A Week in Paris (18 page)

Kitty returned home in a sombre mood. After she’d put Fay to bed that evening she could settle to nothing, and sat alone, brooding on the Belgian woman’s story. She often spent evenings on her own these days. Gene, more often than not, arrived home grim-faced and exhausted. He chose not to talk about his work at home, for his own sense of peace as well as to spare Kitty, but tonight when he finally came back she questioned him about the progress of the fighting. She was shocked when he explained about the large numbers of wounded soldiers, French and English, being brought to the hospital by American ambulances. The war, it seemed, had reached Paris.

Two nights later they listened to the BBC news with a sense of disbelief. The British Expeditionary Force had retreated to the north coast of France, hemmed in by the enemy on all sides. The only escape route was by sea. Anyone with a boat and in reach of the French coastal town of Dunkirk was ordered to go and help with the rescue. It sounded desperate.

Afterwards, Gene got up and switched off the wireless, then stood staring at it, ruffling his hair but saying nothing. Restless, Kitty rose from her seat and went to the open window. It was still light outside, one of those warm evenings of early summer, when she loved Paris most. Down the street, the drinkers had gathered as usual at the café on the corner and she could hear snatches of accordion music.

Finally, Gene spoke. ‘I think you and Fay need to leave for England while you can.’ His voice was heavy and firm.

She turned in surprise. ‘No,’ she said, her voice wild. ‘No. We’ve discussed this before.’

‘Kitty.’ He came to put his arm round her. ‘I’ve been speaking to someone at the Embassy. If you make your way south-west to Bordeaux there’ll be a ship to England.’

‘I won’t go without you, Gene, I won’t.’

‘Please, Kitty. If you won’t do it for yourself, think of Fay.’ He looked down at her earnestly. Dear Gene. She remembered the refugee family, the woman’s distress for her lost husband, and wanted more than ever to stay close to Gene. The war was approaching, but surely they were all right in Paris?

‘Shouldn’t we wait and see what happens? The news isn’t all bad. And you said yourself, we’d be safe here. We’re on your passport as Americans, after all.’

‘There’s always a risk though,’ he said with a sigh. ‘The Nazis may not follow the rules.’

‘I don’t want to be separated from you,’ she whispered, her eyes full of love for him, and he held her tight.

‘God knows, I don’t want it either.’ He sighed. ‘All right, we’ll wait a while and see what happens.’

A week later, 7 June, Kitty and her daughter were still in Paris, but the Knoxes’ sense of hope was being challenged daily. The Germans had established themselves in north-east France, it was said. The French army was falling back. What would happen if the Germans reached Paris? That was the talk in the shops. Would they bomb it, destroy it? Were its citizens in danger? Many were deciding that it was time to leave.

Walking to her piano lesson, Kitty passed through a city in upheaval. On the main roads the traffic was in gridlock, cars piled high with possessions, everyone trying to make their way out of Paris. People on laden bicycles wove their way through the jams, bells ringing impatiently. She’d never seen so many bicycles.

Over the river in the direction of the government offices, ominous columns of smoke drifted to the sky. ‘They’re burning secret documents, I heard,’ Jack had remarked at dinner the previous night. ‘All the evidence, no doubt, that threatens Blum’s cowardly hide,’ he added, referring to the current Prime Minister, blamed for France’s shocking failure to defend herself against the advancing enemy.

Kitty passed a shop window being boarded up by a stout old man with a hammer while his wife fussed over their luggage strewn about the pavement. At the Gare d’Orsay she saw a huge pile of battered saucepans, old pipes, a mangled bicycle or two, collected for scrap. It was too late for the war effort now. Crossing the road near an art gallery she was fascinated to see four men loading a huge wrapped picture onto a lorry. The brown paper didn’t quite cover it, and at the bottom she could see the painted hooves of a goat-like beast. No one in Paris was dancing now. She got a glimpse inside the truck as she passed. It was already chock-full of paintings. ‘Where are you taking them?’ she asked one of the men, but he only shrugged and said, ‘Wherever Fritz can’t get his filthy hands on them,’ and she shivered as though the summer wind had turned chill.

She arrived at Monsieur Deschamps’ apartment block, to find a scene of disarray. People were hurrying in and out of the building, fetching luggage, calling out instructions or arguing about things forgotten. Boxes and bits of furniture were scattered about, or were being tied onto vehicles. Inside the lobby there was no sign of the concierge, and the door to her rooms was shut and bolted.

To avoid the chaos around the lift, Kitty took the stairs, but when she had edged up past the crowds and emerged at the right floor it was to find a note pinned to Monsieur Deschamps’ door. It informed the generality that he had left Paris and apologized for the lack of notice. No forwarding address was given. Although she’d feared this, it was still a shock. She stood there for a minute or two, clutching her music case to her chest, as though it was the only thing she had left. In that moment she saw with clarity that her musical ambitions were over.

She turned away, feeling numb. It didn’t matter, she told herself. She’d think about it later. There were other, more important things now. Fay. She made her way slowly back down the stairs and out of the building, but no sooner had she set off in the direction of home than she heard someone shout, ‘Kitty!’ and when she looked back, she saw Serge running after her, out of breath. ‘You saw the notice?’ he said, between gasps. ‘I went to find out what was happening at the Conservatoire, then I thought I’d come back to meet you. The Métro was bad, so many people. I thought I’d missed you.’

‘What is happening at the Conservatoire?’

‘Much the same. Everybody’s leaving Paris.’

‘What will you do?’ she asked.

He shrugged, looking at the ground and shuffling a stone with his foot. Then he said, ‘There’s been another call-up,’ and glanced up to see her reaction. ‘It’s me this time.’

‘Oh, Serge, I’m sorry.’

He straightened and a wary look came into his eyes. ‘I might not have to go.’

‘How . . .?’

‘Because of my studies – I’m waiting to hear. Everything’s so chaotic anyway. Think about it – if I delay long enough, perhaps I won’t be needed.’ His voice trailed off. It was horrible to even think of the possibility of France’s defeat. ‘Never mind that. What about you?’

‘Gene wants to send Fay and me home to England.’

‘And will you go?’

‘I don’t know.’

They’d begun to walk back alongside the river. All the stalls were shut up today. No one wanted to buy or sell anything except a fare to safety. When they came to a bridge, Serge stopped, drawing her out of the path of an impatient cyclist. He said, ‘I’m going this way. I suppose we must say goodbye.’

‘We will see each other again?’ She felt a sudden rush of fondness for him.

‘I hope so,’ he said, regarding her with a grave, unhappy expression. ‘But perhaps not for a while. You can always try leaving a message at the Conservatoire.’

‘Of course. And whatever happens, I’m sure Gene will still be here at the hospital.’

‘Goodbye,’ he said, and placing his hands awkwardly on her shoulders he kissed her gently on each cheek, something he’d never done before. She stood for a long while watching his wan figure stride across the bridge until it was dwarfed by the long expanse of the Louvre gleaming silver in the sun. He had been one of her first friends in Paris, bonded to her by music and loneliness.

When Kitty arrived home, Jeanette thrust little Fay into her arms, her eyes refusing to meet her employer’s.

‘I have to go now,’ she mumbled, taking up her bag. She patted Fay. ‘
Au revoir, mignonne
.’ Her eyes teared up. ‘I am going to Limoges,’ she said with a catch in her voice. ‘To rest with my cousin. A little precaution. Until the danger is over.’

‘I wish you could stay.’

‘I will be back.’ She looked up at Kitty, her eyes fierce, her square chin jutted, determined. Kitty knew that her eldest son was on the front line somewhere and that she was worried stiff about him. ‘We will win, Madame Kitty. There is no question of it. La France cannot be defeated.’

‘Of course France will win,’ Kitty said quietly, moved by the woman’s dignity. Fay, who was tired, twisted in her mother’s arms and whimpered.

Two days later, Gene came home very late, completely exhausted but with news gleaned from the injured soldiers who were arriving at the hospital in increasing numbers. There had been a major retreat and the French army was disintegrating under poor leadership. ‘They say it’s chaos at the front,’ he said. ‘No one in charge knows what they’re doing. There’s a young lieutenant with a shoulder wound. Says they were given orders to do one thing one moment, exactly the opposite the next. Kitty, we’re running out of time now. We have to face reality. Paris may fall. You must take Fay and go.’

‘No,’ Kitty pleaded. ‘I don’t want to leave you. Gene, please.’ But this time, he wouldn’t accept her answer.

Why did Paris have to look so lovely on the day Kitty had to say goodbye? It was 12 June and the air was warm and the window-boxes of an apartment across the street were a mass of flowers, red and blue and white, someone’s small gesture for France.

Gene had taken the morning off work to see his wife and daughter safely onto the train, having spent much of the previous day at the American Embassy getting their papers in order. Boats were leaving all the time from Bordeaux, yes, they were assured by the harassed clerk. No, he couldn’t book a passage for them, though he proceeded to make several phone calls on their behalf. They should travel down there straight away. ‘Or it will be too late,’ he said meaningfully, as he turned his attention to the next people in the queue.

The Gare d’Orléans was a scene of chaos as shouting, frightened people fought to get onto trains. Gene went first, using Kitty’s case as a battering ram to forge a way across the platform. Their train was packed, people crammed in the corridors, but Gene miraculously managed to squeeze his wife and child through and into a compartment. He stowed Kitty’s luggage on the rack and negotiated a space for her between a voluptuous young woman with thick make-up and a frail dowager in a fur coat who had a tiny yapping terrier in a basket on her lap. It was a most unceremonious goodbye. ‘Take care, my love,’ Gene murmured in her ear as he kissed her and ruffled Fay’s soft dark curls. Then he plunged back into the corridor and was gone. All along the train, doors were slamming and people crying out to loved ones and waving or weeping. Kitty strained to see Gene in the crush on the platform, but couldn’t see past those still surging to get on, desperation in their eyes. Then a whistle blew and the throng fell back as the train began to move.

At the last moment she caught a glimpse of his tall figure in the crowd, his arm raised in a gesture of farewell. ‘Goodbye, goodbye,’ she cried, making Fay wave at her daddy until he was out of sight, and desolation engulfed her.

The train gained speed and soon they were on their way out of Paris. Fay buried her head in Kitty’s neck and moaned with fear in the darkness of a tunnel, but cheered up when they emerged into daylight, pointing at things they passed or watching the little dog turn in its basket.

Between the confusion of cases and people, a whole family could be glimpsed sitting opposite, placid brown-eyed parents with four children ranging from about twelve down to three. Kitty watched the youngsters hold out their hands as the mother shared out parcels of salami, bread and hard-boiled eggs from a string bag, and the stink of garlic joined the smells of sweat and cheap perfume that already filled the compartment.

From time to time, the train would trundle beside a road, and everybody stared out in disbelief at the long lines of cars jammed bumper to bumper in a great exodus from Paris. Alongside the cars people stumbled, pushing trolleys, prams or carts piled high with furniture, suitcases or children. One man steered a handcart containing an elderly man slumped in a heap. To Kitty all this was shocking, like a medieval painting of hell. People’s expressions were anguished or despairing or at best dogged. Parisians had become refugees. It occurred to her that, in a way, she and Fay were, too, and she shivered at the thought. She was relieved when the track curved away, leaving the awful scene behind.

Gradually the houses, the smoking factories and the grimy delivery yards thinned out, giving way to patches of green, then at last they were out in open countryside, with occasional views of churches and villages, orchards, a château, and everywhere fields were lush with ripening crops. As Fay gurgled in delight at the faces made by one of the children opposite, Kitty, lulled by the rhythm of the wheels, gazed out of the window in a reverie, thinking about Gene and the life she was leaving behind.

They were only a dozen miles further on, when the train’s whistle sounded, long, low and mournful. The train slowed, then braked violently, jolting to a halt that threw people onto one another. Outside the window, black smoke billowed, casting the carriage into darkness.

‘Qu’est-ce qui se passe?’
everyone asked everyone else.

‘Écoutez!’
Kitty heard a deep-voiced man bellow above the clamour. In the silence that followed the distant crackle of gunfire could be distinguished. Then, from further down the train, they heard shouting, and doors started opening.

A guard passed outside crying,
‘Descendez, descendez!’
and the passengers in Kitty’s compartment rose as one and scrambled about for their luggage. Outside, people began piling onto the tracks. Kitty helped the old lady with her suitcase before rescuing her own from the rack, then they followed in the wake of the crowd pushing and shoving their way out of the train. A young man caught Fay, enabling Kitty to jump down on the tracks. Behind her, someone handed down the old dowager, whilst her dog yapped furiously in its basket.