A Week in Paris (30 page)

Kitty rubbed the chalk message off M. Klein’s door, still feeling guilty. The fact remained that M. Klein had lived next door and had been their friend, and yet they had been able to do nothing to stop him being taken away. For some days afterwards, Fay would ask her if he’d returned and eventually Kitty told her that he’d gone to live somewhere else. The little girl looked at her for a long time after this then said, ‘Poor M’sieur Zipper. Gone,’ whenever they passed his door.

In the weeks following, his flat remained silent and empty. No friends called to enquire of him, and as far as she knew, no one came for his possessions. Each time she passed the empty flat, she felt his absence like the warning twinge of a hidden disease.

Kitty had become used to days when some special operation was underway, the presence of extra soldiers in the streets, the horns of the outriders’ bikes clearing a route for an official cavalcade to pass. Often she never learned what it was about. But there was something different about 16 July.

The raids began at dawn. She was woken by vehicles roaring down the street. Soon, shots could be heard in the distance. Sleep was impossible after that; she lay anxious as Eugene breathed gently beside her. He was exhausted, poor man. Long hours at the hospital, insufficient food and the need to be constantly on his guard had taken their toll. When had she last heard him laugh? She couldn’t remember, yet from the passion with which he spoke about his work she knew that beneath his weariness his spirit still burned bright.

When Fay came in at six and snuggled into the bed between them, Kitty rose to visit the bathroom and became aware of a low, distant rumbling, like a storm gathering on the horizon. She went to the window and raised the sash and the rumbling grew louder, yet the sky was a cloudless blue. A hot day was in prospect, she thought. There was a strong smell of traffic fumes and though the usual sounds echoed up from the street below, a tension hung in the air. She turned back to the room and went to lift the child into her highchair, taking comfort in the usual routines, the whistle of the kettle, Eugene running water in the bathroom.

All morning, the noise of heavy traffic continued, and down in the shops, people pursued their business with a subdued air. Everyone was aware that something was going on, but there were conflicting rumours as to what. It was while she was queuing at the butcher’s, in the hope of a few strands of stewing meat, that the butcher’s wife, a beady-eyed woman with a dumpy figure and an ear for gossip, came in and remarked to her husband that ‘they’, whoever they were, said it was all going on at the Vélodrome. Others joined in with questions, and by the time Kitty had stowed her tiny parcel of offal in her shopping bag she’d learned that a huge Gestapo operation was in place. Jews were being taken from their homes and assembled in the vast sports stadium near the Champs de Mars.

An awful silence fell over the shop and Kitty was pleased to take Fay’s hand and leave, trying to absorb the shock of this news. All those poor people, some the Knoxes’ neighbours perhaps, herded together – and what was it for? What were the Gestapo going to do with them? And then a thought that turned her blood cold: was Serge amongst them?

She wasn’t sure what to do, but as she put the shopping away and warmed some thin soup for lunch a resolve strengthened in her mind. She had to find him and make sure he was safe. After they’d eaten she hastened downstairs with Fay and knocked on the door of the lady with the baby, begging her to look after Fay for an hour or two. It was only as she left the building that she remembered that she didn’t know Serge’s precise address. It was somewhere in the maze of streets in the Marais district, she knew, in a street of jewellers’ shops, but which number she had no idea. This meant she had to go to the Conservatoire first to enquire. It took the porter some time to find out the information she needed, then she checked to make certain that he wasn’t in the college, before taking the Métro to Place de la République. By this time she felt so anxious she was jittery and hurried along with lowered eyes in case anyone noticed.

Rue du Temple was a long, narrow street running straight down towards the river at Notre Dame. Despite the mid-afternoon sunshine it was cast in shadow. The grilles were down on many of the shops, and sentiments similar to the one on Monsieur Klein’s flat had been daubed on some of the doors.

She found the number she wanted without much trouble. The shop itself was
closed until further notice
, a handwritten sign told her, and when she rang the bell to the dwelling above there was no answer. After a moment, she crossed the street and looked up at the windows. Though the shutters were open the curtains were drawn across and the glass reflected darkly back at her. She was turning to go when her eye caught a tremble of a curtain as though someone had lifted it to peep out, but when she looked again, all was as before. She glanced about in case anyone else was watching.

A man was standing at a street corner a dozen yards away. He wore his hat down low so she could only see the lower part of his face. It was a narrow face, close-shaven, with a mean twist to his lips, but it was his hands she noticed as he smoked his cigarette. Who would wear leather gloves in July? He saw her interest and touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement. She ignored this, and instead set off down the street towards the river. She hardly noticed where she was going – she simply wanted to get away from him. But when she checked behind her a moment later, there was no sign of anyone following her. Perhaps he was of no significance. She walked on more slowly now, deep in thought. If anyone had been in the flat, they hadn’t been prepared to reveal themselves. Had it been Serge? Who else could she ask about him? The lovely face of Mrs van Haren hovered in her mind, but she’d need to find out where the woman lived, and anyway, she might be putting Serge in more danger by stirring that particular wasps’ nest. She would ask Gene.

Her pace quickened. She was glad to leave the shadows of the Rue du Temple and to emerge into the open, crossing the dusty expanse of ground by the Hôtel de Ville with its forbidding German sentries before reaching the pearl-grey bridge over the river.

It was as she undressed alone that night in the weak light of the bedroom lamp that she became aware of a gentle tapping sound. Someone was at the door of the flat. Kitty pulled a dressing gown on over her underwear and went to see. Outside, the figure of a man separated himself from the shadows and for a moment she thought she saw those leather gloves and drew in a sharp breath. But then a shaft of light fell across his face.

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ she breathed. It was Serge.

Grasping his arm, she pulled him inside and shut the door, saying in a low voice, ‘Serge, I was so worried.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, setting down a small suitcase. Fear rose from him, she sensed it in his shallow breath, the quick pulse of his blood. ‘I saw you this afternoon, but I daren’t come down. Not till
he’d
gone.’ She had no need to ask who ‘he’ was.

‘Gene’s not here,’ she said, directing him to sit with her on the sofa. They conversed quietly for a while. Serge had received an anonymous letter the night before warning him to stay away from his apartment and to tell no one. He had slept the night in a cupboard at the Conservatoire ‘with the ghosts of all those musicians’, he managed to joke, then, torn with guilt at having left the family he lodged with, couldn’t help himself returning to Rue du Temple to find out what had happened to them. There was no sign of them, but no sign of any struggle either. He’d just been packing a few things when he’d peeped out of the window and noticed the man in the leather gloves. Each time he’d looked he’d seen the man. Then Kitty had arrived, and after that the man had left. Whether he’d been right to be wary of him, he couldn’t say, but he’d been fearful enough to wait till darkness fell before setting out once more.

‘It’s she – she who betrayed me,’ he kept saying over and over again. ‘Mrs van Haren, of course,’ he snapped when Kitty asked. ‘I thought I’d be safe with her, but she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, could she?’

‘But think – perhaps it was she who sent the note warning you?’ Kitty saw no yellow star on his coat and wondered if he’d ever worn one. If he’d been stopped and his identity checked, he could have been arrested simply for that omission, but perhaps it was the only safe way for him to travel during curfew. And now he was here, what was she to do with him? She didn’t need to glimpse the not-quite-closed door to the second bedroom to remember Fay, within, sleeping innocently on her front, her knees curled to her chest as was her habit. Kitty swallowed. If only Gene were here, he’d know what to do, but he was on call at the hospital tonight and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow evening. All she knew was that if Serge was found here, she’d be deemed guilty of hiding him – and who knew what would happen? She’d heard stories – everybody knew one – of prison and torture.

Serge’s eyes were dark pools of fear in his white face. His hands with their strong, sensitive fingers worked at the brim of the hat in his lap. He was her friend and he was in trouble. There was only one thing Kitty could do now and that was to find him something to eat and make up a bed on the sofa.

Sometime in the early morning they awoke to the sound of distant gunfire. It was from the prison in the Avenue Foch, she’d heard the butcher’s wife say. She had to clamp her hands over her ears whenever where she heard it now, knowing it must be an execution.

She did not sleep well, then in the morning had to drag herself out of bed with heavy-lidded eyes. She found Fay playing on the floor by the sofa, showing Serge the animals from her ark. Kitty remembered how good he’d been with her when he’d met her as a baby.

The day inched by and it was as though she walked on broken glass. Everything she did had to be thought through first, to make sure Serge’s presence was not suspected. The shutters and the curtains must be opened as usual – everything must be as usual – but this meant Serge had to keep away from the windows in case he was seen by someone from a window opposite. If she went out he must not answer the door or flush the lavatory or run the tap. He should not smoke or make a sound of any sort. The inability to smoke and his constant fear made him tetchy by the end of the first day.

Gene’s expression when he walked in through his front door at six o’clock and saw Serge could only be described as horrified. ‘He had nowhere else to go,’ Kitty said, when Gene drew her out to the kitchen to speak to her privately.

‘So I imagine, damn the man,’ Gene said, pushing a cigarette between his lips and lighting it, but the pity in his voice belied his words. ‘He can’t stay here, of course.’

‘Of course not,’ Kitty echoed, twisting a tea towel round her hand and imagining a visit from Obersturmführer Hoff.

‘No, Fay,’ Gene commanded.

Fay had climbed on a chair to get to the bread bin. ‘Tea for man,’ the girl said, trying to hide the stolen heel of a loaf behind her back.

‘We have nothing to feed him on, Gene,’ Kitty said, trying to keep her voice level. ‘What do we do?’

‘I’m trying to think,’ was her husband’s answer.

‘I’m sorry to cause you this trouble,’ Serge kept repeating, his eyes desperate. He was worried about his family in Orléans. ‘I need to get a message to them,’ he said unhappily. ‘To find out if they’re safe.’

‘We’ll work out a way,’ Gene soothed, ‘but we must be careful.’

‘Of course,’ Serge said, slumping in his chair.

After supper – a particularly sparse meal given the extra mouth – Gene went out. He didn’t say where he was going, but he didn’t return until after midnight. Kitty heard him as he let himself in and came into the bedroom where she was lying awake in the dark.

‘Where did you go?’ she whispered.

‘To see a pal who might be able to help. They’re going to sort out something quickly, but in the meantime Ramond will have to stay here.’

Kitty screwed up her eyes and sighed, then said, ‘How long?’

‘I don’t know, Kitty, it’s no good asking. There are so many similar cases just now. Tomorrow maybe, or the day after. It depends what can be fixed up for him.’

A day or two. Not that long. Surely they could bear that.

‘I don’t like it either, sweetheart, but we must help him, of course.’

‘Of course we must.’

Everything must be as usual
. Kitty had arranged to meet Lili in the park the following afternoon. She was actually glad to get away from the flat and from Serge, whose moods veered between misery and extreme nervousness, and it would be good for her and Fay to be out in the sunshine. She picked out some books for him to read, buckled Fay’s shoes on for her, and went out. As she pulled back the grille of the lift, the door of the apartment with the mat opened and the same woman looked out. When she saw it was Kitty, she closed the door again. They met the man who visited her as they stepped out into the vestibule. He called a greeting to the concierge and winked at Fay as he passed.

Today, Lili was not her usual cheerful self. Her small, heart-shaped face was creased into a frown, and when Joséphine fell over and got a grass stain on her white pinafore, Lili brushed at it and scolded her. She and Kitty sat together on a bench while the children played with a ball. Kitty studied Lili gravely and put her hand on hers, asking what had brought her so low. Wordlessly, Lili dug into her handbag and brought out a postcard. From Jean-Pierre, her husband, Kitty imagined – but when she turned it over, she saw Lili’s own handwriting on it. It had been stamped by some German official, but the ink was smudged and impossible to read.

‘It was returned to me a few days ago. What does the stamp say?’

‘I don’t know, Lili. Have you asked anyone else?’

‘Who? My employers are away and I don’t like to take Joséphine to the Kommandatur.’

‘I expect everything’s all right. You’d have heard if it wasn’t, I’m sure. It must be a mistake.’

‘Yes,’ she echoed. ‘It must be a mistake.’ She gave Kitty a whey-faced smile.

Kitty’s thoughts flicked back to Serge. The weight of the knowledge of him was with her all the time. Waiting, she thought. This war is all about waiting, and the news, when it came, was so often bad. Poor Serge didn’t know what had happened to his family, but she had an awful feeling.
Don’t
, she told herself. It was too easy to be pessimistic, always to fear the worst.