A Week in Paris (20 page)

Across the road, the clock above the jeweller’s had stopped at a quarter to nine. It was as though time itself had ceased. The only thing that moved was a little grey dog that trotted up and down the pavement, up and down, up and down, its leash trailing all the while. Kitty wondered whether it had been abandoned or had escaped. It was obviously lost. She went downstairs with a stale crust for it, but it ran from her, so she left the bread in a doorway. When she went out to the shops later, the crust was still there. The dog itself had vanished.

At eight o’clock Gene came home, and she’d never seen him so worn down. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said in a dismal tone when she asked him what was happening. ‘It’ll be tomorrow.’ Kitty had no need to ask what he meant. As the lugubrious café-owner had said, the French government had retreated – gone, too, were most of Paris’s wealthiest and powerful families. Paris lay open to the enemy, but at least the hope remained that it would be left untouched. If the leaders of the occupying forces had any sense of honour there would be no bombardment here, no fires, no looting, no bloodshed. And yet from tomorrow Paris wouldn’t be ruled by the French any more. The knowledge was heart-breaking. Neither of them talked much that evening. They were each lost in their private thoughts, sad ones.

Only Fay slept through the night, exhausted by her ordeal. Kitty slipped in and out of confused dreams and awoke at dawn sticky with heat to find Gene’s side of the bed empty. She rose, went out and found him standing by the window in the living room as she’d done yesterday. He was smoking and studying the street through half-drawn curtains.

‘I just saw one,’ he said quietly, drawing her to him and pointing. After a moment she saw him too, a German soldier strolling casually down the middle of the street, a rifle slung over his shoulder. They watched in silence until he disappeared from sight.

‘What’s he doing, do you think?’ she whispered.

‘Scouting about, I reckon.’

They watched some more, but nothing else happened.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said finally. Gene went to get dressed.

‘Do you have to go to work today of all days?’ she asked. She watched him pace the room as he ate a roll and honey, and knew the answer already. ‘Do take care.’

‘I always do.’ He held her for a long moment before he left.

Ten minutes later he was back, out of breath. ‘No trains,’ he said, ‘and the shops are all shut – I came to warn you. I’m going to drop by Jack and Milly’s, see if I can borrow Milly’s precious bicycle, unless I see a cab on the way. Otherwise I guess I’ll be walking to the hospital.’

She sighed and nodded, foreseeing that it would be a long day.

After lunch, Kitty became aware of a rumbling sound like distant thunder, which continued ceaselessly, growing gradually louder. She wondered what it was, but hadn’t the courage to go and find out. Then, without warning, Milly showed up at the door. She said she hadn’t seen Gene that morning, so perhaps he’d found a cab, after all. ‘I’m going off to watch the parade,’ Milly told her. ‘I thought you’d come if I fetched you.’

‘The parade? You mean the Germans coming in?’ she gasped. ‘Milly, how could you? Won’t it be awful?’

‘Yes, it will be, but I wouldn’t miss it for anything.’ Millie didn’t smile, but her eyes shone with a dangerous excitement. ‘Nor should you. It’s history. We have to be there. Get Fay ready and come on.’

Kitty’s curiosity won out. ‘You’ll have to help me take the pram downstairs,’ she told Milly.

They walked out mournfully into the sunlight and immediately the ominous rumbling became much louder. As they made their way across the river they met straggling groups of other Parisians, all with sombre faces, drawn as if mesmerized towards the Champs-Élysées and the source of the racket.

The first blow for Kitty was the sight in the distance of a flag bearing a swastika flying above the Eiffel Tower. At the Place de la Concorde she glimpsed another above the Arc de Triomphe. Meanwhile, the German war machine was already making its progress down the Champs-Élysées. There were gun carriages drawn by gleaming horses, patrols of motorcycles, row upon row of tanks, and then the soldiers, tens of thousands of them, helmeted Wehrmacht, their uniforms immaculate, buttons polished, marching with heavy tread to the menacing brightness of a military band.

Such displays were familiar to her from Pathé films at the cinema, but these had been mere shadows of the reality close up. The sheer strength of the enemy forces was overwhelming. And here they were, marching through her beloved Paris, weapons glinting under a sky of merciless blue. It was as though every wheel ground the breath out of her, every boot stamped its imprint on her spirit. This was the might of Nazi Germany. At that moment it felt unconquerable.

During the course of the afternoon, large crowds of Parisians amassed. For the most part people stood silent and aghast, some with hands over their mouths in shock and horror, others openly weeping, but here and there were people cheering, which Kitty found bewildering. ‘How can they? Oh, how can they?’ she spoke in Milly’s ear.

‘They’re Germans from Alsace, I think,’ Milly replied. ‘The enemy within.’ She was busy scribbling notes on a pad, doubtless for some article, although where she would be able to place it, Kitty couldn’t guess. Milly had already told her that the presses of the
Paris Herald Tribune
had been stilled. I expect she’ll find somewhere, she thought. And that meant she would put herself in danger. Milly was smart, but in some ways not smart enough. For her, truth was a shining sword that should never be dulled, no matter the risks. Despite the summer heat, Kitty shivered.

Walking back home, after saying goodbye to Milly, she noticed that many of the shops were opening. The atmosphere in the city, if she had to describe it, was now one of relief. It was as though people were saying to each other that the enemy had arrived in Paris, there had been no destruction, nobody much had been hurt. Perhaps life would continue as normal. It was bizarre and yet at the same time reassuring. Paris might be defeated, but her spirit was not crushed. Kitty had to remind herself that today was only the beginning.

When she reached their building, she lifted Fay from the pram and, since the concierge was not there to complain, parked it in the lobby. But when she reached their apartment she was alarmed to discover that, in her absence, a red seal had been affixed to the door. After puzzling at it for a moment she realized that it had been left by some Embassy official to explain to the occupying force that American citizens lived there. She supposed it should feel comforting, but somehow it wasn’t. They were to be marked and observed. Like the Jews, she thought, remembering the yellow stars in the Pathé films. Would it be long before they would see those in the streets of Paris? Her nickname was the City of Light, but would she now become the City of Darkness?

1961

It took a moment for Fay to realize that Mme Ramond had fallen silent, so caught up was she in the woman’s story. When she glanced up, it was to see her sunk in her chair, her eyes closed. Fay was alarmed at how exhausted she appeared.

‘Madame,’ she whispered, and the woman’s eyes opened and she smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ Fay said. ‘I’ve tired you.’

‘No, you have not, my dear.’ Mme Ramond sighed, shifting a cushion to make herself more comfortable. ‘It’s talking about the past. It’s . . . as if one is living it all again.’

‘You’ve told me a lot about my parents. I’m grateful, but there’s so much to take in. And I’ve no idea why my mother has never told me all this herself.’

‘You must hear the rest of the story,’ Mme Ramond said quietly, ‘and perhaps then you may judge for yourself.’

Fay nodded, sensing foreboding in the woman’s tone.

‘But not today. You are right, after all. I think I am tired.’ She stirred from her chair and, crossing the room, she picked up one of the photographs of her husband from the shelves. As Mme Ramond stared at it, Fay was touched to see an expression of pride on her face. ‘You know,’ the woman said, replacing the photograph, ‘he is playing in the Golden Hall tonight. I wish I could be there to hear him.’

‘The Musikverein?’ Fay said with interest. ‘How marvellous.’

‘You know Vienna then?’

Fay shook her head. ‘One day I hope to go. And to visit the Golden Hall. I’ve seen pictures. It looks so beautiful.’

‘In my opinion it is the best of all the concert halls. Maybe one day you will play there. The war cut off so much opportunity for your mother – but you? The world is open to you. You must be dedicated though. If you marry, you should find a husband who supports you in your work. And it will be harder if you have children.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Fay said a little stiffly. The shrewd way in which Mme Ramond was now regarding her made her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t want to have to think about this sort of thing. Not for years and years, anyway. A rush of annoyance surprised her. Who was this woman to advise her like this? A friend of her mother’s, she’d said, but who!

Mme Ramond must have sensed all this for she said, ‘I’m sorry. All this is still before you. And I forget you are no longer a child who needs protection.’

Fay’s irritation subsided. Mme Ramond was an ordinary woman again, not a sinister threat. A woman who deserved Fay’s sympathy, too, with her swollen joints, her pain-filled face. And missing her absent husband.

‘Fay, I must ask you to excuse me. I’m afraid I need to rest before I go out this evening.’

‘Of course. I have to rush myself.’ The clock on the mantelpiece was inching towards half past five. She rose to go. ‘Mme Ramond, thank you so very much.’

‘It is delightful to see you,’ the woman said, pushing herself up from her chair. ‘When can you come again?’

‘Would you mind if I do? I’m free at the same time tomorrow afternoon.’

‘That would suit me very well.’

Fay collected her handbag from the floor and her eye fell on the wooden zebra on the table.

‘Take him,’ Mme Ramond said, seeing her hesitation.

‘Really, may I?’

‘Of course,
chérie
. He is yours. I always hoped to give him back to you.’ This was said with such warmth and yearning that Fay felt strangely touched. She stowed the zebra in her bag.

She hardly noticed how she made her way downstairs, only that suddenly she was on the street and following Mme Ramond’s directions to a Métro station that would take her back to the hotel. It had been an extraordinary afternoon. Over the course of several hours her perception of who she was had been severely shaken. Everything her mother had led her to believe about her infancy – and admittedly that had not been very much at all – she now had to assume was untrue, or at least incomplete. A whole different narrative was taking its place.

But why should she believe Mme Ramond rather than her own loving mother? Kitty had never spoken of any friend named Nathalie or Ramond, but then she hadn’t mentioned her Parisian past at all, so perhaps that wasn’t in itself significant. She thought of all the women Mme Ramond had mentioned and realized that she’d never once made reference to her own role in the narrative. Who
was
Mme Ramond? Fay wished she’d asked. And yet when she’d been in her flat, such was her trust in the woman’s telling of the story, she had sensed it would be revealed when the time was right.

And yes, she did believe Mme Ramond’s story. She recognized it instinctively in a way that she’d never recognized what her mother had told her. When Mme Ramond had described the apartment that had been Fay’s first home, Fay had seen pictures in her mind of fine net curtains with a flowery pattern blowing in a breeze, of a ball rolling across a paved yard with high white walls around it. Somewhere deep inside she remembered these things, even though she was probably very young when she left. There was her reaction to the tolling bell in Notre Dame, too. Perhaps these disturbing experiences she’d been having in Paris were all actually memories of some sort. If it was true, at least it meant she wasn’t going mad, which was the other explanation.

The train was packed with rush-hour crowds. A bashful young man with pock-marked skin gave up his seat to her, but then stood right by her, giving her little glances, so to avoid his attention she brought the zebra out of her bag and examined it, running her fingers over its dear blunt nose and smooth, rounded belly. Once again she saw herself as a child, walking the zebra on a window-ledge. The animal had a name, but for the life of her she couldn’t recall what it was. Something beginning with S? Or was it an M? When she looked up next they’d reached the Louvre and the young man had gone.

Fay changed trains at the next station, then alighted at Madeleine. Coming up onto the street, she glanced across to where the great church lay bathed in the early-evening light and remembered the little priest who had been so helpful. How tactless she’d been, she burned with embarrassment to remember, asking him about the war. He’d answered her so mildly, deflecting the question. Who knew what depths of suffering he might be hiding. She was beginning to understand this now. For Paris was part of her own past.

What had happened to her mother here? In some ways Fay could hardly wait to return to Mme Ramond’s the next afternoon, but she also dreaded it. She guessed now that she was being led down into some dark area of her mother’s life that she, Fay, needed to know about, but which Kitty not only refused to speak of but had also blanked out entirely, it seemed, cutting it out of her life like some vile canker, perhaps in order to survive. She remembered what Dr Russell had said, that her mother was brooding on something, some secret. Was it guilt? What could her mother, from whom she’d only ever received love and kindness, possibly have done?

Fay felt only sympathy for her, and now, walking past the church on her way to the hotel, she experienced a deep longing to speak to her. It would be half past five in England – perhaps somebody would answer, she reasoned, so she retraced her steps to the square and went into the post office where – was it only the day before yesterday? – she’d tried to find the address of the convent. Picking up the receiver at one of several telephone booths that lined the far wall, to her surprise she found herself speaking to Dr Russell.