Julia

Julia Page 28

by Marty Sorensen

Until the morning, when she awoke on the sofa with a headache and bright light streaming in the windows. She sat up, looked around the room, and laughed. The sofa or the bed, it was all the same in her apartment. She put on the water for espresso and took a shower. Dressed, she poured a small cup of coffee from the French press and studied Paris outside her window. The strong coffee soon cleared her head. There was only one thing to do. The day was nice, a few clouds, warm enough. She now had to get her sketchbook and graphite and go out there and pick someplace. Get to work.

  Out the window, below, she saw children in the little park, a dog, parents, people walking by. A pretty little scene beneath the trees. Paris. But where to start?

  The grand monuments? Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower, the canal? She couldn’t decide, so she just went downstairs and out the door. When she was on the sidewalk she started to laugh, so happy to be outdoors in Paris with a sketchbook, and people stared at her, some of them in anger, no doubt afraid she was laughing at them. Then she thought, I’m not laughing with you, and laughed again. It wasn’t real laughing, just happiness bursting out her mouth. But that went quickly. There was simply too much to choose from. There was no way to make a decision. Better to walk and come across something unexpectedly. She’d know when she’d arrived at the right place.

  But she didn’t arrive. Two hours of walking around the Marais, with beautiful shops, the Pletzl with Sascha Finkelstein’s bakery to die for, the medieval buildings, the courtyards.

  She sat at a table on the street at Casa San Pablo and ordered tapas. She opened her sketchbook and stared at the blank page, then up at the street scene. Beautiful shops, painted red with large windows showing purses, pastries. But cars whizzed by. People jogged suddenly to avoid her. Too much abrupt movement. Too much noise. She couldn’t draw lines or edges or shadows on the page. She left without eating or drinking.

  Soon Carolyn was back home at her end of rue de Sévigné staring at the park across the street. The afternoon rain threatened not far away, so she went upstairs to her refuge, where she could look out the window and see the storm clouds coming and keep the windows open just a couple of inches to smell the air and keep dry.

  She dropped her sketchbook on the table and called Nathalie.

  “Hello?” came Nathalie’s familiar warm voice.

  “Nathalie, it’s Carolyn. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  “No, not at all. You caught me daydreaming, but there’s no way to prove it, is there?”

  Carolyn laughed. She ran her fingers through her hair and took the phone over by the window. “Thank you. For the first time, it was a surprise for me, I felt a little bit lonely in Paris. I didn’t think that was possible.”

  “I understand the feeling,” Nathalie said. “Have you made any friends?”

  “Friends?” The question caught Carolyn by surprise. She didn’t want any friends. “No. I haven’t tried to find any. My friends have been hotel clerks, shopkeepers and real estate agents. Except for you, of course. I didn’t feel any need to go looking for friends.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “No, you’re right. I’m the one who called you up to say I was feeling lonely.”

  “But I do understand. The woman who takes care of my children, I’ve known her a long time, but she’s not really a friend.”

  “I was surprised today. I bought a sketchbook, you know, and went out today.”

  “From your hotel?”

  “Oh, no, I forgot to tell you. I have a lovely apartment on rue de Sévigné. It’s perfect. Now I know why I called you. I’m lonely because I haven’t see you. And I owe you dinner. When do you think you can come over?”

  “Well, that’s very nice of you. It doesn’t have to be so soon, Carolyn. When you’re more settled in.”

  Carolyn wondered if she made a French faux pas. “I’m settled in. There isn’t much to settle in to. I’m happy with my apartment. It has a beautiful view of a park, and huge windows. Lots of light. Perfect for my studio.”

  “Your studio?”

  Carolyn laughed. “Well, it’s just my bedroom, but I don’t sleep in there, it’s perfect for painting.”

  “And you have been painting already?”

  “No, that’s just it. You see, I bought a sketchbook and graphite pencils and I was finished with the apartment and decided it was time to go out and sketch something.”

  “That sounds like the right thing to do,” Nathalie said in a sympathetic voice.

  “But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t find anything.”

  “Nothing? Where did you go?”

  “Nowhere. Just around here.”

  “You mean you walked around the Marais and you couldn’t find anything to sketch?”

  “You know, Nathalie, I wouldn’t put it that way. There were places to sketch everywhere. Modern, medieval, historic, everything. But I couldn’t find anything I wanted to draw. Can you understand that?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then Nathalie spoke. “It just means you’re not ready yet. You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “It’s just too pretty for you. You know, the Paris everyone loves, super beautiful Marais. I think it means you want to be different. I wouldn’t even worry about it. Something will hit you, and you’ll know.”

  “Well, you’re right about that. It’s exactly what I was thinking today, that I’d come on some scene and know that was what I wanted. But it never happened.”

  Nathalie’s voice took on a harder tone. “Carolyn, it’s not so dramatic. It just means you don’t want to do pretty street scenes. What’s so horrible about that?”

  Carolyn sighed. “Nothing, the way you put it. Look, let’s change the subject. What about you coming over for dinner? I don’t have much of a kitchen, but they have nice shops around here. Is Bernard still here?”

  “No, he’s gone to his station. It’s just me and the kids, I’m afraid.”

  “Okay, then, why don’t you come over here. There’s a perfect park for them. Anne will love it, I’m on the seventh floor and she can use the really small elevator. How about it?”

  “Yes, then, it sounds really nice. The weekend? Saturday?”

  “Yeah, Saturday. Tell you what, I’ll come over there first and we’ll bring the kids back together. It will be fun. And you know what, I think I’ll go to Thanksgiving, on rue Saint Paul. They have American food. I’ll get hot dogs and buns, baked beans and potato salad. Tell Anne, I think she’ll like it. I hope.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea. Don’t worry, Anne eats anything. See you then, Carolyn.”

  “All right. And thank you, Nathalie.” Carolyn took the phone away from her ear but heard Nathalie’s voice still speaking.

  “Carolyn, what about you? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  “I guess—just because—it doesn’t matter. I thought maybe you had a craving for American food. You aren’t weakening, are you?”

  “Oh my god, why would you think that? Because of the hot dogs? Not me. No, I just thought it would be fun for Anne, that’s all. Don’t read anything into it.”

  In fact, the first hot dogs were a bust. It was the Kraft yellow mustard. But Anne warmed up to them when Carolyn put Dijon mustard on them. Even the baby liked a spoonful of the sauce from the baked beans. The kids loved the park, and the two women caught up on the history of the last two years.

  As they cleaned everything up, and Nathalie was changing the baby and getting Nathalie’s coat on, he said, “Carolyn, I want to invite you next weekend to my grandmother’s house. I’m sorry Bernard won’t be there, but I think you would love my grandmother. There will be the whole family there, so it’ll be crazy with kids. But it’s just outside Senlis, only an hour away, well, if we’re lucky with traffic, and you’ll have lots of opportunity to just walk around by yourself and sketch. Grandma lives outside town, so it’s like a country estate. Small, but beautiful. Why don’
t we go down on Friday afternoon and stay the weekend?”

  “That’s wonderful,” Carolyn replied, suddenly excited. “But if a lot of people are going to be there—“

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve already talked to Grandma already. We’re the only one’s staying the weekend, so there’ll be plenty of room.”

  Anne jumped up and down. “Say yes, Aunt Carolyn, please say yes. You can save me from my awful cousins.”

  Carolyn gave her a mock frown. “Oo, they sound awful.”

  “Yes, boys can be mean.”

  “Well then,” Carolyn said, “I’ll be sure and watch out for you.”

  “Good, it’s settled then. I’ll take Friday off, why don’t you come over for lunch, bring a little suitcase and your sketchbook, and we’ll do it. We’ll take the train, it’s easy, and then take the bus from the train station in Senlis.”

  “That’s fun,” Anne said.

  “And we’ll eat lunch there.”

  “The restaurant serves wild boar,” Anne said, looking at Carolyn to see if she could scare her a little bit.

  “Mm.” Carolyn replied, “Sounds good. But once in San Francisco I had ostrich. Have you ever had that?”

  Anne shook her head, and then looked sideways as if she were trying to think of something else exotic to eat.

  “What about ostrich eggs, have you ever seen those?”

  Anne shook her head again.

  “They are almost as big as a soccer ball.”

  Anne laughed and put her hand over her mouth.

  “Come on, you guys, we’ll never get home if you keep this up.”

  They left and Carolyn sat down, reviewing the day in her mind. She had never dreamed to find such a friend in Paris. She picked up the phone and dialed Beatrice, but put it down before it could be answered. No, she thought, that would be weakening, like Nathalie said.

  Instead, she tidied up the house, and went for a walk in the neighborhood, stopping at La Verrière, and enjoyed white Dubonnet and crème brulé, watching the people, her neighbors as she thought of them, even if they didn’t yet know who she was. She enjoyed this immensely, being one of them and yet not. That was to come. She felt so good, she finished her little aperitif and went to visit Hervé at the ratty Hotel des Archives. To remind herself that he was her first friend. Well, after Nathalie, who was really an old friend. Now, her best friend. And Grandma. Grandmère. She suddenly really looked forward to this weekend. But then it occurred to her, what about Nathalie’s mother? She guessed she would find out about that next week, too.

  Now she had a week to kill before the trip. Maybe she would try sketching again. Hervé might have some good ideas. But he wasn’t there. She had no interest in talking to the skinny boy in the lobby who was there.

  She returned home and opened a bottle of pastis and found her favorite spot at the window, watching the somber shadows of evening overtake Paris. It was so nice to just relax as the sky darkened and the city lightened. Evening in Paris. Could there be anything so lovely? It was like—as if—the world was waking up, just when the day was through, and everyone was home, home to families—to grandmères—, to dinner, with French food, listening to French news, reading Le Monde or Le Figaro, kids fighting at the table, frantic mothers trying to get everything ready, having to cook from scratch.

  She felt free now, just being herself, with no one else to answer to. It was going to happen, she was sure. Her life was just about to begin. Here. Soon. Somehow.

  And she sensed now she was given a week, she didn’t make to make decisions, or make progress, or live up to anything. Just kill time until next weekend.

  Which she did. She walked the streets of the Marais, down to the Seine, but away from the huge Pompidou modern art museum. Instead she walked toward the Saint Martin canal. Waiting to understand what it is that she is supposed to be looking for.

  On the rue du Parc Royal she observed a sign pointing to the Musée Picasso, but felt no pull from that direction. She instinctively stopped before a large white building opening on to an inner courtyard with cobblestones, but meticulously maintained in clean white walls with red, white and pink geraniums in tubs. The entrance indicated Hotel de Retz, 1613, which intrigued her. Inside the courtyard, Desson Galerie was written in gold renaissance lettering on the wall. She felt pulled her inside a second courtyard, where she found two black modern mobiles. They didn’t interest her, but she went in the door into a completely white interior space with paintings on several walls. No one else was in sight. The paintings shocked Carolyn. Not as a person, but as an artist. Their point, in garish blues, greens, bloody red seemed to be that there was some kind of beautify to be expected in the portrayal of violent death. Almost all the victims were women, and the scenes were of naked women, often watched in their death throes by groups of people who seemed out of place. She walked out. As she closed the door, a face appeared in one of the windows, but she dismissed the face with a wave of her hands.

  She hurried out to the street and turned left, then turned right at the next corner. Halfway down, another gallery. Now she was curious to see if the Desson was typical for the neighborhood. But it wasn’t. There was no representative painting side, in fact no painting at all. There were two rooms with an assortment of red or black square boxes. Someone’s idea of simplicity of space or something. In the second room there were two life-size statues, sort of made of wire thick as rope, seeming to be people, with wire eyes and mouths, each strand of wire a different primary color. A young skinny girl with long black hair and outsized glasses watched her from behind a desk with brochures scattered across the top. The girl did not smile, she just sat there and looked. Carolyn left turned to go out and laughed out loud when she saw a beautifully drawn skull with a droopy carrot sticking out as a nose, and she kept walking, but not in a hurry, and she didn’t wave goodbye.

  Two down. This is Paris, she thought, it’s not a big enough sample. I will keep going. But at least I now know what I’m going to do this week. Somewhere in Paris there must be art galleries that will appeal to me. Or an artist.

  Several doors away she entered Galerie Jean Broullet. She was ready to be disappointed, and it must have shown on her face. A young man with scraggly blond hair, a day’s beard on his face, wearing jeans obviously bought at a boutique to look chicly worn, and the red shoes of a cardinal, walked toward her from the back of the room. “Are you lost?” he said, his face betraying his dismissal of her. “Can I help you?” He said it like she was a little child.

  “No, I’m just out for a walk. Do I have to commit to buying something before I come in here?”

  He put his hand up to his mouth and studied her. “Not at all. I didn’t mean to offend you. Walk around as you please. If you have any questions, I’ll be in the back.”

  “Thank you,” she said, with a sincere smile.

  The smile had an effect on him. His voice became warmer. “Perhaps I might give you a tour of my little gallery.”

  “Oh, you are Jean Broullet?”

  “Yes, I am. Pleased to meet you. You are?”

  “Carolyn Stuart.”

  “Oh, American. I could not tell from your accent.”

  “Or Canadian, British, Australian, from New Zealand.”

  “Excuse me,” he said, bowing slightly. “I just assumed you were an American student. I should not have. Are you looking for art?”

  “To be honest, Mr. Broullet, I’m not. I’m out looking at galleries in Paris. For my education, you might say, but not as a student.”

  “Okay, let’s forget all that.” He put his hand behind her back and moved her toward a large painting on the wall before them.

  Carolyn moved away from him, but looked him in the eyes and smiled. “Tell me about it.”

  They stood before a canvas of a man in the prairie, sitting before a fire, with an old train or bus behind him, then a fence, then more countryside. All in subtle shades of blue, gray, brown, green.

  “This is Stefan Cruvet
. He lives in Normandy, up north. It’s our first exhibition of one of his paintings. His first time in Paris, I believe. Tell me, what do you think about it, Carolyn.”

  “To be honest, as an American—“ She raised her finger and smiled at him in recognition of his good guess. “I think it’s derivative. It looks like Andrew Wyeth, but without the inherent drama.”

  Jean looked at the painting for a moment, then said, “You may be right. Except that Wyeth doesn’t have the color that you see with Stefan. A different temperament.”

  She nodded. “More color perhaps, but less emotion.”

  Carolyn spent the next half hour with the man, who gradually came to understand her knowledge of painting, and became less interesting to her. She thanked him and left, but first said to him that she did like the Stefan Cruvet painting.

  “Oh, I thought you said it was derivative.”

  “It is, I think, and so it is overpriced” she said as she opened the door to leave. “But I still like it. Perhaps he has other paintings that are more original. You have a very interesting gallery. I will come back another time.”

  “As you wish, Mademoiselle. You have great confidence in your personal opinions. I wish you a very good day.” Jean looked at Carolyn as if he didn’t believe what she said.

  She didn’t care. She just walked out. But she thought about what she had just seen. True, it was right to call the painting derivative, but it did have a strong personal center to it. It had the young man in the center, and you wondered what he was doing there.

  She felt suddenly better about what she was doing. She understood that she was capable of entering any gallery in Paris and holding her own, and she hadn’t even thought about it. It gave her confidence to continue.

  What she had seen so far, such a meager sample of what Paris had to offer, three galleries and only one painting she had liked, and no sculptures, made her think that she would have to view a wide range of Paris galleries before she could understand what she was after.

  She remembered back to Berkeley, to Marc Silver’s comments. He had said that she was still experimenting with her styles. And she had to admit that it was true. Even now, here in this great international city of art, she was experimenting with her styles. She was trying to figure out what appealed to her. She didn’t know what it was.

  Well, in California that lack of concentration had cost her the entrance to a school. Here it didn’t matter. She wasn’t looking for entrance to anything.

  It hit her. It wasn’t about entrance. It was about acceptance. That was her whole problem. She wanted to be accepted, she wanted recognition, she wanted approval. All of that brought her back to her mother.

  No longer. She didn’t give a damn about anybody else’s opinion. She had her own. She walked past a sign that said Century 21 and laughed to herself, thinking how small the world was.

  The words on a window caught her eye. Galerie Parent. A large gold-lettering sign on a black background. A small storefront in an old building with a typically Parisian grayish-green façade. Inside were a couple dressed in habitual jeans and jackets, and a man in a gray business suit, with white wavy hair, dark blue fedora in hand. The couple were looking around as if they didn’t know where they were, but the man was studying a painting.

  A painting, she thought, that’s a good start already. But when she looked at the painting, she felt no pull whatsoever. It seemed representational enough, a human torso against a plain light gray background, with a playing car, a Jack of Hearts, sticking out of a woman’s ass. She wanted to laugh. And now her respect for the presumably serious businessman disappeared. She turned away to see what else was on the wall.

  Her attention was caught by a small sculpture in the middle of the room. It was shiny black, a woman, naked, sitting on the floor, her legs turned under her and her arms resting on her knees. She was a young woman, with high breasts, and hair flowing straight out the back. Carolyn studied it. The woman was at rest. The sculptured surfaces were all smooth. There was no attempt to show any kind of struggle with the image coming out of the material. This was different. Was the artist interested in the person? Or maybe the material? She couldn’t figure it out, but she was intrigued.

  A large woman with several strands of pearls around her neck and three or four gold bracelets, caught Carolyn’s attention. She was wearing a red dress and high-heeled shiny black shoes.

  Carolyn felt a bit uncomfortable as the woman stared at her. What had she done that deserved that much attention?

  The woman smiled at her, then walked toward her, stopping on the other side of the sculpture. “I see you’re interested in this.”

  Carolyn nodded. “I don’t know if I would go that far. If you mean am I looking to buy it, then certainly not. But I do like it as a work of art.”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, many do. It’s by Paola Piccolo. She has work in several places around Paris. I was very fortunate to be able to get this piece.”

  “I understand,” Carolyn replied. “It’s very—human—I would say. It draws me in, to wonder about it. And yet I can’t help thinking that maybe the artist—Paola—is thinking beyond that, to the expressiveness of the form alone. I’m sorry, I don’t know her, Paola, but I feel like I do.”

  The woman opened her eyes wide and pursed her lips, trying to think of what to say next, as if this were a game of artistic expression chess. “I’ve heard that about her work.”

  This put Carolyn off. It’s so easy to say, when someone makes a comment, that you’ve heard it before. “But then it’s what makes it interesting, isn’t it, this tension between different element. Paola— what did you say—“ But then Carolyn looked down at the label on the floor. “Piccolo. She has succeeded very well.”

  The woman held out her hand. “Céline. How do you do?”

  Carolyn shook the woman’s hand and smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

  Céline pointed to the sculpture. “She’s almost your age.”

  There. Again. Carolyn’s age. This woman had pegged her as a student. Carolyn’s face suddenly felt cold and solid. “She has no age,” she said, “she could be 19th century, but I presume she’s contemporary. I don’t think age has anything to do with it.

  “I’m sorry,” Celine said. “ She put her hand on her breastbone, fingered her pearls, and looked around the room in embarrassment. “You’re right, I didn’t mean it that way. Or, at least, I didn’t want to. I do appreciate your comments, however. You have a well developed artistic sensibility.”

  Carolyn put her hand out again to Céline. “Thank you. My name is Carolyn. I live just a few blocks from here. Today I’m out getting to know the Marais, looking at galleries mostly. Well, exclusively. Seeing what I like and don’t like about art in Paris today. Is this your gallery?”

  “Mine? Yes and no. It belongs to my daughter. She bought it from me. But I opened it many years ago. I live upstairs and manage it for her when she’s away.” She stole a look at the man who had moved from the painting of the naked rear. “We do have our differences. I adore this sculpture, and she like things like the painting on the wall with the—with the Jack of Hearts. We clash sometimes, but we do separate commissions, so it works out.” She put her hand down and smiled. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?”

  Carolyn warmed to this woman, who had just revealed personal information to her. “Yes, either would be fine. That’s very nice of you.”

  “I can’t leave the gallery for long,” Céline said, “but let me go start the water. I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll just look around some more, If you don’t mind.”

  “Make yourself at home.”

  And Carolyn made herself a new friend in Marais. They had a long talk about the Paris art scene. Céline gave her advice on other galleries to visit. And some contemporary painters to watch out for.

  “If you see anything you like in Paris, Carolyn, if you have any questions about it, please come and see me. I don’t need to make a living off this
stuff. It would give me an excuse to get out of this building for a while. I live just upstairs, and I only go out for shopping. Even when my daughter’s here, she tries her hardest to keep me here watching the shop.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate your offer, Céline. I’m not really looking for art to buy. Well, I’m not against it. It’s more for myself. I’m not sure what I like for myself. So I’m not sure what I want to paint. Or draw.”

  “Oh, now you’ve said something new. You are an artist. You’ve been kidding me.”

  “Oh no, I haven’t been. Please don’t think that. It just seemed like the next thing to say to you. That I’m not looking for art to hang on the walls, I’m looking for art that appeals to me. I’m looking for myself, if you will.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable, young lady.”

  Carolyn visited many galleries during the week. She took her sketchbook out, and decided to go beyond her neighborhood to try the famous and beautiful views in Paris. The Eiffel Tower, Sacré-Coeur, Notre Dame. In Notre Dame she started sketching the outline of the cathedral from the plaza, but she drew a few lines of the towers and lost interest. She walked up the stairs of the tower and stood close to one of the gargoyles and put her hand on the sketchbook, but could not move the pencil on the paper. At Sacré-Coeur, on the very top of Montmartre, she found the vista of the city below her too vague and ambiguous for sketching. At Place du Tertre, she enjoyed a glass of white wine, and saw the prettiness of the place, and sighed and couldn’t relate to it. Just too picturesque. She looked down the stairs of Mont-Cenis, even walked down them to the bottom, and watched the merry-go-round outside the mayor’s office.

  This, she thought to herself, isn’t what I want to do. She took the metro home to her apartment on rue de Sévigné, opened up the window and looked out at Paris. She began to wonder if it had not all been a huge mistake.

  Had she, all this time, been coming to Paris? Or had she been just running away from New York?

  If I can’t draw, she thought, how am I ever going to paint? Her white bedroom, empty and set up as a studio with the light from the big window now seemed a gigantic mistake. I am no closer to figuring out who I am.

  She pursued her art no more for the next few days. Instead, she studied different restaurants for lunch and dinner, looked in at clothing stores and jewelry stores.

  Finally, Friday afternoon, she packed a change of clothes for the weekend, dressed in her brown corduroy slacks and a t-shirt, and took the subway to Nathalie’s house in the 16th arrondissement. Nathalie and her two daughters were waiting for her.

  “So, did you have a good week, Carolyn?” Nathalie looked beautiful and glamorous in her black jeans and white cowl neck cashmere sweater. Her brown hair was pulled severely back in a bun, which accentuated her green pendulant earrings and hazel eyes. She carried Marie, and let Anne go down with Carolyn to the car.

  “The car?” Carolyn raised her eyebrows. “Not that it matters.”

  “Yeah,” Nathalie said, “I just didn’t want to take the bus from the train station. And we’ll have more freedom when we’re there. To explore.

  Anne added her opinion. “And we might be stuck driving with Marc.”

  Two hours later they approached the outskirts of Senlis.

  “I’m so happy we came this afternoon,” Nathalie said. “Even though traffic has slowed us down, we’ll have Grandmère to ourselves tonight.”

  “And no boys, either,” Anne volunteered from the back, loud and clear.

  “Now, ma Chérie, you know you’ll have fun.”

  “Yes, with Sidonie and Yolande. But not Marc. Or François. They are nasty.”

  “All right, young lady, we get the picture. You don’t have to play with the boys if you don’t want to.”

  “And I don’t want to eat with them, either.”

  Carolyn turned to the back of the car and gave Anne five fingers. Anne hit her hand and said, “Oui!”

  “Oh, now don’t you go encouraging her,” Nathalie said, looking quickly at Carolyn and back to the road. “It’s not so bad as she makes out.”

  Carolyn nodded and laughed, then turned to the back again. “Will you introduce me to your friends?”

  Anne nodded seriously. “My friends.”

  “Look,” Nathalie said, with relief in her voice. “We’re almost there.” She turned to Carolyn again. “We don’t go into Senlis proper. We can do that some time while we’re here. It’s a beautiful town.”

  Nathalie turned off the road and approached a large white wrought-iron gate. She got out of the car and went to the side of the gate, where she punched a button. She said something and nodded. The gate opened and Nathalie returned to the car. They drove along a dirt road through a very large lawn and toward a three-story mansion.

  Carolyn looked over to Nathalie. “You didn’t tell me your grandmother lived in a grand house like this.”

  “No, but it’s not so grand inside.”

  “Your family must come from nobility or something.”

  “Not at all. My great-great-grandfather built this house. I’m not sure how he came to do it. It’s just always been there for me. My grandmother and my mother were born and raised here. I’ve been coming here all my life.”

  “Me, too,” Anne said in the back.

  Carolyn turned around and smiled at her.

  “Yes,” Nathalie said. “Over to the right, there beyond the trees, are the vineyards. That’s all that left of the estate. It’s enough to support my grandmother and grandfather and keep the house in the family. But when they’re gone, who knows. Probably my aunts and uncles will all fight over it.”

  “Oh,” Carolyn said, as if surprised.

  “What?” Nathalie replied, sounding a bit worried.

  “Well—I don’t know their names, your grandparents.”

  “You’re right, I never said. My grandmother is Marthe. And my grandfather, Luc. Luc and Marthe de Voisier.”

  “That sounds impressive. Aristocratic.”

  “Maybe, we don’t really know. There aren’t any genealogists in our family.”

  “Marthe. And Luc. Thank you, that makes it easier to greet them. Even if you introduce us.”

  The gray stone house loomed over them, three stories high, plus gabled windows looking out from the roof. Four stories, plus a basement, no doubt. The house was as aristocratic as the surname of the family. And only two people were living there? Carolyn was already curious for answers when they pulled to a stop just before they arrived at the front door.

  The front door opened and an older woman came out. She was tall and thin, but she seemed strong. Her graying hair was pushed to the back, just like Nathalie, but a large section in front hung down in front of her face. Her large dark red sweater spread out like a cape over her shoulders. She wore a dark blue dress with large white buttons and a black scarf around her neck. She strode out to the top of the steps and waved, her smile beaming out her happiness. The man who followed her out, full of a grand smile himself, had a white goatee and mustache and white hair that billowed out on top. He was much bigger than the woman, with great shoulders and chest, but his stomach was narrow. They both looked like they’d never been to a doctor in their lives.

  Anne jumped out of the car and ran up the steps. She hugged Marthe first, then quick ran to Luc and hugged him.

  “Come on,” Nathalie said. She went around to the side of the car and took the baby out of the car. She held Marie up for the grandparents to see, although the little girl was somewhat frightened by the exuberance of it all.

  “Ah, petite Marie,” Marthe exclaimed. She stepped quickly down to the ground, as if she were no older than Nathalie herself. “My little baby.” She took the child away from Nathalie and gave it wet kisses on both cheeks.

  Marie seemed suddenly to recognize her great grandmother. She smiled and clapped her hands.

  “And my Nathalie,” Marthe said, with a happy wide smile, and she embraced her granddaughter as they exch
anged kisses on the cheeks. “And this must be your friend Carolyn,” she said. She gave Marie back to her mother, took Carolyn’s hands in her own and kissed her on both cheeks. “Welcome. Welcome to La Chêne Cloîtré.”

  Carolyn looked into the woman’s eyes. Light blue with flecks of black. They shone with a slight mist, not tears, but of joy. The woman’s warmth came over her.

  “Thank you. It’s so very nice of you to invite me here.”

  “I’m happy you came today. Tomorrow the others will be here and it will be crazy. For the afternoon. But come, come inside, you must be starving. I’ve made tea and we’ll have some nice cake.”

  “Cake,” Anne yelled. “Grandma makes the best cake in the world.”

  “Yes, it’s true,” Marthe said, “It’s the best way to keep your children coming home. I made your favorite, Anne. Do you know what it is?”

  “Plum cake?”

  “Yes, I’m glad we agree.”

  As they went up the steps, Luc held the door for them. “Nice to meet you,” he said to Carolyn. He bent over and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for having me.” The soft warm glow of his light brown eyes made her feel welcome.

  “Yes, but, you know, you are someone different for us. Tomorrow the kids all come and today we can have a very quiet evening together. And get to know you more. Nathalie speaks very highly of you.” He smiled and gestured for her to enter the house.

  “Oh, that’s nice of her. She’s my best friend in Paris, so it’s very warm of you to say so.”

  The hallway was classic French, with worn wood parquet floors. The ceiling was extraordinarily high, with a large crystal chandelier hanging over the middle. A room opened to the right, another the left. In the back a wide staircase led to a landing facing up to a bright stained glass coat of arms, with the blue French lilies and red lions.

  Carolyn pointed up to it. “Is that your family?”

  He laughed. “Maybe. I’ve checked in Paris, and there is no registered coat of arms for de Voisier. So I suspect my grandfather, he was one who would do it, I think they found a local glazier and had them make it. It was important to him, I remember, all the family stuff.”

  Voice came from the room to the right, and Luc led Carolyn in there. This room had beautiful antique furniture, and several old landscape paintings graced the walls. Translucent lace curtains let in a gentle light from large windows, and red and gold drapery made an elegant frame around them, on two sides of the room.

  Marthe looked up at their arrival. “Come, my dear, sit next to me.” She patted the blue brocade Victorian sofa and smiled at Carolyn in expectation. Nathalie and Anne sat in elegant chairs. Nathalie held Marie, asleep, in her lap.

  Carolyn sat next to Marthe. “Such a beautiful home. Such beautiful furniture.”

  “It’s not antique,” Marthe said, dismissing the furniture with a wave. “It’s nice, but it’s just early 20th century, not older than that.”

  Luc let himself heavily into a deep armchair. “We do have a few pieces, but they are in the attic. At least until Marc and François grow older and settle down.

  At that, Anne laughed out loud. “See, see, I told you so,” she said to Carolyn.

  “Told you so what?” Luc said, leaning forward toward Anne.

  Nathalie answered for her. “She already told Carolyn that Marc and François were—shall we say—“ She looked down at Anne. “They’re rambunctious and not good company for little girls.”

  Luc laughed heartily. “Oh, I understand that. I’m on Anne’s side. They’re good boys, don’t misunderstand me. But, as I said, it’s best not to let them near the good furniture.”

  “Oh, you’re being too hard on them,” Marthe said. “They’re just boys. You would hurt their feelings if they heard you talk like that.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I’m getting it out of the way today so I can keep quiet tomorrow.” He laughed to himself. Speaking to Carolyn he said, “Anyway, it’s not that bad. Let’s just say that Anne and I have a more elegant view of things.”

  “The baby’s sleeping well,” Marthe said.

  “Thank god,” Nathalie replied.

  “Did she do well on the trip down?”

  “Oh, Anne was an angel and kept her occupied the whole way. I am really grateful for that.” Nathalie stroked Anne’s hair.”

  Marthe stood. “Anne, will you help me serve the plum cake? Maybe we’ll have a sample before we bring it in?”

  “Oh, yes, Grandma, I’ll help you.”

  The two of them disappeared out into the hall.

  “Grandpa,” Nathalie said, “how are you feeling? Has your arthritis been bothering you?”

  He shook his head. “It’s been fine. We’ve had warm weather, so I’ve been out looking at the vines. I don’t trust them.”

  “But they’ve been doing it for years.”

  “I know. And they do an excellent job. It’s just, I used to do a lot myself, you know, and it’s hard to let it go. I need to see for myself. That’s what I really mean.”

  “What kind of grapes are they?” Carolyn said.

  “Ah,” Luc said, nodding, “I see you appreciate wine. My grapes are Chenin Blanc.”

  “Oh, I know that. We have that wine in California, too. In Napa Valley, north of San Francisco.”

  “Yes,” Luc said, “Napa wines. I have heard of them, too. But I have never tasted them.”

  “Is there a chance I might taste your wines? Are they the grapes that are just outside the house?”

  “Two questions. Let me see. Yes, tomorrow with dinner, we will serve our 1975, and maybe the 1977. We’ll see. Tell you what, why don’t you come with me down to the cellar, if you’re interested?”

  “Not now,” Marthe said, as she and Anne came in the room. Anne carried a tray with a beautiful round cake topped with plums.

  “Oh, that looks delicious,” Carolyn said spontaneously.

  “We’ll go to the cellar another time. You’re saying the weekend, right?”

  Nathalie answered for her. “We are, Grandpa. I don’t want to leave until Sunday afternoon. I was hoping to show Carolyn some of Senlis Sunday morning.”

  “But, I do want to see the cellar. I’m not a connoisseur of wines, but I want to learn more. Would you also take me out to where the grapes are planted?” She surprised herself with the way she invited herself. But everyone was so warm. She just felt invited.

  “I would love to show you,” Luc said.

  “There, you’ve said just the perfect thing.” Marthe smiled at Carolyn as she made the table ready. “He’s afraid that none of the children are interested in keeping up the vineyard.”

  Luc addressed Carolyn. “You know what happened in the middle of the 19th Century?”

  “Yes, I think so. I understand that the French grape plants were devastated by a fungus. Is that it?”

  “You’ve got it. And so they imported vines from California and grafted them on. I don’t argue with that. It saved the French wine industry. French wine culture, I mean to say.” Luc nodded heavily, his eyes dark and glaring. “I don’t want to take anything away from the Americans. But it’s the ground that matters, the dirt, the history.”

  “That’s true, Monsieur. Every wine region is distinct because of the particular soil. I do know that.”

  “But, what you don’t know is that these grapes escaped the fungus. There has been no grafting on these vines. There were many others also, I don’t want to make too much of it. I’m not anti-American. Believe me, I know, the Americans liberated this house from the Germans. I’m just saying. These grapes, this Chenin blanc on this land, they are special. And now no one cares but me.” He was breathing harder, his voice getting louder.

  Marthe went over to him and touched him on the shoulder. “Ma Chérie, will you please calm down. We’re ready to have our cake.”

  Luc nodded and sighed. “Yes, of course, I’ll stop this nonsense.”

  “It’s
not nonsense,” Carolyn said. “I’m really sorry no one wants to carry on. I would if I had a grandfather like you.” Deep inside she felt the loneliness she had grown up with all her life. “I still want to see the grapes. And the cellar.”

  Luc laughed at her and said, “Thank you.” He cocked his head and raised his bushy white eyebrows in theatrical exaggeration. “Marthe is right. I think we should have our cake now before Anne gets too hungry.”

  Anne sighed in relief, looking at her mother, unaware that anyone noticed her reaction.

  “This cake is delicious,” Carolyn said, turning to Anne. “I’ve never had plum cake. And it has—what—brandy in it?”

  Anne’s eyes opened wide, and she looked at her mother again, this time in alarm.

  “Oh no,” Marthe said, “Anne, there’s no alcohol. It gets burned away. You remember the flambé I made last year?”

  Anne nodded, but remained serious.

  “Well, it’s the same thing. And anyway, you haven’t had any ill effects from my plum cake, have you?” She watched Anne with a serious face.

  “No.”

  “Fine, it’s all right then,” Nathalie said. “You’re not eating any alcohol.”

  Luc turned to Carolyn. “Anyway, it’s not brandy, it’s Plucia plum liqueur. Just one of the many ways that Marthe invents to make ordinary food extraordinary.”

  “Oh, Luc, stop that, will you? I like to cook, that’s all.”

  “No, I won’t. It’s true. She thinks I’m bragging for your benefit, Carolyn, but in reality I’m doing it to keep the good stuff coming.”

  “That’s right. He flatters me because he likes to eat like a gourmand. And you can see it on him.”

  “Go ahead, Marthe, make fun of me. It’s all right. I don’t mind. Just tell me what we’re having for dinner. Is it bread and water again?”

  Nathalie and Anne laughed at the silly conversation.

  “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” Marthe said, winking at her husband.

  “No, I can’t. You have to tell me so I can go to the cellar and choose the right wines. So, I’m sorry, I don’t have to wait.” He said to Carolyn, “Yes, there, you can come with me and help me choose the wine.”

  “I’d love to,” Carolyn said. “Not choose the wine but go to the cellar. Do you have any California wines? My mother has a winery.”

  Marthe, Luc, Nathalie and Anne stared at her.

  “A winery?” Luc said, his face showing his surprise.

  “Oh, I don’t mean she’s like you. She doesn’t make wine. It’s just—she has an investment in a winery in Rutherford. That’s the best grape terrain in California. Cabernet sauvignon. They make Bordeaux-style wines.”

  Luc’s face lit up. “I see. Bordeaux. Cabernet. So your mother is serious, is she?”

  “She likes her wine, if that’s what you mean. She doesn’t have a cellar, but she does have a climate controlled wine cabinet.”

  He leaned over and spoke in conspiratorial tones. “You didn’t happen to bring any with you, did you?”

  She laughed. “No, I’m afraid not. It’s mostly private, for a wine club she belongs to. But if it’s possible, I’ll try and get you some.”

  “Yes,” he said, looking at his wife. “Perhaps you could find out if they have a distributor here in France. I find this most interesting.”

  “I will, sometime. I haven’t paid much attention to it at home. It was just something she always did and I wasn’t part of it.”

  “I think you were mostly too young, wasn’t that it?” Nathalie said. She stroked her daughter’s hair.

  “Mostly. We didn’t drink much wine at home, and then I’ve been away at school these past years.”

  “And your semester with me,” Nathalie said.

  “I do like French wines,” Carolyn said. “I admit to being partial to Côtes du Rhône. At home they call that grape petite syrah.”

  Luc looked up in companionable joy, his eyes open wide. “I think you know more than you let on, young lady.”

  Carolyn shook her head. “No, I think you mistake my meager knowledge for more than it is.”

  “I think you’re losing the rest of us,” Marthe said. “I’m going to take care of these dishes, and then maybe we can all go for a walk. It’s beautiful outside.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right,” Luc said. “But people are interesting.” He raised his teacup to Carolyn.

  Carolyn did the same, then raised hers to Nathalie and Anne. “Thank you so much. And thank you Anne, for asking for this cake. It’s pretty marvelous.”

  “It’s my favorite,” Anne said.

  “Let me help you,” Carolyn said, picking things off the table.

  “Why not?” Marthe said. “I’m not going to do the dishes, I’ll just wait for Querubina tomorrow.” She turned to Carolyn as they walked to the kitchen. “She’s my housekeeper.”

  “That’s a beautiful name,” Carolyn said.

  “She’s Portuguese, such a hard worker. She comes in three times a week. Anyway, thank you for the help. Nathalie has her hands full with little Marie.”

  “She’s a beautiful baby. It must be hard with her, you know, with Bernard away so much.”

  Carolyn stopped and stared in awe when they entered the kitchen. She turned around for a sweeping view of the room. It was cavernous. At the end was a huge fireplace, and across the top a copper bar, with what looked like a dozen gleaming copper pots and hanging down.

  Marthe observed Carolyn with amusement. “That’s Querubina. She’s a fanatic about keeping things polished.”

  “But so much work,” Carolyn exclaimed in disbelief.

  “It looks like it, yes. But there’s only Luc and I here, so she just takes her time.”

  “But it’s so majestic. The whole room. I think of rooms like this as being a museum.”

  “Oh, come now. You’re not a tourist any more, Carolyn.” Marthe’s face displayed her satisfaction just as her voice bore a note of criticism.

  Carolyn nodded. “But I worked in the Louvre, so I know what a nice place is. I’ve been to Versailles. It’s just that this is your home. You baked your cake in here.”

  “I’m glad you like it, then.” Marthe nods to herself, accepting Carolyn’s feelings.

  Carolyn studied the rest of the rooms, the high beamed ceilings, the windows looking out over the park-like setting outdoors, the large rooster pottery and baskets on the mantelpiece high up, the gas stove with six or seven burners, the huge ovens. The Delft dishes in the breakfront. The pot with wooden spatulas sticking out of it like a whittled bouquet.

  Carolyn turned to Marthe who studied her with a frown and concern in her eyes.

  “I guess, you’re right,” Carolyn said, “it’s a French country home.” She looked at Marthe’s eyes and winced inside. “It’s your home. It’s Luc’s home. That’s it. Nathalie has been such a friend to me, and you are so kind. Yes, it’s not the room exactly. It’s just that I put some dishes on the counter.”

  “Are you all right?” Marthe said.

  Carolyn intertwined her fingers and held them up. “Yes, I don’t mean to sound difficult. I just love it here. Does that make any sense to you?”

  Marthe shook her head. “My dear, as they say, if you’re happy, I’m happy. But you are a bit emotional, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I know what it is,” Carolyn said. “It’s because I never knew my grandparents.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Marthe held out her arm to Carolyn, then embraced her. “I’m very sorry. But I know your feeling, you see. We have lost so many people in France from two wars. It’s not so strange to me to feel alone in this world.”

  Carolyn felt flushed and her eyes felt hot and near tears.

  “Sit down, my dear, and let me give you something.” Marthe opened a cabinet and took down an unmarked bottle with clear liquid in it. “Home made liqueur. Luc’s concoction. It works wonders for the soul.” She poured it into a shot glass. Then sh
e poured another. She lifted her glass and gave one to Carolyn. “To your health.”

  “To your health, Marthe,” Carolyn responded. She downed the liqueur and felt the burn in her chest and stomach. Her tears were replaced by other tears from the liqueur. “Wow. Luc knows what he is doing.”

  “He wins prizes with his wine and liqueur. Unfortunately, they’re just ribbons. Are you feeling better now?”

  “Yes. Now I feel like I have this kitchen inside me.”

  Marthe laughed. “We’d better go back. They’ll wonder what happened to us.”

  “But, I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Certainly. How can I help you?”

  “Will you let me draw your portrait?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, yes, thank you. I’ve been wandering around Paris trying to sketch things. I haven’t been able to put a thing on paper. Now, today, in this kitchen, I do. You’ve made me very happy. Oh—I don’t want to take up your time.” Carolyn didn’t see any trouble in Marthe’s face, but she felt as if she was simply demanding too much. Tomorrow was a big day with so many people coming. “Maybe some other time, you have your family coming.”

  Marthe shook her head slowly from side to side and looked at Carolyn in disbelief. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. But I don’t care. I would much rather sit for you than cook for them. I’ll ask Querubina to come over, and then instead of cooking we’ll just go into Senlis and—you know, they’re all like you, everybody just loves this kitchen. I’ll let them enjoy it while they use it. They always say I do too much. Well, then, not this time.”

  “Thank you so much. I would love to draw you outside, in your garden.”

  “How about now? It’s fine with me. There’s still plenty of daylight. Come on, we’d better get back in there—if you’re feeling all right now.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I was truly overcome with emotion. I left my sketchbook in the car. I want to go get it.”

  In no time at all, they were all sitting outside surrounded by red, pink and white roses. Nathalie held little Marie by the arms and helped her walk. Anne and Luc pretended to play chess together. Carolyn sat opposite Marthe, pencil poised over a blank page.

  “You can’t do that,” Luc said, laughing. “She just knocked over my king. That’s now how you win.”

  Anne’s voice pierced the air as she laughed in childlike glee.

  Carolyn studied Marthe, her graying hair standing out from the dark green and pink of the rose bush behind her, her eyes now a shade of darker blue, the black flecks more prominent. And her mouth, naturally upturned and smiling even though closed and trying to be serious. Her skin, soft and radiant within, with just a few wrinkles.

  Marthe sat straight in her chair, her hands on her knees. Her head was slightly cocked, and she looked at Carolyn’s face. She didn’t just sit for a portrait, she made herself open to the artist, she put her heart out to her. Her eyes, above her high cheekbones, looked at Carolyn with love and sympathy.

  Carolyn sketched the outlines of the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and thin arms. Then she put in the outlines of the face, drew the hair, put shadows on the face and hair and neck. She added warmth to the shadows between hair and face and underneath cheekbones, then merged the outside of the hair with the background.

  “Carolyn,” Marthe said, “do you know nothing of your grandparents.”

  Carolyn shook her head. “Nothing at all on my father’s side. He left my mother before I was born. On my mother’s side, I didn’t know them, either. My grandfather died when I was young. I did see a portrait of him painted by my grandmother. But she died in 1943 in Versailles.”

  Marthe sat up in surprise. “Oh my. Versailles. Have you seen her grave?”

  Carolyn put her pencil down. She slumped in her chair and spoke without lifting her head. A pain gripped the back of her throat. So close. “No. I haven’t gone.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Marthe looked over at Nathalie before continuing. “I didn’t mean to bother you about it.”

  Carolyn looked up and sighed. “You haven’t. Not at all. I just haven’t settled down yet.”

  “Certainly, I won’t go on about it. And I didn’t mean to interrupt my sitting.” Marthe smiled.

  Carolyn looked into Marthe’s eyes, feeling drawn by the sympathy that came from deep within. She head Nathalie’s voice.

  “How do you know about your grandmother? That she is buried at Versailles?”

  “I don’t know that she’s buried there. Her grave is in New York. It’s a small cemetery downtown. The gravestone says she died in Versailles, September 4, 1943.”

  “That’s certainly not very far,” Marthe said. “Oh, there I go again, telling you what to do.”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” Carolyn said. “Having met you, here, with your family, it makes me really want to try and find out what happened.”

  “Doesn’t your family have any record?”

  “My mother says she knows nothing. My aunt in New York said her brother kept no records of it.”

  “Then I know what you can do,” Marthe said. “You go to the town hall in Versailles and see what they can tell you. And then you go to the Red Cross in Paris. They have whole basements full of records, and they are very willing to help you.”

  “I will do that. Thank you.” Carolyn looked at the sketch and smudged some here, deepened shadows there, and added a few lines on the edges. “There. For what it’s worth.”

  “Let me see, let me see.” Anne came running over and stood by Carolyn, who held it up for her to see.

  “Is it good?” Marthe asked.

  “It’s beautiful,” Anne said.

  Carolyn took the drawing over to Marthe, who smiled and looked at Carolyn in gratitude.

  “Thank you, my dear. I will cherish it. Oh—I presume I may keep it.” She looked sheepish. “Maybe you want it.”

  “No,” Carolyn said. “I did it for you. I can’t thank you enough. As I said, I haven’t been able to draw at all in Paris. You have taught me something about myself. I am grateful to you all.”

  Marthe said she would take the drawing in to Senlis and have it professionally framed, and then determine where to hang it. The rest of the weekend went by quickly, with Carolyn helping Anne to avoid her cousins. On Sunday morning they said goodbye to Marthe and Luc.

  Carolyn felt herself trembling as she hugged Marthe.

  “God bless you, my child,” Marthe said. “I think you have real talent. Don’t forget what I said. I’m sure you will find something about your grandmother. What is her name?”

  “Julia. Julia Stuart.”

  “Well, Luc knows some people, too. I’ll make sure that he follows up with this. You never know. You have to believe. If you make it to Versailles, and walk around the town, you will be where she walked. That is very much in itself.”

  “I will. Thank you again.” Carolyn waved, and they got in the car and returned to Paris.

  She didn’t wait. The next day she took the RER train and got off at Versailles Rive Gauche. Within minutes she stood before the Monuments To the Dead, just around the corner from city hall on Avenue General de Gaulle. She searched all the names, even though she didn’t expect to find anything. Inside city hall, Carolyn found sympathetic people who took a long time searching their records, but they found no mention of any Julia Stuart. They did give her a list of all the monuments with names on them, and she went around to several of them, again without expecting anything, and again finding no mention. It was a very long day when she got on the RER train and made her way back to Paris.

  But now she was on a mission. Even if it led to nowhere, Carolyn was determined to find out what she could. Anything. At home, with the window open, she gazed out once more at the beautiful, warm, Parisian twilight. Suddenly, she became aware that she was a different person. This was the first time in her life that she was deeply interested in someone other than herself. She picked up the phone and called Marthe in Senlis, and spent an hour with he
r, going over her day in Versailles. She felt guilty. Marthe was not her grandmother, and she vowed to make this one phone call and then not bother her new friend again. But when she said goodbye, Marthe insisted that she keep her informed of the visit to the Red Cross.

  “Carolyn, it’s been thirty five years since the end of the war. It’s not very long, really. I have many graves that I visit every year. Luc was spared during the war, I am eternally grateful for that. But I pray. I pray for you, and now I pray for your grandmother. I feel very close to you. So promise me that you will let me know. All right?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “Thank you. Good night, Darling.”

  The next morning Carolyn walked up the steps of the Metro and out to a rainy morning at the bottom of the steps on rue du Mont-Cenis. One left turn, one block and she stood at the corner of rue du Mont-Cenis and rue du Baigneur. A small store front window displayed the lettering Croix Rouge de Paris. Her heart beat faster as she entered the office. Several posters showed Red Cross disaster relief around the world. Behind the counter were two desks. At one of them an young man stood when she came in the door. He looked to be not much older than Carolyn, if at all. He was tall, and thin, and wearing jeans and a white shirt. His face bore a couple days’ worth of black beard, matching his hair falling in ragged misdirection. But he smiled at her.

  “Yes, mademoiselle. Welcome to the Red Cross of Montmartre. How may I be of service to you?”

  Carolyn looked into his dark brown eyes, the eyes that were going to help her find her future. “I have information that my grandmother died in Versailles in 1943. I know her name, Julia Stuart, but that is all. What I’m asking is, is, is there any hope at all of finding out what happened to her?”

  The young man nodded sympathetically.

  “I know it’s not much to go on,” she continued. “But it’s all I have. I am prepared to accept that it’s not enough information.”

  “Well, why don’t you have a seat here.” He pointed to a chair opposite his desk, and lift up a board at the end of the counter for her to come through.

  “You know, of course, we don’t have any information here. And you say you have made inquiries with the authorities at Versailles?”

  “No, I didn’t say. But, yes, I was there. They have no information. My grandmother is American, and they have no information on any Americans. It was suggested I try the Red Cross. So I’m here.”

  “I think what I can do is help you get started.”

  “It would mean a great deal to me if you could.”

  He took out a blank sheet of paper, and lay a pen on top of it. “Her name, Julia Stuart. Please spell that for me. This is just a note for myself. And do you have any dates?”

  “It says on her gravestone that she died on September 4, 1943, in Versailles.”

  He sat back in his chair and looked at her in disbelief, as if she were a curiosity. “Her gravestone? So you know where she is. You are not looking for her. You just want to know where she died?”

  “When you say it, I must tell you, I’m not asking for you to spend any effort. It would mean a great deal to me to find out what I can about my grandmother.”

  “Yes, I understand,” he said. But he looked like he did not want to waste his time.

  Carolyn’s heart sank. She felt like a stupid fool on a fool’s errand. She stood. “I’m sorry. This doesn’t make any sense. In my head, it seemed like a logical idea. Talking to you, I realize it’s just a waste of your time. All I know is Versailles, and there’s nothing there.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I have to agree with you. There is no way we can help you.” He stood and put his hand out. As they shook hands he said, “Where is the gravestone? Is it here in Paris?”

  “No, it’s in New York.”

  “New York?” His eyes opened wide and he smirked, almost choking on the words.

  Carolyn blushed in humiliation. Without looking at him, she left the office and returned home. She instinctively called Marthe, desperate to talk to someone sympathetic. She did think about Nathalie, but no one could help her cope with this as much as Marthe.

  She dialed Marthe’s number, and when she heard Marthe’s voice, the comforting voice, a soft current of warm strength ran through her.

  “Marthe, it’s me, Carolyn.”

  “Oh, so soon. That’s unexpected. Have you found something out already?”

  Carolyn sighed. “No, I feel so stupid. It was embarrassing. I went to the Red Cross in Montmartre.”

  “Montmartre? That’s strange. Why there?”

  “Because, well, because it was the simplest subway ride from where I was. I didn’t think it made any difference.”

  “I should think indeed it would. What was there, an ambulance?”

  “Oh, you are making fun of me, too.” She felt sweat running down her back.

  “No, My Dear, not exactly. You are going to have to develop a thicker skin, Carolyn, if you are to make any progress in this.”

  Marthe’s motherly advice was exactly what she needed.

  “What happened exactly? Tell me in detail.”

  Carolyn felt encouraged. “It was just, when I told him what I knew, that she died in Versailles, and, and then when I said she was buried in New York, he practically laughed me out of there.”

  “Now Carolyn, you cannot give up hope. You simply went to the wrong place. I have to admit, I thought they would be more helpful. He could at least have given you some addresses or phone numbers.”

  “But it seemed so useless. I don’t have anything to go on. Just a date and a town.” Carolyn wondered to herself what was motivating her to even pursue this. Why continue when it seems to start from nowhere and lead to nowhere. The image of her grandmother’s grave in New York City Marble Cemetery flew up before her. The name, the dates, the places, they seemed so real back then, with Béatrice. Now they were nothing. They didn’t lead anywhere. She didn’t trust her own feelings. She felt an urge to put the phone down. But she saw the sketchbook, empty now, after she had given her one Parisian drawing to Marthe. It was open but blank on the coffee table in front of her. She desperately wanted to put Julia’s face on it. She thought of Hugh’s portrait in the attic in New York and formed the idea of putting it on paper, a sketch from memory.

  “You listen to me.” Marthe’s voice became serious and harsh and woke Carolyn out of her reverie. “You have more than that. You have your love for your grandmother. That’s what’s driving you. You cannot give up now. You haven’t even begun.”

  Carolyn sighed in relief. It was if now it didn’t matter whether she succeeded. It only mattered that she tried as hard as she could. “You’re wonderful, Marthe. I wish you were my grandmother.”

  “That’s a lovely thing to say, my child, but I’m not that person. We must continue to look for your real grandmother until there’s nowhere else to look.”

  Marthe’s statement hid hard. She felt herself blowing back and forth in the wind. “I hear what you’re saying. I just don’t know where to look.”

  Marthe sighed in near disbelief. “The first thing is, young lady, you don’t give up.”

  “But I don’t know where to look.” A tightness gripped Carolyn’s stomach.

  “So, you went one place, talked to an idiot, and now you’re giving up?”

  Carolyn heard the disappointment and frustration coming from Marthe. She felt sick at the tone in the voice on the other end of the phone. “No. I’m not.”

  “Don’t you have a phone?”

  “What? Of course, I’m talking to—“ Carolyn became confused.

  “Then use it. Call the Red Cross in Paris, the International Red Cross. Call Geneva. Can’t you do that?”

  Carolyn started shaking. She waited in silence for a moment, afraid of the sound of her own voice. She had never been in this situation in her life. She had always known what to do. “Yes. Of course. I think what I did was just give up after the first try.”

  “That’s better.” Ma
rthe’s voice sounded softer, but it still carried that note of disappointment in Carolyn. “And you keep me informed. I’m in this with you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I do. And I will.” A great heavy fear left Carolyn.

  “Good. Goodbye for now.” Marthe hung up.

  Carolyn put the phone down and went to the window. She opened it up and took long breaths of cool fresh air.

 

  IX Julia, Paris, 1940

  They headed south toward Marseille, three hours out of Paris, caught in the stream of traffic ahead and behind them, which had grown with every village they passed. Ducasse had told them they would head to Dijon, and from there straight south to Lyon, and from there to Marseille.

  In the beginning they had maintained a steady forty kilometers an hour, but three hours later that had slowed to half with the growing column of refugees.

  Julia sat cramped in the back seat, watching out the window as other cars and trucks joined them from each of the roads they crossed. Some flowed in from the right, from the west, but the huge influx came from any road that fed in on the left, from the east, fleeing the oncoming German army.

  The traffic became a two-lane road south, because no one was coming back toward them. No one was coming to Paris. When they passed Auxerre, on a clear bright morning, the refugees joining them were no longer predominantly automobiles. Now there were stragglers on foot, on horseback, whole families walking beside a cart. The cars still maintained a column in the center of the road, but the two lanes had slowly merged into one.

  Julia hunched down in the back seat, her arms folded across her lap. She was dragged along in a maelstrom of poor people fleeing for their life. Ducasse, Christine, Isabelle, they were quiet, all in a shock at what this escape from Paris had become.

  Ducasse pounded his hand on the steering wheel as if he could slam people out of the way. Cars were starting to pull over to the side of the road as they ran out of gas. Christine sat with her hand over her mouth as if that would protect her. She looked frequently at Ducasse, who only looked forward, put the car in first gear, then put it in neutral and waited, put on the brakes, then put it in first gear again as they moved forward, but had to stop again after a few moments. Now the road was becoming jammed with horses, people leaving cattle pulling carts with all their belongings. A horn blared at them from behind. All four of them turned around to see who it was that thought they had some sort of priority. It was a military car with an officer in the back. The car stopped and the Colonel or general, someone important, got out and yelled at them, “Let me through,” he said, emphasizing the word ‘through’. He raised his fist in the air to show his authority. “I must get through.”

  “My God,” Ducasse said, “who the hell does he think he is?” He turned around and shook his fist at the man, who probably couldn’t see him. “He’s running away from the battle and were supposed to help him?”

  Ducasse ignored the man and tried to move forward again, but this time they were stuck behind a military ambulance with a big red cross on it. Like all the other military they saw, it was going away from the enemy. Now they started to see soldiers walking on the side of the road. Their uniforms were in tatters and they had no weapons. They look down and put one foot in front of the other with no purpose. They didn’t even look like they were fleeing, they just look like poor homeless beggars walking along the road.

  Periodically the staggering column of refugees thinned out as people took refuge in farms or small towns. Then they made faster progress south. They saw a sign for the first time that said Dijon, but the next road was filled with new refugees merging in with them.

  The slow column became slower. The car began to sputter, filling Julia with dread. Isabelle, who had been silent the whole time, took Julia’s hand.

  “Damn,” Ducasse said. “We’re out of gas. I have three liters in the trunk. After that we’re out of luck.”

  “What are we going to do?” Christine said, panic in her voice.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ducasse said, “this will get us to Dijon.”

  “But we can’t get to Dijon,” Isabelle said, “we can’t make a left turn with all these—“ she hesitated, looked at the carts, the bicycles, the horses, the people on foot. Then, more soldiers, all moving in a solid sludge of despair on the side of the road. They avoided a bicyclist, then brushed past a stationary car without seeming to see either of them. They were like dirty ragged ghosts. “All these people,” she ended with despair in her voice.

  “You’re right,” Ducasse said. “Let me put what I have in the tank, and we’ll just have to see how far we get.”

  Three liters got them nowhere. The road began to slow down and then stopped. Ducasse got out of the car and stood on the running board to see what was ahead.

  He stuck his head in the window. “I can’t see anything. I don’t know what’s blocking the road.”

  The refugees all around them began to leave the road and go into the fields, climbing over fences, knocking them over, going into houses and barns, under trees. But it did not seem to reduce the number of people and animals on the road.

  Christine opened the door. “We might as well get out in stretch.”

  Ducasse and Christine stood in front of the car leaning back on the headlights. Julia and Isabelle got out of the car. They went to the side of the road and sat on the grass. Others were doing the same on either side of them. To their left, a few meters back, a horse lay on its side as two men tried in vain to get it to stand up. Finally, one of the men said, “Shit,” pulled out a gun and shot the horse. Everyone jumped, several women screamed. Then everyone was quiet again.

  The sky was clear, only a few clouds in the West moving ponderously, and the breeze pushed the treetops back and forth is if this were any normal beautiful afternoon. The ground was warm to Julia.

  A rumbling sound began, coming from no direction. It’s great louder and then they looked in the sky, everyone on the earth below, and saw two or three airplanes circling above them. Then the planes flew into a formation higher up into the sky, flew away from them in a circle. They instinctively felt the sigh of relief coming from around them. Julia looked at Isabelle, who touched her on the shoulder and then relaxed.

  In a second the roaring became louder, and a great screech of a siren blasted into their ears. Julia put her hands over her head. The siren grew louder and louder and then a bomb exploded a quarter mile away.

  Julia and Isabelle hugged each other and fell to the ground in the drainage ditch by the side of the road. Another siren came screeching down at them, piercing their ears. The plane came in low a hundred yards ahead of them, machine guns slamming the earth with bullets. Julia screamed at herself, everything blended together in the horrible sound of screaming Stuka sirens, people wailing in pain, bombs whistling and cracking, then explosions ripping the distance. When it was gone, her heart’s pounding kept up the massacre.

  They got up and looked around. People were screaming, others were holding bloodied corpses in their arms and yelling for help.

  “Mama!” Isabelle ran to the front of the car and picked up her mother’s lifeless body, blood covering Christine’s chest and legs. Next to her Ducasse’s still body lay in the road. Julia stood frozen by the side of the road her hands covering her face. She let her arms slowly down in looked at Isabelle rocking Christine back and forth.

  Isabelle kept saying, “Mama, Mama,” and running her hand over her mother’s hair, her other arm covering Christine’s chest as blood ran down her arm.

  Julia ran to Ducasse’s side, his body at a grotesque angle, his eyes staring up. There was nothing visible on the top of his body, but blood oozed into the dust underneath him. She knelt there, ears ringing, heart pounding, and then she saw her own blood running down her legs. Little pieces of glass stuck out from her shin. Forgetting Ducasse, forgetting Christine, Julia put her leg out strait and carefully removed twenty or so pieces of glass from her right leg. Her dress served as a clean
ing town, and she was left with many small red spots and pink smear up and down her leg. But she was grateful nothing had gone deeply in.

  Next to her, the car started rocking. She looked up and saw two men and a woman in the car. Julia jumped up and yelled at them, and they ran away with suitcases and purses. Instinctively, she started to run after them, but one movement of her leg brought her up short. They were gone into trees and nowhere to be seen. She turned back to Isabelle, still cradling her mother in her arms, dazed, thinking only of what she was holding.

  Several soldiers came up to them. One, with stripes on his arm, with round fogged up glasses, said, “We cannot let you stay here. We must move the bodies off the road.”

  Isabelle screamed at them. “She’s not a body. She’s my mother.”

  “I am truly sorry, Mademoiselle. Believe me I have seen my best friend blown apart. I know what you are feeling. But we have to free up the road.”

  “They’ve stolen everything from us,” Julia said, her arms out wide in outrage.

  “I’m sorry for that, too, Mademoiselle. We are not the police. If it was up to me I would be several miles down the road by now. But we have our orders.”

  Isabelle put her arm around Julia. “Where will we go? What will we do?”

  The soldier looked sympathetic, but he just shook his head and motioned to others to come to take away the bodies.

  Isabelle began screaming in panic. “What are you going to do? You can’t just dump them by the side of the road?”

  The soldier’s eyes blazed in impatience. “No. We won’t. We have to bury them in the field. Then we will be on our way.”

  One hour later, Julia and Isabelle stood over two mounds of dirt in a field to the side of the road. They had found a small notebook in the car, and noted the location of the burials. They looked at each other, then they looked around them and saw others standing over freshly-turned dirt.

  “Do you know where we are?” Julia said.

  Isabelle took Julia by the hand and started walking back against the flow of refugees. “Yes, more or less. I know what road we are on, I know how to read the signs. We will just have to walk back to the next road sign, and write it down.”

  “But what will we do? We have no papers. All my money was in my purse.”

  “I don’t worry about papers. Jacques will get us papers when we get back. As for money, well, walking is free. We will have to beg at farmhouses just like everyone else. And steal if we have to. We’ll worry about the rest when we get back.”

  They found a sympathetic farmer two miles north, glad to find someone who wasn’t afraid to go back to Paris. He gave them some bread and cheese, and some fruit to take with them in the morning, and said he would pray for them. They walked all day and into the evening, finally turning into the town of Avallon. On the church steps, they found a group of refugees who had gathered straw for the night. An elderly man and his wife made room for them. Isabelle and Julia found a huge pile of straw around the corner of the church. “Left by a farmer,” said the old man. “And over there,” he pointed to a table across the plaza, “they will give you something to eat. You’d better hurry, or it will be all gone.”

  Isabelle said that Julia should stay and watch over their magnificent hotel room. She brought back bread and ham and a bottle of wine.

  “We’re luck it’s not going to rain tonight.”

  His wife shook her head. “No, we would just go into the church. They wouldn’t keep us out then.”

  The next morning they are awakened by the sound of a truck coming close. Julia and Isabelle are the last ones awake. Everyone else moves as one to surround the truck. It is an army truck, heading north, amazingly, toward from the fighting.

  “Where are you going?” a woman asks, her voice raised in anger. “What are you soldiers waiting for to stop this war? It has got to stop.”

  Others in the small group of refugees yell in support of the woman.

  A man shoves forward close to the driver’s door. “Do you want them to massacre us all with our children? Have you seen what they did in Belgium. They are murdering us on the road. Why are you still fighting?”

  Julia was shocked at this change in the attitude of the refugees. A day before the soldiers were fleeing faster than civilians. Now the people are trying to get the soldiers to surrender.

  “Bastards,” Isabelle said. Several people turned in horror when they heard her. She grabbed Julia quickly by the arm and led her out of there and out to the road north to Paris. When they were safely out of earshot, she said, “Did you hear them? They have given up. Thousands dead, our soldiers killed.” Tears filled her eyes, but she did not stop. “My mother dead. Monsieur Ducasse dead. And these morons want to surrender? When we get back, Julia, we will find the communists who are still willing to fight the Germans.”

  Julia stopped and looked with fright at Isabelle. “What are we going to do? Isabelle, I am not a communist. I am an American who wants to go home to her family.”

  Isabelle nodded, but took Julia’s arm again and kept on walking. “No, of course, I understand. Nothing has changed for you. Except one thing, you have no money, you have no identity card, you have no ticket, you have no travel permit. Where do you think you will get one?”

  “But I will go back to the embassy, I will start there. They will remember me.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Isabelle said, rolling her eyes. “The embassy. Of course. But then what about the police? And what if the Germans are there? I sympathize with you my friend, but things are more difficult than you think.”

  Julia’s head spun, her throat was dry, and her leg ached. Lizzie? Will I ever see Lizzie again? Would she ever see America again?

  Rumors spread throughout the day that an armistice was coming. The phone war became real and France had lost. People joined them now, walking back to Paris. They found two abandoned bicycles and started to move faster. In two days they saw the city rising up in the mist before them.

  As they drove through the city, they seemed to be alone. Few people were on the streets. It was dusk, and no lights were on. The city was for all practical purposes deserted.

  On their way across the city, they saw something impossible. The Champs Élysées, the most elegant street in the world, was a ghost town. They pedaled across the middle of the traffic circle around the Arc de Triomphe by themselves. The few people who had begun returning with them had stopped at cities and villages before Paris. The finally made it along rue Caulaincourt to the base of the steps of the back end of Montmartre, where they put the bicycles down and climbed up the steps to 32 rue to Mont-Cenis.

  Isabelle opened the door to the apartment and entered it with caution. Nothing had been touched. Their coffee cups were there just where they had been left. She collapsed on the floor and sat looking down, her arms at her sides like a puppet let fall. Julia went to her and put her arms around her friend, and they stayed that way, unable to move, unable to think, unable to feel.

  “It’s all my fault,” Isabelle said, covering her hands on her head as if completely unable to understand what was happening. “I made her go. It’s me. I killed her.”

  “No you didn’t,” Julia said, “don’t you remember? She decided on her own.”

  “She wouldn’t have left if I stayed home.” Isabelle moved her head from side to side, trying to shake off the reality of what had happened.

  Julia tried to comfort her, but was at a total loss what to say. She felt so heavy, so tired, exhaustion beyond relief. Eventually, she just lay down on the floor, and Isabelle fell down next to her and they lay there, together, breathing, hearing the silence all around them, the darkness taking over the room and enveloping them in oblivion.

  Julia awoke in the middle of the night. She pulled Isabelle up and led her to her bedroom, let her down on the bed, and returned to her own room. She tried to think about what she could do, but there was nothing that came into her mind. Sleep finally came again to her.

  I
n the morning, she heard a noise out in the kitchen. She went out and saw Isabelle writing at the table.

  “What are you doing?” Julia was frightened at the weakness of her own voice.

  Julia had a determined look on her face. She did not look up as she continued writing. “I’m writing down the information Jacques will need to get us new identity papers. And transit visas and exit visas.”

  “Jacques, why Jacques?” Julia’s fear deepened. The hunger in her stomach was replaced by a wide pain in her abdomen. She knew perfectly well what it meant. Jacques was a forger. Isabelle was a communist. They were in it together.

  Isabelle put her pen down and pointed for Julia to sit. “What kind of fool are you? You have lost all your money, your papers, your clothes. You are nothing. Soon the Germans will be here, and you will be put on a train to Germany. Or worse, to Poland.”

  Julia sat, frozen, numb. She had never heard Isabelle talk this way. She had been helpless before the police, before the embassy people. Now she was helpless before the only friend she had in the world. She knew she could not get to Lisbon on her own. Hugh was not responding to her. She could go to the embassy and get a new passport. They would remember her. They had records of her visit. But she couldn’t go back to that police station and tell those men that she had lost her papers. They would take forever.

  She had no money. She wasn’t just helpless, she was penniless. All the traveler’s checks she had brought with her were now being spent somewhere near Dijon. And no one was going to investigate that with the Germans coming.

  Isabelle looked at her and smiled, a strange kind of smile. “At least no one will be able to spend your money. Unless they work at a bank, and I don’t think those bastards work there.”

  Julia found it hard to speak. “What are we going to do?”

  Isabelle’s mouth narrowed to a grim line. “I’m going to take this to Jacques, it’s our personal information, and what I remember from our travel and exit visas. He might be able to get you an American one, I don’t know. He doesn’t usually do that. It just depends on what he has in his stock.”

  Isabelle looked intensely into Julia’s eyes. “First, let’s get something to eat. Then I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”

  Isabelle made coffee, and they ate croissants left over from yesterday, putting what was left of butter and jam on them.

  “Now. I know, Julia, you still want to go home. That has not changed. But you cannot get on a train to Marseille until you have your papers and some money.”

  “But the American embassy, they will help me. I will get word to my husband.”

  Isabelle looked at Julia and shook her head. “Your husband. He’s had a lot of time, and you haven’t heard from him. I’m not surprised, either. If I remember correctly, when we met you were leaving the country with his daughter.”

  Julia shrank deep down inside herself and tears came to her eyes. “He must love me. He must. It’s just been so hard.”

  Isabelle stood and strode across the room. “Who are you kidding? You are all alone. You only have me. If you work with me, you have a chance. Otherwise they’ll just find you dead in a gutter somewhere.”

  Julia stood, fire in her stomach. “No!,” she yelled. “It’s not true. I will get home, with your help or without it. Nobody will stop me. I’m going home to Lizzie. I can do it by myself if I have to walk all the way to Lisbon.”

  Isabelle was taken aback by the fiery accusation in Julia’s tone. Her own voice softened in sympathy. “Yes, of course. I want that for you, too. By all means, do go to the embassy. Apply for a visa. Get them to send word to America.” She walked to Julia and took her by the arms. “But in the meantime you will have to wait. You can’t just sit around. Jacques can get us papers much faster than your embassy. You can use those papers until your good ones come from the embassy.”

  Julia hugged Isabelle and laid her head on her chest. “Yes, I understand. I know you are trying to help me. And believe me, I want to help you.” She pulled back and looked into Isabelle’s eyes. “I’m sorry for your mother.” Then, suddenly, she collapsed on the floor and began sobbing.

  Isabelle pulled her up. “What is it?”

  Julia slowed her crying, then stopped, then took long breaths and one final sigh. “It’s Lizzie. Imagine if she were here with us. She would have gone with us in the car. She would probably have been killed.” At the end, she lost her voice, and held her hands over her mouth as she began crying again.

  “All right, all right,” Isabelle said, holding her. “But she’s safe in New York. Now you have to plan to get back to her. Nothing’s changed about that.” She made Julia look at her. “Are you with me? Are we going to do this together?”

  “Do what? I don’t know what we are going to do?”

  “Jacques will help us out with a little money until we figure out what we can do. There are things here in the house we can pawn. We don’t need much to get by. The first thing is, we have to stock up. There isn’t anybody here.”

  “Here? Where? What do you mean?”

  “Paris is deserted. Very few people have come back. We’ll go to the stores and stock up on what we need to keep us going until we find a way to keep on going.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “Tonight, we’ll do it when it gets dark, the later the better.”

  “But that’s stealing.”

  Isabelle’s voice rose and became hard. “My god, Julia, what the hell do you think this is? The Germans bombed and strafed us, killed my mother, people stole everything we have and you are worried about morality.” Isabelle stared at Julia with violence in her eyes.

  Julia understood. She put her hand on Isabelle’s arm. “Yes, you’re right. It’s stupid of me. You can count on me.”

  “Eventually, we’ll know where we stand and where we can go. I know we can at least get to the south of France, and from there we can go across the Pyrénées, and we’ll be in Spain.”

  Julia nodded, but now she felt that her whole life lay in the hands of this woman.

  “Come with me,” Julia said. “Until tonight, we must go to Jacques. Once you have talked to him, you will feel much better. Because you will have a purpose, and someone else who can help you. Remember this, if anything ever happens to me, you can always go to Jacques.”

  Julia smiled for the first time. “And, I had completely forgotten. He has my pictures. The ones I want to take home to Lizzie.”

  Isabelle nodded, looking at Julia as if they were now partners, now that Julia has accepted a mission.

  Twenty minutes later they entered Jacque’s photography shop. Julia learned that he had not developed her pictures.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, in an unsympathetic voice. “You left without coming back for them. I didn’t do anything.”

  Julia felt that familiar sinking feeling, that she was losing control.

  “Oh, but Jacques,” Isabelle said, trying to help Julia. “You can work on them, can’t you? It’s really important for Julia. So it’s important for me.”

  “Do you know what’s going on, Isabelle?” He said, anger now taking over his face.

  “Yes, I do, Jacques. My mother has been killed, Mrs. Ducasse has been killed. So just shut up about your damned knowing what’s going on. We’re here because we need new papers. That’s your job. How long will it take?” She stood, defiant, arms across her chest. “Can you get Julia an American passport?”

  He nodded.”Easily. There’s not much demand for that. British passports, now that’s something hard to come by. Everyone wants one of those.”

  “When can we have ours?”

  “Let’s see, you need your residence permit, your travel visa, your exit visa, your Spanish transient visa and your Portuguese visa. Will that be all, Ladies?” The mocking tone in his voice was unmistakable.

  Isabelle stared at him with bulging eyes.

  “Yes, well,” he said, looking down at the counter with the papers Isabelle had given him
. “I can have these for you in three days.”

  “Three days? Are you joking?” Isabelle said, pointing angrily to the papers on the counter. “It used to be two weeks. What are you giving us? Bad stuff?”

  Jacques laughed. “No. You see, everyone’s gone. The city has been empty. So I have enough to take care of you. But it works both ways. I need help from you now.”

  “But people are coming back. They know an armistice has been signed.” Isabelle looked at Julia, who stayed mute and shrunken near the door.

  “And the Germans will be here in one or two days,” Jacques said. “When they arrive, things will be different.”

  Julia finally spoke up with a quiet little voice. “Is it possible to pick up my pictures.”

  Isabelle turned to Julia, shaking her head, her eyes over-bright. “Not now. Your pictures can wait until we have our papers.”

  Julia nodded in acceptance, and took a step back, hitting the door, her head down.

  “Julia,” Jacques said, suddenly sympathetic. “I will try to work on your photos, I will. But when the Germans arrive, people will come in here looking for new papers. They need good ones. The Gestapo does not accept papers that have been poorly created.”

  “And, so?” Isabelle said.

  He sighed. “And so, I need you to get me some good documents.”

  Julia, now, was not just cowed, she became frightened. “What do you mean? I thought you were going to get us good documents?”

  “Calm down,” Jacques said, raising his hand, frowning. “Isabelle, you know what I mean. I need you two to work with my sources.”

  Julia touched Isabelle. “What does he mean? What sources?” The shop became very hot and her heart beat fast.

  Isabelle turned to Julia. “Listen, it’s not so hard, and it’s not dangerous. I’ll explain it to you.” She turned to Jacques. “She’s right, though. What sources?”

  “I have two of them now.” He looked at Julia. “They are the ones who do the dangerous work. I just need you two to act as drop-offs.”

  “All right,” Isabelle said. “What sources, Jacques? Tell me who?”

  “Ah,” he said, shaking his head. “Things are different now with Nazis showing up any minute. They say that the Germans will be marching down the Champs Élysées in two days time. Now, Isabelle, I cannot tell you who my sources are. You do not need to know that. Just tell me that you will help me, and I will give you your instructions.”

  Isabelle turned to Julia, who waited a long time, then nodded.

  “Yes,” Julia said, “I will help. Because of what they have done to us.”

  Isabelle turned back to Jacques. “And?”

  “Come closer,” he said.

  Isabelle and Julia went up to the counter and leaned forward.

  “I need documents from people who are coming from the East. They only place to find them is on the trains coming into Paris from the East.”

  “Why the East?” Julia said, truly puzzled.

  “Because that region is now behind German lines. No one will go back there to check the authenticity of the documents.”

  “I see,” Isabelle said. “A very good idea.”

  “So,” Jacques continued. “Your part is very simple. You go to the Gare de l’Est every evening.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding seriously, “every evening until we have two sets of papers.”

  “Only two?” Julia said, now confused.

  “You can’t be going every day to the train station. People will start to recognize you. So you might each get a set of papers on the first day, and then it will be over for you. I have others who are willing to help the Party. You are the first.”

  “I don’t understand,” Julia said. What are we supposed to do?”

  “Isabelle will tell you,” Jacques said.

  “You have done this before?” Julia said, turning to Isabelle, fear in her eyes. Then she remembered. “Oh, yes, your mother was angry at you for something, for going out by yourself. So, now I know.” She turned to Jacques, stood with her chest out and her head held high. “I will do my part.”

  Jacques nodded and held out his hand to each of them. “Vive la France!”

  “Vive la France,” Isabelle replied.

  “Vive l’Amérique,” Julia said, defiance in her eyes.

  “Yes, yes,” Jacques said.

  They left the shop and turned the corner on their way to Isabelle’s apartment on rue du Mont-Cenis. The streets were not empty now, but there were no cars, and only the isolated bicyclist. People they passed on the street, people whose faces Isabelle knew from childhood, kept their eyes down. They had already accepted the same defeat as the French army.

  Inside, Isabelle turned on the radio on the table in the living room. She turned the dial until she heard a voice in French. “Listen,” she said. “I know that voice. It’s de Gaulle. I wonder what he has to say.”

  The two women listened in silence as de Gaulle explained that the French army would regroup around him, and that all French citizens should show their support.

  Isabelle laughed. “Did you hear that? What a hero. He’s in London, on the BBC, and he wants our support. Well, to hell with him. We’re here in Paris. The Germans are coming. And we’ll be on our own.”

  “Isabelle,” Julia said, feeling more confident, but still feeling weak and insecure. “What is it we have to do at the train station?”

  “We will go in three days, when we have our own papers to show the police. In the evening, after the dinner hour, when the trains will be arriving. You and I will each have a copy of a newspaper, Le Monde Diplomatique.”

  “Le Monde Diplomatique? Why that newspaper?”

  “Because it’s last week. That’s an important clue. It’s the only way they know who we are. And then we face the paper away from us. That’s the sign. That paper upside down to us, sitting at a table next to the fast food counter where they sell ham and cheese sandwiches. We sit there for an hour after the train arrives and then leave.”

  “So, I don’t understand,” Julia said. “What happens?”

  “You and I each buy a sandwich and put it in a paper sack. We eat the sandwich, very slowly, over the hour, maybe have a glass a wine, but we just sit there. The paper sack is open on the table. That’s where the pickpockets will drop the documents. They just walk up to the counter, and as they pass us they drop the documents in the sack and keep on going. It all happens very fast.”

  “How do they know whom to choose?”

  “I don’t know myself. It’s not something I want to know. That’s part of the success. We don’t know each other. But it’s simple, I think. They choose people who look like they’re not Parisians. Clothes, suitcases maybe. They look ragged or dirty. They’re afraid. That’s my guess.”

  Julia nodded in amazement. “Then what?”

  “Then we get up and leave.”

  “Together?”

  Isabelle slumped in disbelief. “No, stupid, not together. We don’t go in together, either. We do this separately. We don’t even know each other.” She glared at Julia.

  Julia wasn’t cowed. “You’ve done this before, Isabelle. I haven’t. You know you’re brave. I don’t.”

  Jacques, or someone sent by him, knocked on their door two days later. When Isabelle opened the door, the hallway was empty, but an envelope lay at her feet. She quickly picked it up and closed the door.

  “Julia, our papers are here,” she said, excited.

  Julia took her papers from Isabelle and breathed a deep sigh of relief when she counted them: residence permit, permit to travel around France, transit visas for Spain and Portugal, and, amazingly, a well worn American passport, with her picture stamped on it, and a recognizable signature from the embassy. She was even more surprised to find beneath that a ticket for Pan American Airlines Clipper Service from Marseille to Lisbon to New York. And a train ticket from Paris to Marseille.

  “How is this possible?” she said to Isabelle, going pale and cove
ring her mouth.

  “It’s Jacques,” Isabelle said, smiling. “He’s the best there is. Him and Virginie. She’s an artist of the first rank, if you ask me. It must be what he said. Everyone has left the city, they have not started back yet in large numbers, and viola, he works fast, too.”

  Julia began to shake. “I don’t know. If someone asked me to show these papers, I would be so afraid. I would show it, I know.”

  “Ah, yes, I understand, my friend. But you have one day before we go out. Now is the chance to test yourself.”

  “Test myself? How?” Julia brought her nervous hand up to her forehead.

  “We’ll go out. You show your papers to someone, we’ll figure out who, and then you’ll feel comfortable.”

  “Oh, now, I couldn’t do that.” Julia turned away and went to the far corner of the room before turning back.

  “I understand,” Isabelle, said, showing great sympathy in her voice. “Julia, look at me, seriously, look at me in the eyes.” When she had Julia’s quiet attention, she continued. “You don’t have to do it. You are not French. You will probably be going home very soon. It is not fair to put you in this position.”

  But Julia could not accept that. “No. No, I can do it. I was just scared at the first thought of really going out.” She came back to Isabelle and stood before her. “I am with you. I can’t run away now. And anyway, it’s just two times, isn’t it? Isn’t that that he said? What’s so hard about sitting at a table eating a sandwich?”

  It wasn’t hard. Toward the end of the hour a man, a kid it seemed to Julia, dropped something in the bag on the table. He did it so swiftly, she didn’t even see his hand. The bag didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. It was just a blur by the side of her face. She immediately took a bite of her sandwich and a drink of wine, and put the sandwich back in the bag, and doing so she noticed a passport in the bottom of the bag. A Swiss passport. Excited, she left the train station and made her way home. When she arrived at rue du Mont-Cenis, she saw the light was on in the apartment. Isabelle was waiting for her inside. Julia’s eyes burned with excitement when she handed the bag to Isabelle.

  Isabelle did not take out the document. She took the whole sack and put it next to another one on the table. “Tomorrow I will bring this to Jacques. And we are done for now. Or at least you are. You can plan your trip home, Julia.”

  Julia sat, exhausted, drained. Relieved, but feeling hot and shaky. “I can go home? Aren’t you going with me?”

  Isabelle looked at her sadly, shaking her head, her lips tight. “No. I have to pay them back for my mother. I cannot forget what they have done. I must stay and help Jacques.” She stood and went to Julia. “But you, you have done more than can be expected. You have your little Lizzie.”

  “But you,” Julia said, “you have your brother, Daniel. You have to think of him, too.”

  “Daniel? Yes. I think Daniel will do the same as I. the same as millions of other French citizens. I know he is going to come back over here and fight for France. And I sure as hell am not going to go over there to New Jersey and then find out he’s not here. He will come here, Julia, to his home. He will find me, and together we will defend our country.”

  “I don’t know how to get to Lisbon. I need your help.”

  “Stop it,” Isabelle said, her voice angry. “You do know how. Tomorrow morning we will bring the sacks to Jacques, you can pick up your photos, and you will leave on the first train going south.”

  The next morning, early, they left the apartment. Isabelle stopped Julia when they arrived at the bottom of the steps. “Now I say goodbye to you, my most cherished friend. Some day, when this is all over, we will meet again. But for now, we must separate. I will go first. I will drop off the sacks and leave. You wait until I’ve disappeared around the corner. That will provide enough time to separate us. Then you can go into the shop and get your photos.”

  Without waiting, Isabelle turned and walked away. Julia went to the window of the restaurant and stared at the menu as long as she could, then followed in Isabelle’s direction until she came to Jacque’s shop. She looked through the window to make sure that Isabelle wasn’t inside. Jacques wasn’t to be seen either, but she knew he was just in the back, putting the documents in a safe hiding place. He entered the door and walked up to the counter.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  Two strange men in long black trench coats came out from the back. They both wore black fedoras as well. One was tall, with blue eyes and dark blonde hair, and a black moustache covering the whole of his upper lip. The other was shorter, with black eyes, brown hair, and a round face with pockmarks.

  Julia’s heart began to pound in her chest.

  “Who are you?” said the tall man, his voice deep. He did not talk with a native French accent.

  “I—I’m just here to pick up my photos.”

  “Ah, I see,” he continued. “And your name?”

  Julia looked between the two men. “Julia. Julia Stuart.”

  The smaller man stepped in front of the other and put his hands on the counter. “Stuart? Hmm. Are you British?”

  “No. I’m American.” A deep terror began to rise within her as she reached in her pocket to take her documents out. Following Isabelle’s instructions, she had put her passport , transit visas, and tickets in her inside pocket, and her French documents in her outside pocket. She handed them to the man.

  He pulled them roughly out of her hand, and studied them. Then he gave them to the taller man almost as if dismissing them. He nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Give me one minute. I will see if I can find them.” He looked up at Julia, studied her, then turned around and went to the back.

  “Where’s Jacques?” Julia said in a moment of panic. She instantly regretted admitting she knew him.

  “Jacques. Oh.” The man spoke in a friendly voice, but his face was passive. “He is a friend of yours?”

  Julia shook her head. “No, not at all. He’s the owner of the shop.” She pointed to the name on the window behind her, now backwards from the inside.

  He nodded, his eyes penetrating, not believing her, or not caring either way. “Ah, yes, I see. Well, Miss, we will wait for your pictures.” He shrugged his overcoat on better, then looked around the shop before turning back to Julia. “You have very many documents on your person. And it appears you have only just recently arrived.” He stepped around the counter and came closer to her. “ You have a residence permit and a travel permit for France. For travel within France? Why do you need to travel within France? You must have a passport. Please show it to me.” He spoke politely to her, but his eyes and his turned down, contemptuous mouth continued their accusation. He studied her face, and studied the opening of the top of her coat.

  Julia fumbled in her pocket so she could extract the passport without taking her transit visas or tickets out. He handed him the passport. Her heart beat fast, but she controlled her breathing, and forced herself to smile. “Please, I just want my pictures. I’m taking them home to my little girl.”

  “You should not be worried,” the tall man said, smiling. “We are only here for routine police business, that is all.

  The short pockmarked man returned from the back and said, “Your little girl? Where is she?”

  Julia held her hand out to receive the pictures, but the man held them back and looked at her in defiance.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Where, did you say?”

  “In New York. Back home.” Julia felt a sense of relief in saying New York, as if it would protect her from these men, who were not Parisians. And maybe not French.

  The tall blue-eyed man looked at her passport and handed it to the pockmarked man, who looked at him, put the passport in his pocket and walked to the door.

  “My passport—“

  “Oh, please, just be patient, young lady, and everything will be well.”

  The short man returned to the shop and brushed roughly past Julia and into the back. The tall man went by
her and blocked access to the door.

  Julia was shocked to see Isabelle come out the back, followed by Jacques. Isabelle came by, kept her head down and hit Julia on the shoulder as she passed, followed by Jacques, also with his head down. A screech came from outside. Julia turned to see a large sedan arrive, and then another. She felt a strong hand take her arm and push her out the door. She put both feet down flat and resisted, but then the short man took her other arm and they pushed her into the street. The first car drove off with Isabelle and Jacques in the back seat, and a second car pulled up. She was shoved hard into the back seat. The short man got in next to her and the tall one sat in the front. The car took off. The man reached over Julia and locked the door, then he put his hand on her arm and held her immobile.

  They drove through the mostly empty streets of Paris until they arrived at rue de Lauriston, opposite the Passy reservoir. When Julia was pulled out of the car by the tall man, there were no other cars on the street.

  They dragged her up the steps and into the building, then down stairs to a basement and inside a room. Isabelle and Jacques stood alone in a dark room with a small window and dirty concrete walls. Isabelle shook her head at Julia.

  In less than a minute the door opened and the short man came in and pulled Julia out with him. They went upstairs to the first floor and into an apartment. There, the tall man stood behind a simple table in an otherwise empty apartment. Her documents were on the table. The short man lifted her coat, and Julia resisted but he stepped in front of her and stared intensely at her eyes while he continued to take it off.

  He gave the coat to the tall man, who looked in both pockets and took her transit visas and tickets out.

  Julia did not wait for him. “You see, I am going home to New York. I am an American. You have no right to hold me.”

  The tall man laughed. “Mademoiselle, we are not holding you. Don’t misread us. We merely wish to ask you a few questions, and then we will let you go home to see your family in America. Please sit.”

  Julia looked at the simple wooden chair in front of her but did not move. The short pockmarked man came over and led her in front of the chair and pushed her down, the whole time looking at her with his intense stare. She sat, but looked down at the floor.

  “Now,” the tall man said, “we see that your residence permit has the same address as your friend Isabelle. But of course she did not acknowledge you at the photography shop. And just now, in the basement we observed how she shook her head at you. What do you say to that?”

  Julia’s stomach tightened. “We live at the same address. It is just a coincidence.”

  “So, you do live at the same address, and yet she tells you not to recognize her. What are we supposed to make of that?”

  “You have no right to keep me here. I demand to talk to the embassy.”

  “Of course, of course. All in due time,” the tall man continued.

  The short man stood in the corner with his hands in his pockets, looking on like a disinterested observer.

  “But first,” the tall man said, “you must help us understand.”

  “I don’t know who you are. This isn’t the police,” Julia said in defiance. “I don’t have to answer your questions. I want to speak to someone in the embassy.”

  The tall man shook his head but his voice carried sympathy. “So you obviously know Isabelle Desjardins, but you deny it. You pick up your pictures in a shop that work with the communist underground.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did not what?”

  “I don’t know anything about communists. I am an American.”

  “Once again,” the tall man said, in an impatient voice, “here we are. You don’t know her, but she shakes her head, you don’t know her but you live in the same building, on the same street. And then—“ He came around the table to stand over her with the pictures in his hand. He pointed to them. “You take pictures of the Paris Police Headquarters. For what? To help the communists, I am sure.”

  “I didn’t. I took those pictures for my little girl. I didn’t even know that was a police building.”

  He waved his head back and forth in mock sympathy. “Even though that’s the building where you picked up your travel permit.”

  Julia’s hands shook on her lap. She looked up at him, pleading. “That’s just a picture outside the US embassy.”

  His face twisted into a contortion of disgust. “It’s a picture of the police building.”

  The short ugly pockmarked man walked over to Julia. He took a dark object out of his pocked and hit her knee.

  Julia screamed in pain and fell out of the chair. She tried to get up but the brutal pain in her knee kept her on the floor.

  The tall man lifted her up and put her back in the chair. He spoke to her in English in a German accent. “It doesn’t matter. We have our evidence. No, you are probably not a communist. But you have helped a communist. I can’t help you. Tomorrow the German army will enter Paris. Then we will take your friend Isabelle and her collaborator Jacques to police headquarters and extract all the information we want out of them.”

  Julia rubbed her knee, trying to soothe the pain, but it didn’t help.

  “As for you, Miss Stuart, you are an enemy alien, and as such you will be put into a camp where you can safely wait until the Third Reich has conquered all of Europe. And after that, who knows.” He leaned over to get close to her, hatred in his eyes. “There, they will have an opportunity to interrogate you about your family background. We don’t have the luxury of a long interrogation. They do.”

  They took Julia outside to a waiting car, who brought her to the rue de l’Odéon. There she was put on a truck and brought to the forest on the outskirts of Paris. She found herself in a warehouse, where she waited with other foreign women.

  She lined up the next morning for an interview with the German Red Cross. Three stout women in dark gray coats with the red cross emblem on the chest and sleeve, sat at a table in a corner of the warehouse. Julia sat opposite a woman with gray eyes and hair, and splotchy skin. She was at the end of the table, and the two other women to her left were speaking in French. The Red Cross woman opened her coat and inside, on her shirt, Julia saw a small swastika.

  “I am here to help you,” the woman said, her eyes impassive, her face cold.”

  “I am an American,” Julia said, hoping another time that someone would listen to her.

  The woman nodded. “I understand. This is not a political interview. I am here to help you contact your relatives and see if you need any other help. We are an international organization, you see.”

  “So what can you do?” Julia said, but her tone indicated more derision than curiosity.

  “If you give me your address, we can contact your family. Also, any friends.” The woman poised a pen on top of a sheet of paper with Rotes Kreuz written on top, and an address Julia could not make out.

  Julia gave her the information.

  The woman smiled. “You have a little girl?”

  Julia nodded.

  “How old is she?”

  “She is two.”

  “I see,” the woman said, puzzled. “Well, then assuredly you will want to do everything you can to be reunited with your little girl.”

  “Of course,” Julia said, holding her stomach.

  “Then this is my advice to you.” The woman leaned forward to look more sympathetic. “Just do as you are told. Stay out of trouble. Then you will see your little girl sooner.”

  Julia leaned back, away from the woman, and narrowed her eyes, but she did not respond. That was not advice. It was more of a threat.

  The woman saw that Julia wasn’t accepting her admonition. She nodded and smiled. “Let me tell you. From experience. It’s best to help them out. It’s mutually beneficial.”

  Now Julia understood. This wasn’t the Red Cross, it was just a Nazi in disguise, hoping to get information out of her. She decided to accept the threat. “Yes, I understand. Tha
t is very helpful advice. Thank you.” She stood, and winced deeply from the sudden pain in her knee.

  The Red Cross woman stood too, and leaned across the table to help Julia. Julia pulled away.

  “Your knee, or leg, what is it?”

  Julia glared at the woman. “It’s nothing. It will get better.”

  “But, still, you should be careful of your movements.” The woman looked left at the others at the table, then, as if she were being stealthy, took a small box out of her pocket. “Here, here is some aspirin. It will help. As soon as you get where you are going, you should have a doctor look after your leg.” Then, without waiting, she called out, “Next,” and pointed for someone behind Julia to come forward.

  Julia moved out of the way and limped back into the center of the warehouse. She took some aspirin, and was grateful for it, but she knew absolutely it was just a ploy to gain her confidence. It didn’t work.

  Two hours later, she was told that the American Embassy was waiting to see her. Julia went back to the same tables used by the Red Cross, and saw a lone woman sitting at the table. Her spirits lifted when she recognized the woman as Marlene, the receptionist from the embassy. She was wearing a dark blue suit, with a card hanging from the breast pocket that identified her as from the American embassy.

  “Hello.” Julia smiled and offered her hand to the woman. She didn’t feel any pain as she sat down, a very good sign.

  “Hello. I’m Marlene Lindquist, from the embassy.” The woman smiled and looked intently at Julia.

  “Yes, I remember you.”

  “You have a slight limp. You didn’t have that when you came to the embassy. Are you all right?”

  Julia wanted desperately to tell Marlene what had happened to her, but she wasn’t confident that anyone could be trusted. Not in this place. “I’m all right. I think my knee will heel. Thank you.”

  “Do you know why you are in here?” Suddenly, Marlene’s tone changed. Friendliness was replaced by seriousness.

  “Know why? No. Not really. They saw a picture I had taken, and they said it—“

  Marlene shook her head. “No there’s something else. It’s rather serious, actually. It’s your passport?”

  When she heard those words, Julia understood and knew there was nothing she could say. But she decided to keep it to herself. “What about it?”

  “The French police called us. It seems you gave them a passport, and they called us to verify it. We did say we knew you, that you had been in to get an exit visa. That was fine. But the number on your passport is not the number we had in our records. There was nothing we could do.”

  Those words—nothing we could do—hit Julia like a knife in her heart. “I—I—I lost my passport.”

  Marlene’s voice became sympathetic, as she raised her hand. “I’m so sorry, Julia. The matter is out of our hands. Why didn’t you come to us first?”

  “My friend said she could help me. I didn’t think there was time, and the French police wouldn’t give me a new travel permit. I didn’t ask for the passport. I was going to go to the embassy, but then the police came.”

  Marlene’s eyes softened and she put her hand on top of Julia’s. “I am sorry, believe me. We are not sympathetic to the Gestapo. Do you have anyone who can help you?”

  Once again, Julia gave the information about Hugh, and Lizzie. Marlene promised that they would contact her husband. Before she left, she gave Julia a pen, paper and envelope, and waited while Julia wrote a letter.

  “I will make sure this is not the next diplomatic pouch, so it can be mailed quickly to New York.”

  Marlene stood, hugged Julia, and walked away.

  On the fourth day, they were all put back on trucks and transported to the Pantin Station, where German soldiers accompanied them for a day and a night to the town of Vittel and internment. They were told they would stay there until Germany had conquered all of Europe. And then their fate would be decided.

  X, Carolyn 1980 Paris

  Carolyn picked up her phone again and talked to the operator and wanted to laugh and cry at the same time when the operator, after listening to her story, gave her the number of the International Red Cross in Paris and the number for Geneva. The Red Cross in Paris told her that she needn’t call Geneva. The place she wanted was Bad Arolsen in Germany.

  Bad Arolsen? That didn’t make any sense. But she learned that the German government, after the war, had set up the International Tracing Service. Because, after all, the Nazis had kept the best records. And everything eventually became centralized there. It was housed in an old SS barracks in a town that hadn’t been bombed during the war. If there was any information on Julia Stuart, that’s where it would be.

  She called the Tracing Service and was at first surprised by the extraordinary warmth and sympathy in the voice of the woman on the other end of the line. Then she came to realize that this person was used to talking to people who had lost mothers and fathers in concentration camps.

  “My name is Frau Hanne Koehler. What is it you are looking for?”

  “I’m trying to find out what happened to my grandmother, an American. I believe she died in France in 1943.”

  “So, I’m sorry that you must undertake this difficult task. I hope we may be able to help you.”

  “Thank you Frau Koehler.”

  “Sometimes it is easy, sometimes not so easy. Let me first inform you of how the process will take place. We cannot do this over the phone. We have records, and we even have an alphabetical listing, a central name index. But after that, it’s going through a warehouse of records in any number of records. You do understand this?”

  “Yes, I do.” But Carolyn felt relief already.

  “Then you can do this through the mail. I can send you a form—“

  “But—“

  “But what? I know what you are going to say. First, what is your name please?”

  “Carolyn Stuart.”

  “I see. Miss or Mrs.?”

  “Miss.”

  “Yes, then, Miss Stuart. We have people dedicating their lives to helping others connect to refugees, victims and people who have simply disappeared. The number is in the millions.”

  Carolyn shrank inside herself. Here she was again, just as she was with Marthe, unable to get beyond her own limited feelings. She determined to change. Now.

  “Frau Koehler, I am immensely grateful for any help you can give me. I want to do things the proper way.”

  “All right, Miss Stuart, the proper way is the most efficient for you, I assure you. We need a form. You understand when you are looking up boxes and boxes of paperwork you need to have something appropriate to guide you.”

  “Thank you. How may I obtain a form?”

  The voice resumed its earlier sympathetic tone. “I will be happy to mail you a form. You mail the form back to us and it usually takes eight weeks for a reply. The reply will be a statement of what is in the Central Name Index. Of course, there is another choice.”

  Carolyn felt a strong desire to be still and let this woman’s voice carry her into the future. “Please, what is the other choice?”

  “You can come here yourself. We give priority to people who come here in person. We understand it is more important for some people. Mostly it is people doing research for a refugee group or the government, but sometimes, we recognize, it is for people such as yourself, who are willing to make the effort. If you are really willing to make the effort.”

  “Thank you for that information. Yes, it certainly is worth it for me to come there in person. It makes me feel already closer to my grandmother.”

  “You are where, now?”

  “In Paris.”

  “Paris. All right. You have our phone number in case you get lost. But you take the train. There’s a German Railway train from Paris, the Gare du Nord, to Cologne, then you transfer to Frankfurt, and from Frankfurt you will arrive here. It’s a whole day’s trip, but it’s straightforward. You will arrive too late to talk to us
. But the next morning you can come here, talk to someone, me if you like—am I—are you following me?”

  “Oh, yes, Frau Kohler, I have heard everything you said. And I do understand the chances are small. But it is important to me to come, even if I leave with nothing. If I don’t find my grandmother, you have all those other records of people who were there when she was. When can I come?”

  “Well, Miss Stuart, you are serious. The real question then, is when will you be arriving?”

  “I can leave tomorrow, and see you the next day. And it will take eight weeks after that?”

  “Oh no, if you make the effort, so will we. If you come promptly at eight o’clock in the morning, we will have someone available to spend the day searching our records. You can see the city, have lunch, come back and we’ll know what our records are. It’s after that when things can get complicated, depending on what we find.”

  “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

  And she did. And she returned to Paris two days later. And called Marthe.

  “Hello?”

  “Marthe, it’s me, Carolyn. I’m back from Germany.”

  “Oh, that’s interesting. A week ago you were completely distressed. Now you’re back from Germany. That’s very impressive. You must have found something out.”

  “I did. It’s like good news and bad news.”

  “Oh, always give me the bad news first.”

  “My grandmother. They lost trace of her, and that’s a bad sign. For someone who was interned in World War II by the Nazis.”

  “I understand that, dear girl. For us, the French, it is a common story. Now tell me the good news.”

  “It’s not exactly good news, I shouldn’t have said that. But I learned what happened to her. She was put on a train in Paris in 1940, and sent to Vittel.”

  “Ah, I know Vittel. A spa town. Luc knows those camps better than me. He knows people. And then?”

  “Then, that’s the end. She went to Vittel and did not come out.”

  “You mean she died there?”

  “No. Well, that’s probably what happened to her, but there’s not record.”

  Marthe’s voice became more sympathetic. “Carolyn, my dear, I’m very impressed with what you have done. You knew already that your grandmother was dead. So this is not a surprise. But in a very important way, you have become closer to her. And you have proven to yourself that you loved her. You went through a lot of trouble to find out what happened to her.”

  “I must again thank you, Marthe. For teaching me how to be more serious about my life.”

  “So now you can go on with your life. Now you are living it a little more deeply than before.”

  “Yes. It’s not completely over. In two or three months they will send me a document with the details, of what they have, what they know from French sources, Germans, the Red Cross.”

  “Until then, why don’t you come over to Senlis and have tea with me? I have framed your picture and I want you to see it.”

  “I would love that.”

  Carolyn took the train to Senlis and felt the warm sun on her face as she watched the beautiful green countryside pass by the train window. She looked up in the sky, trying to find figures in the clouds. She found several, including a teddy bear, but quickly realized she was finding what she wanted to see.

  When she rang the bell in front of Marthe and Luc’s mansion in Senlis, the door opened immediately.

  Marthe came out laughing. “Sorry,” she said, “we saw you coming up the driveway. We were upstairs. I made it to the door just in time, I thought, but then the bell rang.” She shook her head and waved the thought away. “Never mind.” She embraced Carolyn and kissed her on both cheeks. “Luc is inside with some special wine for you. We’re both very interested in hearing all about your trip.”

  The warmth in Marthe’s light blue eyes drew Carolyn in. “I can’t thank you enough, Madame, for your advice.”

  “Oh, come now, it’s not Madame for you and me. Not anymore. Luc’s waiting for us, he wants to hear all about it. You have awakened his interest in his family and friends. He was interned, too, you know.”

  Carolyn suddenly felt guilty. She had not talked to Luc about his experiences during the war. She had just been fixated on her own interest. She resolved to make up for it.

  Inside, Luc was standing next to a chess table, apparently playing a game with himself. When he heard them come in, he looked up, smiling with his mouth, but more with his eyes. “Carolyn, how nice to see you. We are both waiting to hear what you have learned in Germany.”

  “Oh, thank you, Luc. Both of you have been so kind to me, and you’re the ones who gave me the impetus to do all this. And I have never asked you about your experience. After all, you were here during the war. And I remember the first time I was here, you mentioned that the Germans took over this house. I really want to hear about that.”

  Luc made an almost imperceptible nod. “Yes, in time. But tell us about Bad Arolsen. We want to hear from you first.” He pointed at his wife. “Marthe tells me too little.”

  Marthe waved his statement away. “Yes, tell us everything.”

  Carolyn began the story with her conversation with Frau Koehler. At the center in Germany, they took her information, and when she came back in the afternoon, Frau Koehler was waiting with her information.

  “And, what did you learn?” Marthe said, closing her eyes and sighing with impatience. Then she smiled, but looked at Luc with a sense of guilt. “I haven’t told him. I wanted for him to learn for himself.”

  “Oh,” Carolyn said, surprised. She turned to Luc. “Um—I went there, the lady, Frau Koehler, she was very nice, very sympathetic. She took my information. It seemed odd to me, but it’s such a big place, several floors, lots of doors and cabinets even in the hallways. Frau Koehler took me into a room, in the afternoon, after they’d done their research.”

  “They don’t let you look yourself?” Luc said, frowning.

  “Well, they would,” Carolyn replied, “if I was doing research, but just coming in off the street, they don’t. But Frau Koehler showed me the microfilm they had. She told me, in the middle of explaining the images, that they sometimes had to leave because they hated seeing swastikas on everything, day in, day out, even on birth certificates.”

  “Ah, yes,” Luc said, nodding in contempt, “the Germans, that would be natural for them. More efficient. More horror for those that have to look at them. It’s as if they are screaming at us from hell.”

  “Luc, let her continue,” Marthe said, with criticism in her words, but not in her voice.

  “That’s it. There is a record of her being put on a train for Vittel, and a record of her in a census in Vittel. But that’s the end of it. Frau Koehler said there are records of people leaving Vittel at the end of the war, and some Americans leaving it during the war, but it seems my grandmother just disappears.”

  Luc was a little agitated. “The maybe she escaped.”

  Marthe shook her head. “Well, if she did, there’s no record of that.” She quickly looked sad. “I’m sorry, Carolyn, I shouldn’t have said that. Luc’s unwarranted optimism made me do the opposite. I am sorry.”

  “No, that’s just fine,” Carolyn said. “It’s over with now. I feel I made contact with my grandmother, that’s what’s important. I never really thought I would find her.”

  Luc pursed his lips. “Why not? Did you just give up?”

  “It seems to me, if my grandmother were alive, she would try and contact us, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she want to find us, too?”

  “Yes, that’s absolutely true,” Luc said.

  “But, I understand you,” Marthe said, “and you have her grave back in New York. Didn’t you say that.”

  “Yes. I’ve been there. I touched her gravestone. It’s not very nice, just a square piece of stone flat on the ground. My mother does that every time she’s in New York, and she’s the one that said I should do it.”

  Luke
looked very puzzled. “Then tell me, why have you been looking for your grandmother?”

  Marthe looked at him with darkened eyes. He returned her look with raised eyebrows.

  “It feels like I’m in amongst the trees looking for the forest. I only wanted to find out how and where she died. Now I know at least that they put the wrong place on the gravestone. It wasn’t Versailles, it was Vittel.”

  “But this is very curious,” Luc said, standing. He put a finger in the air. “It’s odd that she died in France, though, and then they were able to get her body back to the United Sates. In the middle of the war.”

  Carolyn nodded, but said, “Yes, I understand, but my grandfather was wealthy enough to do it. It’s just kind of odd.”

  “What?” Marthe said.

  “Well, it’s a wonderful thing to do, don’t you think? And a lot of expense. He must have had connections. And then—“ But Carolyn didn’t want to continue. She didn’t want to drag these generous people deeper into her own history.

  “What is it?” Marthe said, concern showing in her voice.

  “It’s just that he disowned my mother.”

  “Disowned her? What for? Oh, never mind, Carolyn, it’s your family business, not ours. We have no right to ask you about this. Now this is strange. You not only feel closer to your grandmother, you’re making us feel closer to her. And you.” Marthe touched Carolyn on the arm. “You don’t have to go on like this.”

  Carolyn felt guilty about dominating this conversation. “I’m sorry. Let’s—I want to drop this. I know more than I ever thought I’d learn about my grandmother.” She turned to Luc. “Marthe said you had some special wine. I would love to taste it. And I haven’t forgotten your promise to show me your vineyards.”

  Luc smiled and stood, said he’d be right back, and left the room.

  Marthe turned to Carolyn. “Your grandfather disowned your mother. People are a mystery, My Dear, and the farther away in time they get, the more mysterious they become. I think now it’s time for you to concentrate on your own life. Don’t you agree?”

  Carolyn nodded and sighed. “You’re absolutely right. I’m starved, and I can’t wait to see what wine Luc has to show me. But before he gets back, there is one thing that interests me.”

  “What is that?”

  “You—or Luc—said the Germans took over this house during the war? What did you do?”

  Marthe nodded, and became serious, her eyes darker. “Yes, we lived in one of the houses up the road. They were part of the property then. Now they’ve been sold as separate houses. We stayed there and they used this big house as some kind of headquarters. We never saw much activity, just cars coming and going, generals, that sort of thing. Oh—“ She sighed and shrunk into herself for a moment. “I’m sorry—now I’m going to get into family history. I’m just thinking back what a scare it was. They gave us a week’s notice. Which was lucky. We were able to avert a tragedy?”

  Carolyn now completely forgot herself. “A tragedy? What?”

  “We have an attic. One day a man, a carpenter he said, well he looked like it, overalls, tools, paint on his boots, he said he worked for the Resistance and he was going to build us a secret room. He knew how to hide it. I was in shock. I didn’t order someone to come to the house. But of course, instantly, I knew it was Luc. It was what he would do. So he came in, and when he was through, in the top floor, the attic, you would never know there was anything there. So we had whole families stay here. Never very long, it was too close to Paris, but they always came in the back door at night, and up the back staircase without lights, and up to the hidden room in the attic.”

  “Oh my god, you’re brave.”

  “Yes, maybe brave like your grandmother. But one day a very handsome German officer came and said we had to vacate the house. We had a week’s time, and the Resistance came and took these people away, and the carpenter sealed up the hidden room so no one could ever find it. And we moved out.”

  “Here I am,” Luc’s jolly voice announced, “with our new wine.”

  “Oh, my, I didn’t know you had new wine so fast,” Carolyn said.

  “It’s not really new,” Marthe said. “It’s just he has a new partner who’s bringing in a new wine from Alsace.”

  And so Carolyn enjoyed the wine immensely, grew closer to Marthe and Luc, learned more about their experiences during the war, and before leaving, was thrilled to see her drawing of Marthe hung with an expensive gold frame in the hallway.

  When she arrived home and looked out the window to the park on rue de Sévigné, she still didn’t know what she was going to do with her art. Yes, she had some talent for portraits, but that was not enough. There was something puzzling about it. She still did not have enough self-confidence to just go about drawing in the beautiful scenic places in Paris and its surroundings.

  Eyes that told stories, hearts that express themselves on the skin. But that wasn't enough for her. She just didn't want to be someone who drew pictures of people. She needed to know what art was like today, what were artists doing, what were they showing. And there was only one way to do that. It didn't involve continuous sketching on her own. She determined to do that, and formed the idea that she must leave the city full of tourists and find someplace, someplace like Senlis, where Marthe and Luc lived, where the people were simple. No, she thought, that wasn't right. Those two people were not simple. They just lived simple lives, never in a hurry to go someplace. That's what she must find.

  At the same time that she could find people to sketch that would be patient for her, she could see what the great Paris art scene was showing. She laughed as she remembered how insulted she was back in New York when she was offered the opportunity to pursue a certificate in art dealership at NYU. She wasn't going to get a certificate out of this, but she was going to find herself. That's all she wanted, that's all she needed.

  The next morning she went down to the park across the street, just for practice. She didn't plan on the finding a weather-beaten face full of love and pain, just a couple of mothers and kids to practice on. Practice blending in with backgrounds, filling in with shadows, shaping the eyes and mouth. She found plenty of that and produced a dozen sketches, and made a couple of friends as well. She decided she could take her time looking outside the city for now. Every day she went down to a different park to find material for her sketches. She began to wonder if she was fooling herself, about needing to go outside the city to find the human face that she could relate to. She decided to very her day. Sketching in the morning, galleries in the afternoon.

  She sat a couple of days later in the Park across from her apartment, by herself, and enjoying it. She had her sketch pad and found she could do to trees and flowers. She felt very proud of herself, not so much of her work, but rather of her ability to move beyond faces to simple, small landscapes. If that was what you could call them, just leaves and bushes andpaths, nothing whole, nothing majestic. She thought of Renaissance masters drawing hands or muscles in the legs, and laughed to think she could even compare herself to anyone else. Still, she was making progress.

  She put her pencil down as she felt the cool wind on her face and looked up to see a familiar face. Familiar but she didn't know who it was, she didn't remember where she had seen that face. A young man with a dazzling smile under hazel eyes, his neat black hair waving off his forehead in the wind.

  “Carolyn,” he said. “How nice to see you.” He was carrying something in a small case that he put down on the bench between them, then he sat down. He looked at her, waiting to see if she recognized him.

  She smiled, but with politeness. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to help me out. I apologize for not remembering.”

  He was handsome, with beautiful lips and a strong jaw. He was wearing neat blue jeans and a black jacket over a grey sweater.

  “I’m afraid I have an advantage over you. Your aunt Béatrice gave me your address.”

  “Béatrice?” She put her hand on her
mouth. “Oh, yes, New York, the hockey game, the bar.” She nodded knowingly. “Now I do remember. You didn’t make a very good impression.”

  He laughed sheepishly. “Yes, you walked out on me, and I don’t blame you. I was acting like a fool. But I think I’m over that stage.”

  She sensed that he was somehow different now. The neat hair and jeans. The way he respected the distance between them. The way he looked at her, just at her face. “So, my aunt, she just gave you my address, like that, and now you’re here? Not like it’s a coincidence or something.” She found him handsome and attractive, but not yet believable.

  “No, it’s no coincidence at all.” He spoke earnestly. “I’m here for my film.”

  “Your film? Wasn’t it about subways or something?”

  “Yes it was. Well, remember, part of it takes place in a subway. I thought I could fake Paris by using the Montréal or New York subway. I shot some film, but my mentor said I had to do the real thing. So here I am.” He picked up his case.

  “What’s that?” she said. She looked at the case, pointed at it even, but she was studying his eyes.

  “My camera. 8mm.”

  “8mm? For a film?”

  He hefted it up and down in his hand and sort of smiled. He seemed genuinely more reserved, less confident and overbearing than she remembered back in the bar after the game.

  “Film is expensive. 8mm is affordable. I just need to scout locations, as many as I can, to see what I want to use.”

  “How long have you been doing this here?”

  “In Paris. Not long. A couple of days.”

  “Oh. It didn’t take you long to find me.”

  “Well, I have a precise address, so I didn’t need a lot of time. Anyway,” he said, leaning a little toward her, running his hand through his hair to keep it down in the wind, which it didn’t need, “I am here, and your aunt knows I’m here, and I’d like to take you out to dinner. If I may.”

  His smile was sincere, but maybe mischievous, maybe playing. Whatever it was, it drew her in.

  “Dinner. Do you know Paris well?”

  “I know a couple of restaurants, if that’s what you mean. I’ll take you anywhere you like. But I did make a reservation at Restaurant Colbert. Do you know it?”

  “I do, le Grand Colbert, but not recently. It’s pricey. And touristy.”

  He shook his head and frowned. “Touristy if you want, but it’s beautiful turn-of-the-century, and Parisians love it, too.”

  “Aren’t you presumptuous to make reservations?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, but I can just as easily unmake it. Nothing lost. I just wanted to have someplace impressive to take you, that’s all.”

  Carolyn studied him. He seemed at the moment to be out of place in Paris. A face from the past. A funny Quebec accent. But his hair had changed, that was in his favor. His manner was much more civilized. Not arrogant.

  No. He was still arrogant. Now she remembered. In New York he had ordered her drink for her without asking. And here in Paris here he shows up with reservations at one of Paris’s most elegant restaurants. Again without asking. Without having had a conversation with her.

  Still, he got his hair fixed. And he’s nicely shaved.

  “Good,” she said, trying to instill arrogance in her own voice, “you can unmake it.”

  He was taken aback by her words. “What? I’m sorry, but why?”

  “Because you just come barging into my neighborhood and think you’re going to make decisions for me. It’s a lot like ordering things for me in New York and I don’t care for it.”

  Robert, confusion in his eyes, sat still for a moment, looking back and forth between her eyes. Then he seemed to grasp her meaning. “Of course. I understand. That isn’t at all what I wanted to do.” He sat back on the bench and pursed his lips, preparing what to say. “I didn’t mean it that way. I thought I was being nice. I apologize, sincerely, I do.”

  Carolyn didn’t know how to take Robert’s words now. Was he really being sincere, or was he still trying to sweet-talk her into drinks and dinner and whatever came after? She turned to him to say what was on her mind, but he began to talk.

  “Tell you what. Let’s start over. I’m hungry. Do you know a little place around here where we could get something to eat?” His voice was low and apologetic. He held his hands out to the side, palms up in supplication.

  Carolyn smiled, impressed with his willingness to make things right. “Sure. It is nice to see you Robert.”

  She put out her hand as a way of showing him that she wasn’t ready for any kind of relationship. And she resolved to not invite him up to her room any time soon. She wasn’t ready for that invasion of privacy at all. Let alone intimacy.

  “Walk with me,” she said. “We’ll find someplace close.”

  “Thank you,” he said, smiling but making sure he didn’t get close to her as they walked. “I really am hungry.”

  “I like l’Osteria, just down the street.”

  “That’s fine with me,” he said, showing relief in his voice. He picked up his film camera and followed her, being careful to avoid bumping in to her.

  That’s nice, she thought, he didn’t back away. I’m glad. But that’s all. It’s just nice.

  At 10 rue de Sévigné, she took him inside the small restaurant, with no name on the street, just windows with weather-beaten brown woodwork and three-quarters lace curtains giving the patrons some privacy. They took a small table along the earthen-brick walls underneath black and white photos of scenes in Venice.

  A waiter with a strong Italian accent took their order and served them glasses of dark red Amarone, recommending it as being the best of Veneto, the region surrounding Venice.

  As they ate pizza, they laughed and shared their guilt at paring the really good wine with really good pizza.

  Carolyn took note of how easily they laughed together. How welcome it was that Robert, when he was relaxed, had a really great sense of humor.

  “So, tell me,” she said, enjoying the last sip of delicious wine from her glass, savoring, for the first time she was in Paris, the complexity of the wine, some sort of earthy fruit. The thought jumped out in her head that she could really like wine tasting with this man. “Tell me again why you are in Paris?”

  He looked down at his glass, as if he were studying his fingers through the glass as he started talking. “Well, I had a rough time in New York. I made a small film with these romantic scenes in the subway. Just a short film, only 15 minutes.” Then he hesitated and drank the last of his wine without tasting it.

  Carolyn thought she could teach him to drink wine, then realized that was the last thing she wanted to do.

  “So, why was it rough?”

  He looked at her and then around the restaurant. “When I showed it to a group at a film club, they laughed. It was quite humiliating.”

  Carolyn frowned and a wave of sympathy came over her. “Oh. I’m sorry. What do you think happened?”

  “I realize it now. It’s called production values. The romanticism of the film, what was there in the script, was lost in the shooting.”

  “But, I don’t see why? Explain that to me?” Carolyn was quite happy to be having an impersonal—and personal—conversation about a professional subject.

  “The film was in French, the scenes were supposed to be in France, but the subways were in New York and Montréal. It was obvious to the film club people.”

  “That wasn’t very nice of them to be laughing at your film. I would have thought they would be more appreciative—and I would like some more wine.” She signaled to the waiter.

  “While we’re waiting—“ she said.

  “Yes. It doesn’t matter. Other filmmakers are very competitive, you know. And arrogant. They were quite happy about my film’s problems. They all made these social films, you see, that was part of it. They showed homeless people and cruel bureaucrats. My film was about romance. So hopelessly outdated.”

  “But there are
lots of good romantic films made,” she said, clearly bothered by the insult from the other filmmakers. As if they were insulting her.

  Robert was also clearly viewing Carolyn with sympathetic eyes. He nodded and said, “Perhaps you’re right, but that just makes my point. Yes, there was another film, about two old people, and the man’s jealous. They didn’t laugh at that, but they just sat quietly bored all through it. Anyway, since you asked, that’s why I’m here in Paris. So that the location doesn’t take away from the film.”

  She was puzzled. “Why didn’t you just make the film in New York? Make it a New York film.”

  “Oh, I can’t do that. I’m supported by the Quebec Film council.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, happy to share his story.” It’s a story about French Canadians. Besides, I don’t have any money on my own. Well, not enough.”

  Carolyn took a long sip of her wine. The thought occurred to her that Béatrice might have told him about her trust fund. Then she dismissed the thought. Béatrice wasn’t like that. She looked intently at him to drive away the idea she wasn’t paying attention. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you with all these questions.”

  “No, no. Not at all. I’m very happy to talk to you about it. It’s—it’s kind of refreshing, actually. You know what they say. It’s just as hard to make a bad film as a good one.”

  She laughed. “Oh, I heard that too, about painting. And writing.” She also wanted to ask him how long he was going to be in Paris, but was afraid he might then think she was serious. And she wasn’t. He was just a nice guy she knew. Nicer than he was the first time. But he was interesting, too. “But you aren’t letting them get to you, are you?”

  Robert smiled. “No, I’m not. That’s why I’m here. I learned from my mistake, so now I’m here where my story is now set.”

  “Do you have actors, too?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m just scouting. I have my little camera and I will go around and film locations inside the metro until I find the three or four locations I need.”

  “How will you know they’re right?”

  “Ah, that I learned from my first attempt. They have to be unmistakably Paris, you know, Metro signs, direction signs, trains arriving with Paris Metro destinations on the front.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Forgive me for acting like a producer, but what good are the Metro locations without actors?”

  “When I’m ready, I’ll just get some French Canadian actors in Paris—look, Carolyn,—“ he drained his glass of wine, “—this was really nice, meeting you. I’m really glad your aunt helped me see you again. But I don’t want to take up your time with talk about my movie.”

  Carolyn felt guilty, not about taking up time with his film, but about maybe giving him the false impression she was really interested in him. She also felt pulled in two directions. She didn’t want to get involved. But she did want to see him again. And she didn’t have confidence in her ability to manage it. Except that she was sure that she wasn’t going to invite him up to her apartment. She couldn’t imagine being ready for that with anybody. And she was immediately bothered that she was thinking about it.

  “I’ve enjoyed it, Robert. I’m glad, too. It’s nice to see someone from New York.”

  He twisted himself around to pick his jacket off the chair, then picked up his camera.

  She got up and they walked out to rue de Sévigné together. Now she was winging it, and realized she could do anything she wanted and didn’t have to worry any more about whether she could control herself.

  He studied her, his jacket over his shoulder, film camera at his side, smiling. “Look, what about your art? We haven’t even talked about it. Could we meet again, in a couple of days and we’d just talk about your art?”

  Nice. Very nice, she thought. “Why not. I don’t have any art to show you. But we could meet at a gallery and talk there. Is that okay?”

  He smiled warmly. “That’s fine. Can I call you and set it up?”

  “I’d like that. Let me give you my number.” She wrote it on a piece of paper, thinking that he probably already had her number anyway from Béatrice.

  “Thank you,” he said. He took out his wallet and folded the paper neatly inside so she could see that he was taking this seriously. “Can I give you mine?”

  Carolyn smiled and nodded.

  He held his hand out to her with a small card, but she instead kissed him on the cheek. And took the card.

  “See you in a couple of days,” she said. She turned toward home, saying “I’m going this way.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know which way I’m going.”

  “Where do you live?—Oh—maybe you’re not going home.”

  “No, I am going home. I live on Montmartre, on the backside. Rent’s more to my liking there.”

  “Well, that’s the opposite direction. The Saint Paul Metro is down there.” She pointed to the end of the street to rue Saint Antoine.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, finger in the air, “that’s where I came from.” He turned around, stepped backward and said, “Au Revoir,” then turned to walk to the subway.

  “Au Revoir,” she said. She stood and watched him walk down the street. Then impulse took over her again. “Wait,” she called out.

  He stopped, turned and smiled. “Yes?”

  “Are there any art galleries near your apartment?” And she instantly regretted saying that as a hot flush filled her face. “Oh, don’t take that the wrong way.”

  He shook his head. “No, of course not. And I didn’t.” He walked back to where she was standing, outside a fabric shop with a clear glass front.

  When he stood next to her he said, “Art gallery? I haven’t looked. But this is Paris, there must be.”

  She nodded and smiled without saying anything.

  He hesitated, but when she didn’t talk, he said, “I know. I’ll call you and let you know what there is. Would that work?”

  She didn’t want to say anything. She was shocked to find herself mesmerized by his presence.

  He lowered his head as if to study her. “Would that work? Or we could do something later, if you like. And it was just nice to meet you.”

  “No,” she said, in a quiet voice. “This is Paris. There will be galleries. Call me.”

  “I will,” he said, as he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek and then walked away, turning back once to wave to her.

  Carolyn wanted to watch him to the end of the street, feeling still flushed and warm, but she forced herself to turn toward home. When she arrived at her apartment, she opened the window, her view of Paris, and let the cool fog-like breeze rush past her into the room. She looked out over the rooftops, at the darkening sky, and put her arms across her chest and held herself tight. I’ve only just arrived, she thought, and already so much has happened. Nathalie, Marthe and Luc, Bad Arolsen. She felt so close to her grandmother Julia. She thought of Julia walking below, anyplace out there. What was she doing here? Why had she come? Maybe the report that she’d be getting in a couple of months from Bad Arolsen would answer that question.

  Why hadn’t her mother Elizabeth tried to find out? Why did Elizabeth go every year to Julia’s grave in New York and never go to France to find out what happened to her? What about Julia’s painting? Did she do any of that here?

  The air cooled Carolyn down too much. She closed the window and went into her bedroom-studio. I, at least, she thought, will follow in Julia’s footsteps. I will develop my talent as an artist. When I feel comfortable with myself, and maybe then feel close enough to Julia, I will get my mother to come to Paris and we will search for the spirit of Julia together.

  Yes, she said to herself, that’s what my mother is missing. She has given up on her own mother. I have not. Our time will come.

  The phone awakened Carolyn the next morning. Béatrice. Carolyn wanted to ask her why she hadn’t told her about Robert. But as soon as she had the thought, she knew she was happy about it, with or without adva
nce notice. Because it meant she was over Damian and that she was in control. Béatrice apologized, saying she had meant to call. Carolyn just said it was fine, he was quite nice, and she’s going to see a couple art galleries with him. Béatrice then delicately brought up Carolyn’s mother, who had asked about her. Carolyn responded with scorn that she’d get around to it when she got around to it. When Béatrice contested, Carolyn reminded her that Elizabeth had called New York to find out what was going on, not Paris. And she asked Béatrice to not bring it up again. Carolyn began tapping her fingers on the table, anxious to end the conversation. With one call, Béatrice had moved out of Carolyn’s universe.

  She wanted to call Nathalie, or Marthe, and then even wanted to talk to Julia.

  At the thought of Julia’s name, she remembered back to San Francisco, to the picture her mother had, of Elizabeth as a little girl in Central Park. She felt sick, wishing she had remembered that picture when she was in New York, or better yet, wishing she had made a copy, or even stolen it. She could figure out where it was in Central Park, and go to that spot and—, but that wasn’t going to happen.

  She really had only one person she could talk to, now. Robert. The new Robert. Just on the other side of Sacré-Coeur, down the hill.

  Hell. She took the card out of her purse and called his number. He answered. She said Hi. He said it. An hour later, she took the funicular up to Sacré-Coeur and met him in front of the basilica. Together they walked to Place du Tertre and wandered around looking at all the art, stopped in the church of St. Pierre, where Robert said that Dante had come to pray, and then went down the steps of rue du Mont-Cenis and further down, turning left for a long walk past the Moulin Rouge, before finally walking down into the lower heart of Montmartre. The Montmartre with the farmers market, that tourists didn’t even know existed. He took her to Place Emile Goudeau, where Picasso, Apollinaire, Modigliani all worked. That really meant something to her, not the famous people, but Robert’s interest in what she cared about.

  At the end of their walk, they sat in the rickety chairs outside le Lapin Agile. She took her sketchbook and made Robert assume a pose while she worked on the outline of him, the whole person in the chair, relaxed, quiet, smiling, humble, unassuming, and whatever else she might have thought was true about him. They sipped an aperitif until dusk overtook rue des Saules and the rest of the back of Montmartre.

  She went home without him, without showing him her sketch, but with a plan to meet again the next day and combine their efforts. He promised to follow her into as many galleries as she liked, and she offered to take a subway anywhere he liked and search for galleries around the Metro exit.

  They did this for the next three days. He shot at Pigalle, Louvre, the art nouveau Abbesses, Concorde, Varenne with its Rodin Thinker statue. And then Palais Royal with beautiful glass beads at the entrance, Arts et Métiers which looks like the inside of a submarine, and finally, the Bastille, with its murals of the French Revolution. Carolyn was in a state of benign shock at the beauty available among Metro stations, and became even more impressed with this young man.

  He was true to his promise, and at each station they visited they left the Metro and went up to find galleries. They went inside 59 Rivoli, the cool Galerie W, the hip Point Ephémère, the huge green plants that overtake the interior of the boxy, clear-glass Fondation Cartier.

  Each day, the finished their work with dinner in a small, inexpensive restaurant near the last place they visited, and each day they parted company with the French kiss on either cheek, and a promise to continue tomorrow. Neither of them said a word about when this might have to come to s top.

  The next day their dynamic changed, when Carolyn said she wanted to see some of the film they were shooting. Robert was delighted. Together they went to Pathé Film Studios near his apartment on rue Caulaincourt, just a quick left turn at the bottom of the steps from rue du Mont-Cenis. His French-Canadian contacts allowed them the use of a small 8mm film editor and splicer, and they sat close together to see the small picture float across the 4-inch screen. They laughed as they saw funny people getting in and out of subway cars. He had taken many shots of her without letting her know, and she was both shocked and thrilled to see them.

  And Carolyn learned something else. She could do more than just follow him around. She could help him with his film. With his script in hand, she was going to be able to quickly draw storyboards. She wasn’t just following him. She was part of it.

  And then, again, at the end of this day, they said goodbye again. Carolyn turned to go a few hundred feet to the Lamarck-Caulaincourt subway station. Across the street the glint on the window of a store caught her eye. An art gallery with the name of Galerie Petit Moulin. She took Robert by the arm.

  “Come on, just one final visit. Then we’ll stop and get dinner.”

  “Of course,” he said. She knew he couldn’t say no after her generous offer of doing storyboards.

  The gallery was small and narrow. The walls were filled with paintings, all of them figurative. Nothing abstract or absurd. Carolyn felt warm in the room. A tall thin young man sat quietly absorbed in a book at a table against the back wall. He wore black jeans and black turtleneck . Carolyn glanced at some books on a table, The Art of Religion, Picasso et les écrivains, Ansel Adams. On the wall in front of her were landscapes, moonlight, coastlines, a horseman on a dusk-darkened golden field. She felt drawn to that, the horseman, looking for something urgent.

  “Look at this.” Robert’s voice behind her.

  “What?” She turned toward his voice.

  On the opposite wall Robert was looking at portraits. Portraits. A wall of landscapes, a wall of portraits. How interesting.

  He didn’t reply, but waved her over. “It’s you,” he said.

  He was right, in a way. It was her. Her substance, but also her thick blond hair, bright hazel eyes, the oval face, the confidence.

  She smiled condescendingly. “Well, yes, it does resemble me.” She studied the painting, becoming unnerved as she seemed to be looking into a matted mirror. “You think?” She looked at Robert, frowning. She didn’t know what to make of it. It was uncanny, but not really believable. Coincidences happen. She leaned in, searching for the title, the artist. There was none.

  “That’s odd,” she said. “No name.”

  A deep but quiet voice came from behind her. “That’s because it’s the owner’s.” The thin tall man stood behind her, very tall, with a small blemish on his left cheek, a high forehead beneath thick brown hair, short and naturally wavy. He smiled mysteriously. “And I must admit, it does look just like you. But I don’t think it can be.”

  “Well,” Carolyn said, curious, “it’s not, I know, but how can you be so sure.”

  “Because it was painted about twenty years ago.” He put his fingers up to his lips as he studied Carolyn. “Would you excuse me just a moment?”

  “Of course,” Robert said. “It’s your gallery.”

  “I don’t mean that, I mean, you won’t go anywhere will you?”

  “It’s late, and we’re really not here to buy anything,” Carolyn said, half irritated, half curious.

  “I won’t be long. Just wait here.” He took a step, turned to put his finger in the air to get them to stay where they were, and disappeared.

  “What’s this all about?” Robert said.

  “I don’t know. We’ll give him just two minutes, and then I’m hungry,” Carolyn said.

  Within one minute, he returned, with an older woman, looking younger, maybe in her fifties or sixties, petite. She had Carolyn’s blonde hair. She was wearing elegant tan pants and a cream blouse with pearl earrings and a pearl necklace. Her hazel and green eyes studied Carolyn, then Robert as she approached. She favored her right leg, almost a limp.

  She stopped, looked at the painting, then back to Carolyn, then back and forth again. She turned to the young man. “Yes, Vincent, I see the resemblance. Quite remarkable, actually.” She smiled at Carolyn. �
�I’m sorry, Vincent here is very nice to bring me out, and you do look like the woman in the portrait. But, if I may judge from your faces, I agree with you. I don’t quite see the point.”

  Carolyn could not take her eyes off the woman. “You’re right,” she said, “but it’s not about the point. There is no point. But the resemblance is remarkable. Maybe that’s the point.”

  “Fine,” the woman said, “but if you’ll excuse me, he said you weren’t interested in any of the art, and I thank you for stopping by. Good day to you both.” The woman turned to leave, then stopped. “But, as long as you’re here, why not take one of my cards.” She nodded to Vincent, who practically hopped over to the desk, picked up a card and brought it back to Carolyn.

  Carolyn looked at the card and her heart stopped. She couldn’t breathe.

  “What’s the matter, are you all right?” the woman said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Here, come sit down. Vincent, go get a glass of water.”

  Carolyn couldn’t move. “No, I’m fine. Really.” She couldn’t say more. She looked again at the painting, then at the woman. “I don’t have a card, Madame, but if I did—“. She choked, her throat gone dry, the air hot. “If I did, it would say ‘Carolyn Stuart. Spelled the same way.”

  The woman put her hand on her chest. “You are very beautiful, young woman, and you look like me when I was your age, the painting attests to that. It’s a wonderful coincidence. But it’s hardly more than that.”

  Tears overwhelmed Carolyn’s eyes. Robert swallowed hard and took her hand.

  “You’re my grandmother. I’ve been searching for you all over Paris.”

  Julia took Carolyn’s other hand. Carolyn almost fainted from the electric shock of the warmth of the woman’s hand.

  “I know the names may be the same, young woman—Carolyn—,” Julia looked at Robert and Vincent, as if looking for corroboration, “but I don’t have any children, and so—“ and now Julia began to cry— “you can’t be my granddaughter, as lovely as it would be.”

  Carolyn’s voice shook with pleading. “But it can’t just be a coincidence. It’s not possible.”

  Julia held Carolyn’s shoulder and stared intently into her eyes. “My Dear, my daughter Elizabeth—“

  Carolyn let out a scream. “That’s my mother’s name.” Robert put his arms around her to keep her from falling.

  Julia shook her head. “As I was saying—.” She spoke with a hard voice. “My daughter is dead. She died when she was two years old.”

  Carolyn moved her head back and forth slowly. This was not possible. She was not giving up. “No. She isn’t dead. She’s my mother, she lives in San Francisco, and she’s your daughter.”

  Julia looked at Carolyn with pity. “Please, don’t keep this up. My daughter, my Elizabeth, maybe the same name as your mother, she’s buried in the ground. I saw her death certificate. I saw her gravestone in the New York Marble Cemetery on Second Avenue. So you see, young lady—,” Julia glanced sadly at Vincent, “I can’t be your grandmother.”

  Carolyn’s eyes opened wide. She looked at Robert. She looked at Julia again. Her voice trembled, she held out her hands in supplication. “I saw your gravestone, Julia Marie Stuart, in the New York City Marble Cemetery on Second Street.”

  Seeing the terrified face of Julia, Carolyn continued with confidence. “You were born May 23, 1920 in Lewiston, Maine.”

  Julia collapsed. Carolyn and Robert helped her up. She was unable to speak. Great sobs wracked her body. Vincent brought her a tissue and she calmed down and wiped her face. Now she looked up in supplication at Carolyn. Her voice came out in little whispers. “And—, and—,” but she couldn’t continue. She took several long breaths. “My little Lizzie?” Her mouth twisted in trembling disbelief in her face red with tears flowing down and dripping on her blouse. “My little Lizzie?”

  Carolyn saw that it was too much for her grandmother, too much to take in. How is this possible? How could there be gravestones for both Julia and Elizabeth? Both so close and so far apart.

  Julia reached out to Carolyn and drew her in. They hugged each other with silent tears and quiet breathing. Julia pulled back.

  Her voice was now calm, but came out like an angel’s voice. “Tell me, Carolyn—,” but then her voice changed to something hard in disbelief, as if she suddenly thought this could all be a hoax, “where is your mother Elizabeth?”

  Carolyn saw the strange new look in Julia’s eyes. “My mother is in San Francisco. She doesn’t know about you. But she goes every year to visit your grave. She made me promise to do it to. I went there with Béatrice a month ago.”

  All disbelief left Julia. “Béatrice?” Then she continued as if testing Carolyn. “Béatrice who?”

  “Béatrice, my aunt, in New York. She lives on Park Avenue, in the house left to her by Hugh Stuart.”

  At the mention of that name, Julia’s eyes darkened and her lips joined tight. She nodded slowly as she spoke. “I see. Now I see everything.”

  “Do you have a telephone?” Carolyn said.

  “Of course. In the back.”

  “I’m going to call my mother so you can talk to her. You thought she was dead. She thought you were dead.”

  Julia held tight to Carolyn and led her to a small room in the back of the gallery. Carolyn picked up the phone and started to dial her mother’s number in San Francisco. She turned to Julia. “I’ll let it ring till she wakes up.” Her eyes opened wide when she saw the picture. She pointed to it and put the phone down. “That picture—that’s you and Elizabeth and Hugh in Central Park. My mother has that picture on the mantelpiece.”

  Julia picked up the picture and held it tight to her chest. She watched Carolyn dial, obviously still not believing this was happening.

  Carolyn waited an eternity as the phone rang. She was about to give up when a sleepy voice answered. “Hello?”

  Carolyn jumped up and down. “Mama! Mama!”

  Elizabeth’s voice was groggy and irritated. “Carolyn? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Do you know what time it is?”

  “Oh, Mom—.”

  “Carolyn, what is this Mom and Mama? Are you on something?”

  “Mom, I’m going to make you so happy you will think you’re in heaven. In fact, I’m going to give you a gift that only people who go to heaven ever get. I’m going to give you your mother?”

  “What?” The voice was even more irritated.

  “Mom, your mother, Julia Marie Stuart, is here with me. I found her. I found her. You know what? She has the same picture on the table here that you have. Of you and Hugh and Julia in Central Park.”

  Dead silence on the other end of the phone, but Elizabeth’s breath was fast and deep.

  “Mom, I’m going to pass the phone to your mother.”

  Tears filled Carolyn’s eyes so she could not see Julia’s face. She gave Julia the phone and helped her sit at the table.

  “Hello? Hello?” came a tiny voice from the phone.

  “Lizzie? Is that my little Lizzie? Is it really you?”

  The only answer that came out of the earpiece was a series of sobs, then sniffling. “Mama? Mama?”

  Julia shook her head, looked at the phone in disbelief, then put it back up to her ear. “All these years he stole from us, your father. He put you in one cemetery and me in the one next door and stole you from me.”

  Julia couldn’t talk any more. She was breathing too hard and crying. She handed the phone to Carolyn.

  “Mom?”

  “My mother, where’s my mother?”

  “She’s overcome, Mom. You have to come. You have to come.”

  “I will be in New York and on the Concorde as soon as I can,” Elizabeth said.

 

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