The Last Time I Saw Paris (39 page)

“Freedom,” Claire said, peering through the drawn lace curtains to the street below.

“What do you mean?” Adele slipped to Martin’s side. Her hand found his arm.

“She means these are transit papers. Legitimate, I think,” he said. “They would allow the bearer to pass into unoccupied territory, even out of the country.”

The street below was clear. No soldiers. No black sedans gathering out front. Yet. Claire spoke without looking away. “Spain to Portugal, most likely. From there, one could go anywhere.” She turned to face them. “For the girls. For you.”

A clock ticked loudly in the silence. Adele looked to Martin, then to Claire. “You are asking us to take them.”

“There is no one else, no other way,” Claire said.

Martin pulled off his glasses. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“I’ve been compromised. People around me, good people, are dead. Executed. I don’t know if you have been identified yet. But you will be found.”

Adele paled, her wide eyes dark against her face. Martin patted her softly. The papers held his gaze.

Adele looked at Claire. “We knew this could happen, when we took the girls in.” Her eyes locked on her husband. Her voice lowered to near whisper. “We gladly accepted that risk, Martin.”

“How much time?” he said.

“Not long. This afternoon. When they realize these papers are gone, they will be watching the stations.”

“You said you were compromised.” Martin slipped the papers into the envelope, thumping it with a finger. “Why offer these to us?”

The image of Anna on Grey’s shoulders, Marta at Claire’s side dissolved into an ache deep inside. She shook her head. “Marta and Anna need a chance at a real life. They need parents. I need to settle some debts.”

“I’ll tell Marta to pack her suitcase. We’ll need a few things, not much. Martin, you get the money we set aside. It will have to do.” Adele hurried to the closed door and ducked inside.

Martin tucked the envelope into his shirt pocket. He stared around the room as if he were fixing it in his mind.

“I’m sorry, Martin.” Claire didn’t know how many more people she could lose.

He took her hands and cupped them between his. He looked over at the photograph on the mantel. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to lose your only child. We didn’t know how we could go on. You gave us two reasons to live. More than that, to make a new life.” He released her hands and turned toward their bedroom. He paused in the doorway and looked back. “No matter what happens, we are forever grateful to you.”

Adele hurried from the girl’s room clutching Anna in her arms. The girl had grown; her lithe legs hung past Adele’s waist, long little fingers interlaced in Adele’s collar. Her face pale, eyes wide, she was trying to be brave. She kissed Claire’s cheek with trembling lips, then sniffled as Claire hugged her tight. Adele murmured a piece of song into Anna’s ear, holding the girl close, and followed Martin into their bedroom. Claire knocked softly on Marta’s door and entered.

The room was small, neat, a narrow bed pressed against the wall. A lace curtain fluttered in a window in the warm summer air. The scent of fresh flowers came from a small posy on the sill. The old suitcase was thrown open on the bed as Marta tossed in clothing from an open drawer. A small yellow dress fluttered to the floor. She didn’t turn around.

Claire damn well couldn’t blame the girl for being upset. She sat at the foot of the bed and patted the spot next to her. Marta stuffed another wad of clothes in the case.

“You and Anna are leaving France. You are going to be safe,” Claire said.

Marta stared at the floor. “Okay.”

Claire almost smiled at Captain Walker’s
slang américain
. “The Oberons are good people. They’ll take care of you.”

“Adele said you won’t come with us.” Marta abruptly sat at Claire’s side.

“I have to do something for Grey.”

“Monsieur Grey?” Marta looked up. “You found him?”

“Yes.” The word hurt, but Claire forced a smile. “But there is still more to do.”

Marta nodded that she understood; her dark eyes focused on Claire’s face. “You can find us too. Afterward.”

“I will try.” Claire wrapped an arm around Marta’s shoulders. “I want to show you something.” She pulled out the jewelry roll from her purse and set it on her lap.

Marta couldn’t help herself, her eyes sparkled with curiosity. “What is it?”

Claire untied the silk ribbon and slowly unrolled the fabric. The necklace and earrings were jumbled like a pile of broken glass. The diamonds caught the faint afternoon sun streaming in the window and sparkled like embers.

Marta gasped. Claire picked up the necklace and handed it to the girl, sunburst in her palm.

Marta cradled the pendant, looking up at Claire. “My mother would have loved it. This must be worth so much. It’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful? Yes.” Claire nudged the dangling gems. As they swayed, white facets danced on Marta’s skin. “But I find many things more beautiful. Like, the light in your eyes when you smile.”

Marta smiled back. “And roses. You love roses.”

“Yes.”

“And Monsieur Grey. You think he is beautiful.”

The words cut into Claire. She forced in a breath. “Yes. He is.” She examined the necklace, remembered the night she got it from Russell, the lying that preceded it and all the lies that followed. The woman who loved that necklace was gone. Buried. “You must always see the difference between what the world says is beautiful and what your heart says is beautiful. Do you understand?”

“You sound like Madame Palain,” Marta said.

“Thank you. And I am also right.” Claire laughed softly. “The jewelry is expensive, true. But its worth—you will decide that in its use.”

“Me? I can’t take it.” Marta pushed the necklace back at Claire.

The diamonds were warm in her palm as Claire nestled the jewelry on the silk. Rolling up the fabric and tying it carefully, she turned to Marta. “Stand up in front of me.” Claire slipped the roll into the waistband of the girl’s skirt. “This is where you hide it, where they won’t look for it. Use the strings, like this, and tie them to your slip, where it can’t be seen.”

“It is too much.”

“Keep it hidden, always. If you need it—when you need it—you will know what to do.”

Marta’s lips trembled. She flung herself against Claire and rested her head on her shoulder.

Claire leaned her cheek against the top of the girl’s head. “You and Anna are going to have such wondrous lives.”

Marta looked up at her, the trace of hope turning up the edges of her mouth, even as tears clung to her dark lashes.
“Vraiment?”

“Truly.” Claire smiled. “You have courage, Marta. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The strength not just to survive but to be true to yourself—true to what matters.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. Promise me you won’t ever forget that.”

“I won’t forget anything. I promise.” Marta wrapped her thin arms around Claire, clenching her tight.

 

 

C
laire left their apartment building with her head down; she had the purposeful stride of someone with a place to go. She inspected herself in the reflection of the windows as she walked. A light wool jacket thrown over a sky blue dress. From Adele, both a touch too long, they covered the scrapes on her knees. The jacket had an inner seam, just opened for the folder; the pistol nestled in an inner pocket. Von Richter’s jacket and her ripped dress were ashes in the fireplace. She looked back once as she turned off rue Brezin, her gaze on the fourth floor, her eyes searching for fluttering white curtains. Another promise. She prayed Marta could live to keep it.

 

 

T
he afternoon turned blustery, the branches swayed overhead, leaves shaking. Claire’s coat whipped around her legs, slapping the raw skin. She stepped inside a doorway as rain began to fall. Sagging against the bricks, she shifted her weight back and forth on her aching feet as she watched the avenue behind her. She was tired. She needed to be vigilant.

Claire glanced at the sign across the street.
Hôtel Jasmine.
A worn four-story façade, the namesake vine clinging to crumbling bricks. She peered in the door. A dark lobby, tattered but clean. The kind of discreet place a woman would go to meet a man for the afternoon.

Another glance at the street, no soldiers in sight. Claire walked into the pharmacy next door. A moment later, she came out with a bag in her hand and crossed the street to the hotel. No identification necessary, 270 francs for the night, she signed in as Madame Martin.

“I assume Monsieur Martin will be joining you later?” the clerk asked with a knowing smile.

“Of course.”

Claire climbed two flights of stairs to number 17. The room was small, faded pink carpet and curtains, a badly patched porcelain washbasin in the corner.

Behind the high window, Claire watched the street below. She gripped the gun as a black sedan rolled up the block. She exhaled and pulled the curtains closed as the car accelerated past. She set the pistol on the nightstand and peeled the folder from her jacket lining.

The photo of Claire with Madame Palain in front of La Vie en Fleurs was taken in the fall of ’42, more than a year and a half ago. The photo of Claire with Grey in jardin du Luxembourg was taken in spring of the last year. It was impossible to say when the other photos were taken. Von Richter knew about her; he knew about them all. And had for months. She went word by word through each line of text in the reports, sifting for a name, a location. Nothing.

Claire rolled back onto the bed, wincing against her scrapes and bruises. Someone had betrayed them long ago. She stared through the cracked window at the deepening sky. The clouds let loose and a torrent of rain pelted the glass. She closed her eyes and smelled the jasmine’s perfume. She slept.

She woke to darkness, her body protesting. Shivering in front of a wash basin, she stared in the small mirror. Her eyes were dark, her face drawn. She reached for the pharmacy bag.

An hour later, she stood in front of the window. Ashes from the shredded box made dirty trails in the sink basin behind her. Light from the blanketed sun cast a chalky pall over her skin. The pallor accentuated the darkness of her short brunette hair, curled around her face. Claire stared at the folder open on the bed and then peeled a photo of Grey and Jacques from the paper. She flipped the photo over and scribbled a note on the back, then reached for her jacket.

She closed the door behind her. A man stepped in the hall from the next room. He glanced at her, then looked again, longer, from head to toe. She reached into her pocket, gripping the Walther.

His shadowed face melted into a small grin. “A shame I did not see you before. Join me for a smoke?” He pulled a handrolled cigarette from a pocket, gesturing toward his room with the flick of his head. He was weaving, the hand holding the cigarette unsteady.

Claire released her grip on the gun. She descended the stairs quickly. His footsteps thumped unevenly behind her. As she reached the final flight of stairs, the lobby came into view. Her heart stopped. Two Germans in black suits faced the clerk. Gestapo. One was pointing to a photograph in the clerk’s hands.

She pulled her jacket close and felt the folder pressed against her. She reached into her pocket. The thumping behind her stopped. Claire turned.

The man stared quizzically at Claire from above. “Change your mind already?”

Claire smiled, a slight nod. “How about breakfast first? And a drink?”

He shrugged, stepped down beside her, one hand slid down her backside.
“Pourquoi pas?”

She slipped her free hand around him, her other hand still clenching the pistol. He cupped her hip and pulled her close. She smelled alcohol mixed with stale tobacco. Together they went down the last stairs to the lobby, the man between her and the Gestapo. A cold sweat pricked at her neck. She giggled softly, staggered as if she were drunk, ran a hand through her short brunette hair. One of the Gestapo glanced at the couple once, frowned and turned back to the clerk.
If you see her,
she heard, and then they were out the door.

A half block later, the street opened up to an alley. Claire pulled them around the corner. The man reached for her, she pushed his hand back. “
Merci
, monsieur. But I don’t smoke.”

She turned and ran.

 

 

C
old rain dripped down Claire’s neck as she turned off rue de Tocqueville. The street was nearly empty in the early morning rain. No tables were pulled out onto the sidewalk at Café Raphael. Across the street, the theater was dark, the dentist’s building looked closed.

Gusts of wind tore at yesterday’s
Le Figaro
Claire held over her head. She clenched the message in her pocket, took a deep breath and walked toward the drop. A moment spent below the theater marquee to examine the poster, a woman planning her evening, then she walked past the dentist’s window. Her hand slipped into her pocket, the paper palmed in her hand. A glance at the dentist’s door, her hand moved toward the mail slot.

The door was boarded shut. The dentist was gone.

She forced herself to keep moving. A few more steps and she paused, as if to adjust her shoe. She glanced back for a better view. The heavy wooden door had been shattered, twisted hinges dangled from the broken doorjamb.

Claire let the newspaper fall to the pavement as she strode away. She didn’t notice the rain running down her face. Who could she turn to? She broke into a trot as she turned the corner. She didn’t slow down until she stood across from 22, rue d’Artois.

The lights were on in Laurent’s apartment, the curtains pulled. She remembered standing out here when she first got to Paris a lifetime ago. Claire wiped the rain from her face. She knew she looked like hell, but Laurent had to understand.