The Last Time I Saw Paris (22 page)

“May God be with you,
mon ami
.” Odette rose and walked out without a glance.

Claire clamped her mouth shut and ground the corner of the envelope between her fingers, slid a finger into the crease. A gentle shake and the vial slid into her hand. She held it up as high as she dared into the light. A quarter of the size of a tube of lipstick, the pills were two dark gems, their glass coating shining black against the white tissue paper that held them in place. They gave her two pills, she thought, not one. She slid the vial back into the envelope. Her head sank back against the seat. She knew what it meant. One for the patriot, another, if necessary, then, for her.

You can be brave when you know you are dreaming,
the man said on-screen.

 

 

T
hat night, Claire curled up inside the open windowsill of her balcony, her forgotten blanket puddled around her legs on the wood floor. A siren shrilled in the distance. She shivered as a dark chill ran through her. Rue du Saussaies was where life ended. Where one prayed for it to end. She was no
Resistánt
. Her life wasn’t to be thrown away.

Her gaze turned toward her dresser, hidden in the darkness, and the bundle strapped behind it. She imagined the cold weight of the diamonds in her hand. Her nest egg, the Cartier. She could take it and run, pay her way to be smuggled over the Pyrenees to Spain then God knew where.

A soft breeze against her cheek called her attention back to the brightening city. Her body softened as her eyes feasted on the dark lace of the Eiffel Tower against a violet sky that shifted to cobalt, then intensified to a luminous powder blue. Her heart ached in her chest. The beauty here had entered her soul. Running would feel like death. She couldn’t abandon Paris. Not today.

 

 

C
laire rose early and readied the store, changing water in the buckets, tidying the back counters and shelves, trimming back weakened stems and curling leaves, polishing the counter and dusting the register. On a fresh pad of paper by the phone, Claire left Madame Palain a note,
A friend needs assistance, not sure how long it will take
, and locked the door behind her.

The woman Claire saw in the shop window’s reflection was so very foreign in the red suit she left New York in more than three years ago. She fingered the vial she had tacked with thread into the fold of her jacket cuff.

She chose to walk along les Champs to gain distance from the shop and to pass the Palais de l’Elysée and gardens along the way. A hot August morning already, the sun was heavy in the sky and the air was liquid gold. The brick wall guarding the empty palace and garden loomed well over her head, but she could smell through the hedge the sweet blossoms on the chestnut trees and the flowers blooming unattended inside.

Claire was handed the package on avenue de Marigny by a slender man in a suit striding in the opposite direction. She tried to see his face, but only noted a thick mustache and faded blue tie before he was gone.

Held tight under her arm, the package compressed against her ribs. It was soft, with the faint smell of tobacco and fresh bread, wrapped expertly in brown paper and tied with twine as if directly from Le Bon Marché. She imagined the shirts were silk, exactly the luxuries an American might require for an extended, unexpected stay.

Claire tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry. She’d hoped Grey would bring the package. His eyes would be serious today, the color of stormy skies. Walking close but not touching, his voice low, words precise, he would have described the gardens, naming each plant, dating each structure. How he knew these things, she didn’t understand, but she would have loved to be unafraid, if just for a moment.

Claire slipped on the armband. Within a hundred feet of turning off rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré onto rue de Saussaies, she passed three restaurants, a bar, a jewelry store and two fine hotels. A much smaller street than Champs-Elysées, she decided, but an expensive neighborhood, nonetheless.

The building at 11, rue de Saussaies was as beautiful as any other around it. Six stories, grey stone-carved balustrades on wrought-iron balconies. But thick iron bars covered street-level windows and heavy metal doors towered over the SS guards standing at attention.

The man in front of her was searched before he entered. Claire produced her papers for the soldiers, was scrutinized thoroughly and waved inside. As the doors banged shut behind her, the emotion drained from her body.

The lobby was large, with raised ceilings and long stone walls. In the far corner, three Nazi officers worked behind a broad wooden desk. A short line had already started to form in front. Details clicked through her mind like photographs as she walked over to join the end of the line. The floors were white marble. Marks on the bare walls showed where art had once been.

The man in line in front of her wrung his hat in his hands, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. His blue worker’s uniform reeked of an acrid oily smoke that made her eyes water. A factory worker, then. An informant, perhaps:
Francois is the one who pissed on your wires and shorted them.
He wouldn’t be the first to turn another in for a crumb. Nor the last. You will find the Nazis very ungrateful, she silently told him, and hoped he would get a taste of a dark cell in back.

The soldiers behind the desk snapped to attention when an officer entered the lobby behind her. Tall and slim, his lapel and shoulder patches marked him as the equivalent of a major. The red swastika armband was a splash of blood against his feldgrau jacket. A patch low on his sleeve read SD. His peaked hat was pulled low over his face, but there was something familiar in the set of his mouth.

She turned her head away from him and kept her eyes on the floor as he strode past and disappeared behind a column. After counting to ten, Claire risked a glance behind her.

There it was at the far end of the lobby. As Odette had said, a stone carving covered a wall to the left of a long corridor. The sculpture was nearly covered by a large swastika flag suspended between columns on each side. Less than five feet from the carving, the hallway was guarded by four soldiers, hands on holstered pistols.

“Madame.” The voice was sharp, irritated.

Claire stepped up to the counter, a deferential nod to the man waiting behind. She got a good look at him and suppressed a wince. His head came out of his stiff uniform collar like a mushroom. His heavy lips were pinched and his glasses magnified mean little eyes. He radiated hatred.

She formed a smile and slid the package onto the desk. “Claire Badeau. I have a package for one of your, eh, guests, Mathew Nash,” she said slowly, in bad French with an American accent that would make Madame Palain shudder.

“What is it?”

“Bread, tobacco, a couple of shirts.” She leaned forward, a certain amount of concern for the innocent American showing in her tone, the tremble of her lip. “I would hope Monsieur Nash could remain comfortable until this can be worked out.”

An open sneer. “Your identification.”

Claire slid her papers across the counter and said a silent apology to
Foyer du Soldat
.

With two fingers he flicked her identification from her hands. “Address?”

Claire recited the address listed on her identification card. He wrote on a form and barked something in German. The soldier next to him took the package and her papers, disappearing between the guards down the hall.

“Sit until you are called.” The angry mushroom motioned the next person forward.

“Wait.” Claire leaned over the counter, fear made her speak. “Can’t I just leave the package and go?”

He silently pointed to the chairs lined up against the far wall. Her legs wobbly, Claire found a seat.

An anxious hour passed as she waited. Two guards were replaced by two more. The line in the lobby grew. It looked so civilized, she marveled. So bureaucratic. A slow-moving government line seen in any city. But on the other side of these walls were room after room of Gestapo torture chambers. She imagined the darkness, the pain. Her concentration wavered; she felt the fingers of fear hook into her stomach. She glanced toward the door facing the street. Her body itched to walk out. But if she made it, what about Claire Badeau?

A grip on her elbow startled her. A crisp voice, textbook English. “Mrs. Badeau, come with me.”

Claire looked into the face of a German officer. His dark hair slicked back, thin face overwhelmed by a scar that traced down his cheek. She reached for her purse and straightened her skirt as she stood, taking an extra moment to think. This wasn’t supposed to happen, she was sure of it.

Her heart raced as she was guided toward the guards and the hallway. She estimated the distance as she neared the banner, prepared to jerk free. Her hand brushed against the vial in her cuff. A sharp wrench on her arm threw her off balance, she stumbled into the officer.

He guided her into the corridor, then turned into an office, an unknown insignia over the doorway. He locked the door behind them. Motioning for Claire to sit in a wooden chair, he moved to the chair behind a heavy oak desk.

His stare tracked over her as she perched on the chair. She slid her shaking hands out of sight beneath her legs. Her identification and the package were piled neatly in front on him.

“Mrs. Badeau,” he said.

She held her breath and waited.

He watched her, unbuttoned the top button of his jacket, his lips formed the slightest smile. “I am Kapitän Heydrich.”

He meant to calm her, she realized, to show her he meant her no harm. She bit off a hysterical laugh in the back of her mouth. He might actually believe she was Claire Badeau. A meddling American on a mission of mercy.

“Mrs. Badeau, why have you come here?”

“Kapitän Heydrich,” she said with a smile, “do you mean Paris or this building?”

“Both.”

Claire leaned forward in her chair. “I married a Frenchman. He died. I stayed in Paris because, well, I don’t like being lonely.”

His eyebrows raised a fraction as he realized what she meant. “Does Paris meet your needs?”

She let a flush roll up her cheeks, an embarrassed grin. “It is improving.”

His lips twitched toward a smile as he lit a cigarette, accepted the compliment for the entire German army. “And why are you here today?”

Claire shrugged. Not too interested, Odette had warned. “I am a member of
Foyer du Soldat
. I have a list of prisoners to deliver packages to. Food, necessities.” Claire pulled the slip from her purse and dropped it on top of the papers on his desk. “Mr. Nash is on my list.”

“Do you know Mathew Nash?”

Claire shook her head and pointed toward the list.

With the cigarette, he gestured at her identification card in front of him. “How long have you stayed at this address?”

“Since May 1940.”

“Your neighbors?” he said.

“What about them?” Claire fought to keep her voice smooth. These questions weren’t part of the note and not part of the plan. This had to be wrong.

“They know you?”

Claire smiled at Heydrich, glanced at her watch. “Kapitän, I understand you have an important job to do, but I do have a lunch date. Perhaps you could see that this package gets to Nash for me, and I could be on my way?”

He stared at her, his expression didn’t change. She saw suspicion in his eyes.

She smiled at him then, lowered her tone. “You do have my address. You could always come by some evening if you had any other questions.”

He leaned back in his chair, took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Perhaps.” He grabbed her papers and the package, and walked to the door. He turned and looked back at her, buttoning his top button. “Wait.” He left and locked the door behind him.

Claire released the breath she’d been holding. Muffled voices grew and then receded down the hall. Claire shot off the chair, across the room, and pressed her ear against the door. Silence. She rattled the handle. It didn’t budge.

She’d roomed with a girl once who could pick locks with a hairpin. A useful talent when they were kicked out of their apartment. But Claire didn’t have a hairpin. She turned to the desk.

The first three drawers were locked. The fourth slid open with a bang. Once her heart started beating again, she found an expensive fountain pen, a pack of cigarettes and one paperclip.

Claire bent it and stuck the pointed end into the lock. She pressed her ear against the door and shut her eyes, relying on her fingers to tell her when something gave. A loud snap startled her. She dropped the paperclip, fell backward and smacked the chair with her hip.

The doorknob rattled, then turned. Claire shoved herself onto her chair. She landed in the seat as the door opened.

“The package was delivered. Mr. Nash sends his warmest regards.” Heydrich closed the door behind him.

It took everything she had to smile, nod her thanks.

He locked the door and leaned back against it, her passport and identification card held up in front of him like a game of keep-away. “Your lunch appointment?”

“Of course.” Claire stood, smoothing her skirt. She reached for the card.

He grabbed her hand and jerked her toward the wall. The door rattled on its hinges as she hit, the wind knocked out of her. He pressed her, his free hand reached under her skirt. His seeking fingers slid beneath her underwear and hooked upward between her legs. A sharp pain burst inside her as he jerked up hard with his hand.

“I have questions.” He smiled at her as she squirmed. His fingers rigid, his hand thrust up again. Claire bit down on her bottom lip.

“You like that, lonely Fräulein?” He shoved, nearly lifting her from the floor.

Claire stiffened; her body lead, all her awareness concentrated on the pain in her mouth. His face inches from hers; she watched beads of sweat break out on his upper lip.