The Last Time I Saw Paris (7 page)

Claire stared up at the cheeky little balcony in the dim moonlight; ivy and blossoms threaded through iron railings. Her body ached to tuck in there for the night, to close her eyes to the scent of flowers wafting in through an open window.

“It is not required you take the room. It is used for storage now.” The florist smoothed a stray hair back into her bun. “Fresh paint, scrubbing, and it could be quite
agréable
.”

Claire turned to examine Madame. The woman obviously knew a few things about taste and seemed more than willing to impart them. What would it hurt to play with flowers for a few weeks? Get her Parisian feet wet. Get inside the Ritz. It was perfect—in a sense. “But what happens if the Germans do make it to Paris?”

Madame Palain stiffened. “Will we have any less need for flowers? Any less need for beauty?” Her face and tone were icy. “I know what war does. I know its cost. But this is still Paris. This shop will survive. It always survives.”

The florist’s indignation startled Claire. “Madame Palain, I didn’t—”

“My assistant Natalie left when her father and brothers were called up from Lyon. Jon Pierre, my delivery boy, was called away to fight this week.” Madame pointed up at the sign. “You must understand, La Vie en Fleurs is one of the finest, most trusted flower shops in all of Paris. We have a duty to Paris, to France.” A breath was expelled from pursed lips and she shrugged. Madame had made her offer and wanted Claire to see it was all the same to her. “
Eh bien
, it’s late. I need to get home. If you’re not up to the task, then it would not benefit either of us.”

“I would be truly grateful if I could work here,” Claire said, surprised at the genuine enthusiasm in her voice.

“Bon.”
The merest curve of a smile as Madame buttoned her coat.

Gazing through the window at the tidy little shop, at the stone floor, the worn plaster walls, the rows upon rows of tin buckets that held cheery blossoms, Claire realized she actually did want to be a part of this place. She listened to Madame’s shoes click away down the dark sidewalk. The steps paused.

“That will be your first task in the morning, after you help me prepare the shop to open. You must clear out the storage from your new room and find a place for it. Come along. You’ll stay with me tonight.” Without a further word or glance, the older woman started off down the sidewalk at a rapid clip.

Claire didn’t trust herself to speak. She hurried to Madame’s side, struggling to keep pace. She looked back at the shop as they turned the corner. The curving lines of the awning and balcony were barely visible in the moonlight. The brass plaque on the wall read
rue du Colisée
. The whole damn shop would have fit in her ballroom on Fifth Avenue. But, somehow, it looked strangely like home.

 

 

O
ver the next few days, following careful directions from Madame, Claire emptied out the bulk of the items stored in her new bedroom. It was small, as Madame promised, not much wider than the balcony itself and about twice as long. Just enough space for a single bed, which Claire uncovered from under a layer of boxes. A dresser Georges carried up the stairs balanced on his shoulder now stood against the wall by the door. A mirror, clouded with age, leaned against the wall. Beyond that, the room was empty, waiting.

Claire had next to nothing, which was why it took her so long to unpack. Twenty pairs of shoes can exist in a jumbled pile. One pair must be thoughtfully placed. The cream-colored evening gown and silver heels from her hatbox and the sable were hung in the back of the closet.

She pulled the silk bundle from her train case and laid it on the bed in front of her. Propped up on an elbow, she untied the ribbon and unrolled a thick jewelry roll. Diamonds sparkled in the faint light. With a finger, she nudged apart the Cartier necklace, matching earrings, and the few other baubles she’d taken from the safe. “Armies march, but diamonds conquer all,” she whispered with a grin. After some searching, her jewelry roll was tucked in an old newspaper and wedged behind the dresser’s top drawer.

Finally, Claire pulled the garden photo from her case and slipped it into the edge of the mirror. Now that she was here, the image felt more real. As if she would turn a corner down the next street and this garden would be awaiting her.

A clatter of tin buckets from below startled her from her reverie. The florist called up the stairs. “Madame Harris,
êtes-vous prête
?”

Claire smiled and shook her head. Such a crazy world. But this was just for a few weeks and then Paris would be hers. The Nazis couldn’t have it. “Coming, Madame,” she said with an unexpected lightness as she hurried down the steps.

C
laire jerked awake as the darkness flared to bright white. A deafening boom shook the room. She wrenched free of her tangled sheets and fell from the small bed. She crawled to the window and peered into the darkness. Another flash, the balcony windows glowed scarlet, and rumbling thunder threw her to the floor. Now two red suns glowed in the distance.

A string of explosions ripped the sky apart. Far off, crimson towers flared into the night sky, lighting the graceful lines of the blacked-out city like a fiery sunset. The stars were veiled by a murky grey blanket of dense smoke.

The Germans were bombing Paris.

She pulled herself to her feet and swung open the windows, arms hugged against her chest. An acrid breeze that smelled of cinders tugged at her thin cotton slip. Stepping outside on the small balcony, her gaze was trapped, unblinking, on the destruction in the distance. She listened for the Nazi planes that must be responsible, the dreaded Luftwaffe, but couldn’t make out the buzzing engines over the blood pounding in her ears.

Another barrage and the balcony shuddered. Now several different parts of the city were ablaze. Claire cursed under her breath. Paris was for expiring, like Greta Garbo in
Camille
, in silk sheets, amongst flowers and despairing lovers. Damn well not for dying alone, blown to bits. Her knees buckled and she sank to the balcony floor.

A blast, too large, too close, rattled her teeth. She leaned her head against the wrought-iron railing; the cool metal bit into her cheek. Figures crowded the street below, only their outlines visible. Their shouts sounded thin amid the baritone explosions as they scurried in all directions. Who did they run to?

Laurent . . . She grabbed his name like a lifeline and scrambled to her feet. Running for the door, she grabbed a coat and slipped on her shoes. She half fell through the bedroom door and charged down the stairs, one hand in her coat sleeve, the other hugging the curved stone stairwell. Another explosion and the building shuddered. Claire caught her heel, landed hard and bumped down another two steps before she wedged sideways in the small passage.

The walls reverberated around her. Her back was jammed against the cold stone wall, her coat bunched up against one shoulder and her feet pressed awkwardly against the opposite wall. A curse tore from her throat as she slammed the wall behind her with a fist. The world might be ending, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—crawl to Laurent. Not this way.

Claire tasted blood and her lip stung fiercely. She glared into the darkness, wiping a hand over her mouth, the image of her mother’s cracked lips, clenched tight against food or water, burning in her mind. “You think I’m scared of you? You don’t know what bad dying looks like.” She pulled herself up the stairs and limped back to the balcony. She sat amongst the flowers and watched fires burn until the sun rose.

 

 

T
here was a certain look. A tight half smile, a nearly imperceptible tilt of the shoulder. Sometimes words.
C’est la vie.
That’s life. More often nothing was said. The weary eyes said it all. Claire recognized the look now. It was purely French. The way she read it, it meant, “Well, we survived
that
, so we may as well hold on. This is Paris, after all.” There had been many
that
s to be survived.

She first saw that look the morning after the bombing. She learned from Madame the Nazis targeted the Renault and Citroën factories in the darkness and dropped thousands of bombs in southwest neighborhoods in Paris. Nearly a thousand dead. And yet at ten in the morning, a man came in to buy flowers for his wedding anniversary. Thirty years married, a day worth celebrating. He was almost apologetic as he picked out the bouquets. But the look, a shrug. This was Paris. Life goes on.

A week later, June 11, and the air was thick with a heavy smoke that hung over the city like a shroud. The dingy sky smelled of dirty fires. No one wanted to think about what burned. Some said it marked the end of the world. Claire and Madame spent the day indoors reorganizing the back room, a wet rag stuffed into the crack between the front door and the floor.

The next morning dawned and they found they still lived. A mother came in for a large order of flowers for a fête that night for her daughter’s fifteenth birthday. The harried woman rushed to pull together all the details, making up for lost time after shops closed the day before. The greatest inconvenience, however—the government had abandoned Paris two days previous. Many invitees were bureaucrats and their families—the departure played havoc with the party’s seating arrangements.
“C’est vraiment terrible.”
The look again. Her daughter was only this age once. What could one do? This was Paris.

News got worse. The German army plowed through the last of the French troops to the north. The Nazis would be here any second. The Luftwaffe had bombed the heart of Rotterdam into the ground less than a month ago to guarantee a Dutch surrender. What might they do to Paris?

Claire took her first paycheck and bought a thin summer dress. It was the deep blue of a clear evening sky and swished playfully around her hips. She sprang for a little felt pillbox hat, dark grey with a ribbon in matching blue. She wore it that Sunday when she walked alone around the Left Bank. The city was nearly deserted but enchanting still. She rested on a park bench near the foot of the Eiffel Tower, craning her head back to see the rise of the massive spires. A handsome Frenchman sat beside her, smoking a Gauloises and unabashedly drinking her with his eyes. He tried in vain to make conversation
en français
. Claire finally said
au revoir
and left him, as well as his implied offer for company of an intimate nature. She moved on to see the jardin des Tuileries then watched what must be all the city’s remaining children ride the painted ponies at the jardin du Carrousel. It was a beautiful Sunday. And this was Paris after all.

By the next Friday, June 14, the radio said units of the German Sixth Army marched from the north into Paris. It was a quiet morning in the shop, and Madame and Claire froze when they heard a low rumble. They watched people stream toward avenue des Champs-Elysées.

“What is it?” Claire said, her chest tight.

Madame Palain just shook her head.

“I’ll see.” Claire hurried along behind the crowd.

The sidewalks lining the avenue were filled with people. Claire pushed her way forward into the mass as far as she could. She heard, or more felt, a rhythmic pounding. A collective gasp; a silver-haired man ahead of her cried out. Straining to see, Claire scrambled up on the base of a streetlight. She turned her head toward the Arc de Triomphe.

A line of Nazi soldiers, as far back as she could see. Led by a horseman, their grey uniforms impeccable, rifles slung over their soldiers. Marching like machines, their hobnailed boots rang out like a massive hammer battering the asphalt street.

As she watched, a bloodred flag was unfurled from the top of the Arc. At its center, a massive black swastika flapped in the breeze. The man standing near Claire’s feet turned away from the parade, tears streaming down his face. Feeling sick, Claire jumped from the base and headed toward the store.

“They are here,” Claire said as she entered the shop.

Madame turned back to her roses. “Bring me the dried greenery from the back. Supplies will be a challenge. You will need to learn how to use more fill to accentuate fresh blossoms.”

Paris still stood, Claire thought the florist meant. They would outlast this.

She worked a full day then crawled into bed and cracked open a tattered children’s grammar book Madame had scrounged from Georges. Claire tried out the new words—they all sounded like poetry—until early morning when she slept.

The French tricolor flag was lowered and the swastika rose all over the city. That Sunday, Claire sat on a high stool in the flower shop, her elbows resting on the long zinc counter as she stared at the large print in the children’s book. Around her, the tin pails that brimmed with flowers the day she arrived were stacked empty against the walls. Only the hardiest blooms now graced the shop. Music crackled from the radio beneath the counter. “Mood Indigo” then “Fleur de Paris.”

Madame flitted about the shop, busy as ever. Claire knew nothing actually needed to be done. The florist only paused when asked a question or to correct pronunciation.

“Mon père est un homme d’affaires,”
Claire said, face buried in the book. My father is a businessman.

“No. No.” Madame looked over Claire’s shoulder at the pages. “
Mon père.
It sounds like you are choking.
Encore.
Try again.”

The radio scratched loudly, then went silent. Both women froze, eyes wide. A man broke in, his somber voice old and tinny over the airwaves. Claire could only pick out two words.
Coeur
, meaning heart, and
France
.

The broadcast ended. A tune started up, something solemn. Madame flicked the knob off. She turned away; her slender shoulders trembled.

Georges barged through the door, his young face a mask of fear and hurt. He rushed around the edge of the counter.
“Madame, la France s’est rendu. Maréchal Pétain—”