The air smelled of rain when she exited the subway at the Louvre station. Odette waited out front.
“Where’s Christophe?” Claire asked, not bothering to appear to be pleased.
“Nearby.”
“What? Worried I wouldn’t come if you used your own nom de plume?”
Odette shrugged, her lips pinched like her face ached. “You must understand why I pressed you to act.” She looked around. “Let’s walk.”
They strode side by side along rue de Rivoli, turned onto rue Perrault.
“We are in a war, Claire. I must sometimes act as a soldier, not as a friend.”
Claire nearly stopped at this. After Odette threatened her? “A friend?”
“Yes.”
Well, at least Odette sounded ashamed. The way Claire had saved their skins, she should be. “A friend who doesn’t act like one,” Claire said. “What would you call that?”
“Pained,” Odette said.
They turned to face a large church. An imposing bell tower, ornately carved stone colored soft pink against the cloudy sky. Gothic spires pointed out from the corners. An enormous stained-glass window overlooked the oversized wooden doors.
“Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois.” Odette motioned for Claire to step inside.
Claire led the way down the center aisle of small wooden chairs. Odette touched Claire’s arm and pointed toward a man sitting near the front, next to a thick stone column at the end of a row. It was Christophe. Kinsel. His head was bowed. Claire sat in the chair next to him, arranged herself on the braided fiber seat and held the flowers in front of her. Odette crossed herself and walked away.
Christophe opened his eyes and faced Claire. “
Bonjour
, Evelyn. I hope you are well?” He took the flowers and set them carefully on the seat next to him.
Claire held his gaze, kept a faint smile on her face. Pleasant, was what she called the expression, perfected by Madame. As if daring the recipient to offer something wonderful, with a warning not to disappoint.
“I am well,
merci
.” Then added as if an afterthought, “Of course we have lost a great deal of business, due to the latest unpleasantness.”
“Things will only get worse.” He stared at the golden cross in the nave below the windows. “There will be more attacks. More reprisals. Many innocent people will die. Nazi evil sets no boundaries.” He turned to face her, head on. “Do you know what is happening on the streets as we speak? A mass arrest of Jews. Why? In retaliation for acts against the occupying power. Thousands of people—thousands—are being pulled out of their homes. Taken away to Drancy. Nazis call the Jews vermin. What do you think will happen to them next?”
Claire shrugged, her chest heavy. When she was a child, her father drowned what he called vermin inside an old burlap bag in the cow pond.
You don’t waste bullets on vermin,
he’d said.
“Who is implementing this Nazi order? The Parisian
flics,”
Christophe said. Our police. “There was a time when we could believe this would pass. A few months perhaps, then our life as the French would return to normal. But the Nazis want to remake the world. There will be nothing left of our life. Join us.”
Claire ignored the ache in her throat. Christophe wasn’t wrong. But this life she had, like a spring bud, was so young, so fragile. “The risk—”
“Yes. Always. But we do what we can.”
“You are asking me to endanger the shop.”
“Your position there gives you access to what we need. It is necessary.”
Necessary. A good word. But then, Claire knew what was necessary. He was trying to get her riled up, as if she were a soldier before battle. But she knew what she fought for today. She made as if to rise from the chair.
“What do we fight for, Claire?”
“Liberté, égalité, fraternité,”
she said. Liberty, equality, fraternity. The motto of France. At least before Pétain. She met his eyes, her voice sweet. “Expensive, these things.”
He closed his mouth on his reply and appraised her. His eyes cold, like steel bearings. “The price is high. In lives or in treasure. You were offered one. Not both.”
Claire fought the urge to backpedal. A dark hardness stirred in his eyes. She knew what happened to people who turned against the Resistance. No torture, but death just the same. But she also knew what this money could buy. Desperately needed food for Madame, perhaps even replace the pair of shoes that Georges outgrew. She ransacked her mind for a weapon. Real or not. She smiled, her mouth sweet, eyes cold. “Yes. But that is the manner I work, Monsieur Kinsel.” His real name bled out between her teeth. “The circles I move in. I meet interesting people. Like Comte Jean-Luc de Vogüé.”
“I am familiar,” Christophe said.
“He too appreciates my particular abilities. And has made a proposal of a certain nature. I am a businesswoman. I must weigh all offers on the table.”
Claire held her breath as Christophe leaned back, crossed his legs and adjusted a pant leg. Either she had him where she wanted him, she thought, or he was about to kill her.
“And?” Christophe examined her face. “What is your price?”
This was for Madame. She smiled at him, fingered a button on her coat. “Six thousand francs.”
A small smile, too tight. “You are quite confident in the importance of your
particular abilities
. Perhaps you haven’t yet been introduced to your own limits.”
“You, Monsieur, have personally benefited.”
He shrugged, the slightest nod. “Perhaps. Two thousand, then.”
“Tellement petit!”
So little. A dramatic sigh. The smallest shake of her head.
“A generous offer. And only because of the courage you displayed at the train station,” Christophe said, his quiet voice strained.
Claire smoothed the skirt against her legs and stuffed back the doubt that snaked into the edges of her mind. There was no room for doubt or conscience. Not now. “Four thousand francs. On the first week of every month. I will let you choose the manner of delivery. That is your area of expertise.”
He stared at her a moment longer, the skin around his eyes tight. “Very well. One day, Claire, you will understand. And then you will sacrifice everything for something greater than the indulgence of a few sparkling diversions.”
Claire exhaled slowly, kept the smile. One day inferred she would see tomorrow. And Madame and the shop would survive.
“In addition to your reports, you will get phone orders, like you did today, for certain locations. On the route, you will be handed a message to slip inside the flowers. You won’t see me again.”
“Vive la France,”
Claire said, her mouth dry.
He reached down for the flowers and turned them over in his hand. “Very beautiful. You are a talented woman. For the price, you’d better continue to impress.” He walked out.
Claire sat back in the chair and took a deep breath. The church smelled of incense, wax and the wear of hundreds of years. She would have prayed, if she were the type. Instead she pulled out a pocket mirror, smoothed her hair and applied her lipstick. She puckered her lips at the serious face staring out at her.
She would have been happy with three thousand.
Still, she did the right thing. She knew it by the warm fire she felt deep in her chest. Madame had given her a new life, and she, in return, would do everything in her power to save her friend. But Claire Badeau better be damn careful.
T
wo weeks later, Claire swept the sidewalk in front of the shop as the sun dipped into the horizon. A stiff breeze whipped hair into her eyes and tossed fallen leaves faster than she piled them. Still, she hummed as she worked.
That morning, a small boy selling newspapers approached Claire as she opened the shop for business. Inside the day’s edition of
Le Temps
, a small bundle. Her heart in her throat, she finished sweeping, then went inside and up to her room. The size of a cigarette case, wrapped in tattered paper. Too small to be a bomb. She ripped into it.
Four thousand francs, in one-hundred notes. Half she tucked behind the dresser, the other went into the till.
An order from the Comte,
she told Madame,
a regular payment.
They were to give flowers for the War Relief Committee. A Frenchman underneath it all, he must feel sympathy for the wounded French soldiers.
At this price,
Madame asked, amazed.
Madame, he is not that good of a Frenchman,
Claire told her.
For him, the price was doubled. His money is better with us than with the Germans.
Gripping the broom, Claire smiled again at the memory. Tonight she planned a special surprise for Madame. Georges had just dropped off a box by the door. Nearly like the old days, a bottle of wine, a loaf of real bread, a square of cheese.
A man passed by, head down, hands in pockets. Thinning grey hair, sharply drawn mustache. A polite
bonjour
as he stepped around her broom.
A flash of warm recognition and Claire grinned. “Monsieur Oberon?”
He looked puzzled. “Madame?”
“I am the woman you picked up on the road and brought to Paris almost a year and a half ago. Claire, Claire Badeau.”
A wan smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Ah, Madame Badeau.” A nod at the name change. “Of course.”
“I am so pleased to see you again. I’ve thought of you and your wife often.” He looked thinner, she thought. Worn around the eyes but well enough.
“Oh? How kind. Your speaking has greatly improved.”
“It is a constant effort. How is Madame Oberon?”
“She is well,” he said, though Claire wondered at the tone.
“And your son? Michele?”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. Claire knew the answer before he formed the words.
“He was killed in the fighting. We heard last summer.”
“I am so sorry,” Claire said. Knowing words weren’t enough. She remembered the grainy photo Adele had shown her, tattered from the years. The family kneeling in the sand on the beach, a grin took up the boy Michele’s entire face. His smiling parents were draped around either shoulder like a loving blanket.
“Please, wait one moment.” She dropped the broom against the doorway and bolted inside. She pulled out a dozen roses, white for honor, light pink for sympathy, wrapped them in silver and white paper. On the way out the door, Claire passed Georges’ box.
The Oberons might have saved her life by giving her a ride to Paris. But more than that, they offered her compassion in the form of shared sandwiches, friendly though stilted conversation, a warm embrace. She tucked the roses inside the box and walked out the door out with it in her hands. “For you,” she said.
His gaze flicked over the bread loaf, the wine bottle, the flowers. “That is too much. I could not take it.”
“Monsieur, I have not forgotten your generosity that day. Please allow me to repay you and your wife. Please.” She held the box in front of her.
He reached out tentatively, his face slack, eyes moist. “
Merci. Merci beaucoup.
Adele will be so pleased. It has been a difficult time. Things—” He cleared his throat, forced a smile, met her eyes. “Adele would welcome your company. The house feels so empty now.”
Claire swallowed the knot in her throat. What could she offer Adele besides flowers? A smile and a kiss on his cheek, her regards to his wife, and she watched him walk away.
Across the street, the policeman who stopped Claire last December stepped from Epicerie Dupré. He caught her gaze and pointed a thick finger to his eye. Claire grabbed the broom and walked inside.
Madame Palain examined her. “Who was that gentleman, Claire?”
“An old friend.”
Jardin des Tuileries. May 16, 1943.
T
he sky was deep blue and the air filled with the fragrance of blooming flowers. Gnarled chestnut trees, their heavy limbs weighted with vibrant green leaves and waving wands of white flowers. Claire could feel spring down into her bones as she entered jardin des Tuileries off rue de Rivoli.
It was a season she thought would never come. It didn’t seem possible Paris had another spring in her, given the death and war boiling over the whole world.
Children kneeled on the edge of a large octagonal pool. With
Maman
keeping a watchful eye, they dangled over the water directing small wooden sailboats with prods from worn sticks. Claire wondered how many of their papas had been killed or were prisoners in Germany.
She ducked into an
allée
, a perfect green lane of trees and shrubs. Birds chirped over her head in the manicured planar trees. With the bouquet of white roses in her arms, she could almost imagine this as a perfect spring day in Paris. Glinting through the branches, the sun traced a lace of light and shadow on the grass beneath her feet. The air smelled sweet, of fresh growth, roses and jasmine, and moist earth. She headed toward the carousel midway through the park.
Of course, if this were that sort of Parisian spring day, she’d be meeting a lover.
She glanced down at the roses in her arms. The worn envelope that was slipped inside at the Métro station was hidden and secure. But even after a year of passing messages, Claire couldn’t help but feel a wave of irritation. She had worked hard on this bouquet. It came out particularly well. Roses with peonies, white on white, with a bit of green ivy wound around and peeking out. It would look so elegant in a silver vase. She hoped whoever dug the package out would at least take a moment to enjoy the beauty before they tossed it aside to carry out whatever orders the flowers hid.
The light gravel crunched softly under her feet. At the end of the
allée
, the golden dome of Les Invalides posed against the blue sky in the distance. Finches flitted between branches overhead. Her face relaxed into a soft smile, her pace slowed.
“Charming place, isn’t it?”