wait until she had established a good relationship with a local wine merchant. The Cave Saint Antoine came recommended by Hervé, and she resolved to get to know them. After this wonderful dinner.

  She ate on the sofa using the coffee table, with the windows open and the sun already gone down, orange lights appearing in the distance. As she poured the rosé into her glass, she resolved to get excellent crystal wine glasses, too. And she congratulated herself. Here she was. Set. Ready to go. The last of the rosé went into her mouth, her eyes became heavy, she lay back on the sofa and let herself go. The world faded away.

 

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