Page 1 of After Paris

Chapter One

Dominique

Outside Avignon, France

Tuesday, October 2, 1945

I should have stayed away.

For months, I’d lingered on the farm and avoided people. In a small village, there are few secrets. And though the townspeople knew of my return, I’d reasoned I would be safe if I stayed out of sight.

But existing in the shadows was never easy for me.

So, on this bright, warm day, years of hiding and grieving became too much to bear. I styled my hair and donned my best dress, determined to see Avignon on market day and the bookstore and cinema. I rode my bike into town, confident I deserved this small liberation from seclusion.

I tucked a strand of brown hair behind my ear, but I grew nervous when I arrived at the thick medieval walls of Avignon and saw several men in a truck watching me. I kept pedaling through the gates of the ancient walled city and soon found the market in the shadow of the Palais des Papes, a palace built for a papacy long returned to Rome. Today the market bustled with farmers and shoppers.

I dropped my gaze low as I moved along the farmers’ stalls lined up in the courtyard. The war was over, and though they had more goods to sell this year, their offerings remained limited. Several farmers and their wives stared as I purchased olives, cheese, and salt. They remembered me, knew my family, but where I’d been during the war remained a mystery.

With my purchases in my bike basket, I hurried away from the market down toward the tree-lined Place de l’Horloge, toward the Cinéma le Vox. A vibrant red poster advertised the movie Carmen , a film based on the opera that was released last year.

I had not visited this movie house in years and was struck by how small it felt. Before the war, it had been my portal to the world.

In the days when I had no money for movies, I’d brandish a bright grin for the young boy taking tickets, and he’d let me slip inside. I’d sit in the back and watch films that would transport me into alluring worlds.

Now, the cinema doors opened, and people exited the theater. Couples were laughing and smiling, each dressed in their best prewar fashions. The women, deeply tanned after five years of working in the olive groves, had pinned sprigs of lavender on lace collars or attached brightly colored ribbons to their hats. The men, many still gaunt and too lean, had been released from German work camps or military service. They wore polished but scuffed shoes, and most tucked a neatly folded handkerchief into their breast pockets. Fashion and style were a way of reclaiming their lives and papering over the five years of a devastating war.

We’d all made choices and compromises to survive the German occupation. Many French people wanted to forget, but for me, memories remained so heavy I almost buckled under their weight.

A warm breeze brushed the edges of my skirt as a man paused to glower at me. His frown deepened. The leaves rustled in the trees, whispering a warning woven with dread: Foolish woman. Leave while you can.

But pride silenced the cautions. I stayed on the sidewalk as carts rumbled past on cobblestones, a truck engine roared, and laughter threaded through conversations. I’d so missed the sounds of a city, people, and life.

“Don’t I know you?” a man shouted.

Tension hardened my spine, but I pretended not to hear his question. I walked away from the theater and pointed my bike down a side street toward the city’s walls.

Gravel crunched under my bike’s tires as I walked it through the gates and around the train station. The journey to the farm would take a half hour, but I still had enough daylight. If the war had imparted any lesson to me, it was to not linger.

“Mademoiselle,” another man said, his voice echoing off stone walls.

I cut my eyes and realized the speaker was a French-uniformed policeman. Flinching, I continued as if I hadn’t heard him. Many of his kind had worked with the German occupiers and assisted with arrests and roundups. Given my actions during the war, associating with the police was unwise.

The wooden soles of my shoes scuffed against the dirt as I climbed onto my bike. I calmed bowstring nerves and channeled a peaceful and easy demeanor. Perception was reality, no?

“Mademoiselle! Stop. Now!” His voice sharpened. Men, resenting the war’s damage and clinging to shreds of authority, could be as cruel as the Nazis.

I stopped. As I turned toward the policeman, I kept my smile soft and demure as I slipped into the role of the humble farm girl.

The policeman’s rawboned features bore the worn appearance of a war-battered soldier or work-camp survivor. Many men and women who’d returned from the war or work camps were angry and restless souls looking for a reason to lash out or justify sins.

“Excuse me?”

“What is your name?” he asked.

“You know me. I’m Madame LeClaire. I live on an olive farm near town.”

He stopped within a foot of me, squaring his shoulders, when he must have realized he loomed over my petite frame. “What business do you have in Avignon?”

I dipped my gaze toward the goods in my basket. “It’s market day.”

“Why were you staring at the cinema?”

“I was curious. I don’t get into town often.” I wrapped the words in softness, just as I had when I wooed men in Paris. Paris. To think about Paris was dangerous. That part of my life needed to remain buried. “If you don’t mind, I must return home. My husband is waiting.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Taking that as an excuse, I turned and pedaled down the dusty road. I didn’t bother to admire the vivid blue sky or glance back at the stone city’s sun-bleached walls. Heart thrumming in my chest, I listened for footsteps or an order to stop. But I heard neither and kept pedaling until I reached the farm’s twin vine-wrapped pillars.

The stone house had a sloping Roman tile roof. The house and the acres of olive orchards had been in the LeClaire family for seven generations. My husband, Daniel LeClaire, had run away at fifteen and served in the French navy during the Great War. He’d lost a leg in service to France and, upon his return, took work in the port of Marseille. He only revisited the farm during harvest season.

Last year I’d returned during the harvest, and when I saw Daniel, he’d said, “ Look at us. We ran but could not outrun ourselves. And now here we are. ”

I crossed the front courtyard, parked the bike, and grabbed my packages. I reached for the door handle. As rusted hinges groaned open, a vehicle’s sputtering engine roared in the distance. A glance back revealed a cloud of dust swirling around a truck barreling toward the farm. Several men stood in the open bed.

Fear fingered along my spine. I could reason with one man. But a group who’d been drinking could become a dark and dangerous pack more threatening than wolves.

I hurried inside and locked the door, sliding the wieldy bolt in place. I dropped my goods on a wooden table and backed across the main room toward the cold stone hearth. I grabbed a fire iron and pressed my back to the wall.

A heavy fist pounded on the door as I stood in stagnant, shadowed air. “Mademoiselle, I order you to open the door!”

Drawing in a breath, I didn’t speak or move.

“Open the door! Now!”

I’d grown to despise orders and was well practiced at ignoring them.

“I know this house.” I recognized the policeman’s voice. “It’s the LeClaires’ farm, but he has no wife!”

Daniel had cautioned me many times about going into town. He’d warned me that the country, shackled between war and peace, remained unstable. “ Give it time. Be patient. ”

The cottage’s back door opened, and I whirled around to see two men. One leered at me as the other threw the bolt on the front door. Three more men stepped inside.

“I know more than you think, Mademoiselle Dupont,” the man closest to me said. I recognized him. He was Charles Roche, the oldest son of a farmer whose estate was on the east side of Avignon. He’d always been big for his age.

“And what’s that, Charles?” I gripped the iron tighter.

Hearing his name caught his attention as the group of men grew closer, each staring at me with narrowed gazes. Three wore suits, one a butcher’s apron, and the policeman wore his oversize uniform. Dirt dusted their coats, sweat stained their shirts, and they smelled of wine. Daniel didn’t want me venturing alone into town because of men like this.

“I need to see your identification papers,” the policeman said.

“I dropped my papers while boating on the Rh?ne,” I lied. “I’ve applied for new ones under my married name, but the paperwork is difficult to get.”

The policeman looked pleased to have found this infraction. “I can arrest you for this.”

“It was a foolish accident,” I conceded. “I’m a little scattered.” Most men calmed down if I assured them that I accepted their superior intelligence.

“She’s a Dupont,” Charles said. “One of the two sisters. They moved to Paris before the war.”

“I’m Daniel LeClaire’s wife,” I said.

The policeman’s frown deepened as if he’d discovered another incriminating morsel. “Paris?”

I remained silent. Explaining my life in Paris would mean nothing to him. As far as they knew, I’d left Provence for the north, and for the narrow minded, that was sin enough.

The policeman moved within inches of me. “Are you the older or younger sister?”

I was weary of playing the fool for simpletons. The war was over. The Germans were gone. And I’d abandoned my sins in Paris.

Charles grabbed my arm. He moved quickly for a man his size. He wrenched my hand hard until pain shot up my arm. My grip slackened and I dropped the iron. “What’s your name?”

“Does it matter?” the butcher asked. “I hear both sisters slept with Germans. They ate well and lived better than kings while we suffered.” His face was puffy, and his eyes were bloodshot.

The policeman’s eyes brightened. His day had begun with the monotony of market day. And now he had found a woman who’d collaborated with the Boche—the common slur for German soldiers.

Hardships, tough choices, and humiliations festered in France under German rule. And to vent their anger, the population was cornering vulnerable Frenchwomen suspected of collaboration. Neighbors became judges, juries, and punishers. No one cared why women had made the choices they had during the war.

“Paris,” the butcher snarled. “So many Boche in Paris.”

The policeman’s face was within inches of mine. “Tell us the truth. How many Germans did you fuck?”

I held his gaze as the irony of this moment settled. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

He pressed the knife blade to my cheek. One of the men yanked off my scarf, exposing my brown hair I’d arranged with care into a topknot this morning. I’d been so excited to see the city.

Another man grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled. Pins fell and pinged against the floor. My hair tumbled to my shoulders. The policeman smiled as the knife’s metal glinted in the afternoon sun.

During the war, I’d grown accustomed to fear, scarcity, and watching neighbors betray neighbors. I’d thought I’d find safety when I returned home. But I’d discovered men searching for dignity in my shame.

The same restless energy that had driven me out of this little town, praying for a bigger life in Paris, rallied. My distaste for the small minded balled my fingers into a fist, and I drew back. I aimed for the policeman’s aquiline nose and slammed my knuckles into it. He howled in pain and immediately slapped me so hard I lost my balance and fell to the floor. The men circled like wolves around an injured doe.

A fat fist grabbed a massive chunk of my hair and jerked my head back, pulling so hard my scalp burned. As my throat lay bare, the policeman brandished the knife’s sharp tip in front of my face. He watched closely and waited for my fear. He wanted me to beg. He wanted me to cry, wail.

I did neither.

The blade’s pointed tip scraped against my throat, pricking the tender flesh. Liquid warmth trickled down my neck and stained the white collar I’d ironed last night. Still, I didn’t flinch but instead held his stare until his annoyance had turned to pure rage.

The policeman raised the knife. “This is what we do to Nazi whores.”