Page 22 of After Paris
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sylvia
Monday, June 23, 1941
4:00 p.m.
Days of unseasonably cool temperatures and an overcast sky had added to the weight of growing restrictions. Despair was everywhere I walked.
Few Frenchmen were left in Paris, but the ones remaining were either too old or too young. The women left behind struggled under the extra weight of caring for small children or aging parents while chasing ways to make money.
Ration cards provided barely enough food for the average person, and the French queued in lines for hours, only to discover that the butchers, bakeries, wine shops, or cheese vendors had been stripped bare by our occupiers, whose appetites were never satisfied.
Despite all the hardships, the Frenchwomen kept up their appearances. Dresses and skirts might have been several seasons old, but hot irons pressed worn fabrics until they were immaculate. Charcoal masked scuffs on shoes, and any self-respecting woman who couldn’t afford silk stockings painted her legs with iodine to mimic the appearance. Looking one’s best was our form of rebellion.
Life on the movie set grew further and further apart from that of everyday Paris. The sets were staged with fruits and breads that could make any housewife weep with jealousy. Naturally, the crew took what they could, each having a hungry family at home. When it became impossible to shoot a scene before the food vanished, the set designer announced that he’d poisoned key pieces. The warning slowed the theft but didn’t stop it.
So far, Cécile had written three notes for me to deliver to Emile. I never read a word unless Emile shared the letters with me. So far, nothing written on the page was beyond the chatter shared between sisters. If the Gestapo had read any of the notes, none would have sparked suspicion. Cécile was testing our new system and me before she risked more incriminating information.
When Cécile entered the dressing room, she looked annoyed as she sat and removed her shoes. She stood, and I unfastened the pearl buttons on the back of her blouse. She shrugged off the silk, unfastened her skirt, and shimmied out of the dark wool. She slid on a red robe.
We’d worked together for over eight months, and as I hung up the skirt and blouse, I felt comfortable enough to make simple inquiries. “Is everything all right?”
“Henri wants me to star in another film.”
“That’s good, no?”
“It’s a comedy. I want a more dramatic role.”
“The comedies sell well at the box office.”
“That’s what he keeps saying. But I might as well be in a factory making hats or shoes.” From a silver case she removed a cigarette. “I’ve made them all a great deal of money. I live well, but what am I now? Their trained puppet? I don’t need a lead role, but I want a part with more passion and depth.”
Everyone in Paris guarded their words so carefully, and we stepped as if pins and needles lined the sidewalks. Still Cécile dared press against these restrictions. She was so like her sister.
“I’m going to a party tonight. Oberst Schmidt has returned to Paris. He’s fresh from Berlin and sporting his new medals. And he insists on seeing me again.”
“Berlin.” We all feared vanishing into Germany on a crowded railcar. “What would you like to wear?”
“Something dark and smoky. Our German friend wants me to seduce him the instant I walk in the room.”
Monsieur Archambeau had paraded Cécile in front of the Germans like a man dangled bait for fish. So far, she’d been clever enough to avoid their advances, but we all knew German patience thinned.
“I know the dress. It’s the ruby silk that you wore in The Orphan’s Folly .”
Cécile lit the tip of her cigarette and inhaled. “Ah, yes. It was the dream sequence. The colonel will be impressed by an outfit that appeared on the screen.”
“When will you get ready?” I not only dressed Cécile but also often styled her hair.
“We’ll arrive at the restaurant by nine. We’ll be late, which we know they hate, but this is Paris, and I’m French.”
Cécile was often late now to the set, a lunch appointment, or a dinner. Making people wait had become a type of resistance for her. “Have you seen Emile?”
“Almost a week ago. Your sister looked well.” The truth was she was thin and pale. I’d again cautioned her to restrain her nighttime activities. But she enjoyed knocking out streetlights, puncturing German tires with ice picks, or snatching shopping bags from female German soldiers. All these pranks could lead to her arrest, and none of them would win this war.
“She’s staying out of trouble?” Cécile asked.
“For the most part.”
Cécile drew on her cigarette and let the smoke trickle out. “The colonel will be in a good, chatty mood tonight. I should have a letter for you tomorrow to deliver.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
By 8:00 p.m., Cécile was wearing the red silk dress that floated over her curves. I’d grown accustomed to her shape and knew when to nip in a seam or let one out. Ever since Rupert’s death, she’d been losing weight. She barely slept, spending her days on set and her nights flirting with the most influential.
She and I had moved into a more lavish apartment in the twelfth arrondissement. The rooms had high ceilings and gold chandeliers and overlooked the Place de la Concorde.
When we’d first entered the suite, Monsieur Archambeau had shown us around, proud of this new find for his movie star. All I noticed were photographs featuring a father, a mother, and their three children as well as letters tucked in a cherry secretary desk, lingerie in the dresser drawers, and dresses and suits in the closets. The house was frozen, as if waiting for its actual owners to return.
The front doorbell rang. Cécile glanced in the floor-length mirror and touched the diamond clip securing the left side of her hair. Pearls dangled from her ears.
“Stay in here. I’ll answer the door,” Cécile said.
“Are you sure?” She’d dismissed all the other servants, something she often did now.
“I am. I want the colonel to think we’re alone.”
“I’ll wait for you here.”
She closed the bedroom door behind her. Heels clicked against the parquet floors as she moved toward the front door. After a pause, old hinges groaned.
“Good evening,” she said.
“Good evening.” The male voice was deep, thick with appreciation. His French was almost flawless, barely tainted with a faint German accent.
“ Oberst Schmidt. Please come inside. We’ll share a drink before dinner.”
“We’ll be late.” His voice sounded clipped.
“Let them wait.”
“You’re good at making men wait.”
She laughed. “Anticipation heightens desire, no?”
The front door closed. “There are limits to any man’s patience.”
Her chuckle was soft and seductive. “You’ll be glad you waited a little longer.”
When German men first arrived in Paris, they were shocked by the Frenchwomen. Their makeup, fashion, smoking in public, and stylish tardiness didn’t fit the German ideal. But Frenchwomen continued to believe the world should bend to them. Still, only a few women like Cécile could press as much.
Leaning close to the door, I listened as the champagne bottle popped, glasses filled and clinked. Laughter mingled with a record playing on a phonograph.
It was impossible to understand their quiet conversation, but I sensed an intensity in their low tones. Cécile’s throaty laugh was enough to encourage the man and delay whatever was to come. Expectation was too exciting to be rushed.
When they left the apartment forty-five minutes later, I hurried to the window and peered through the slim opening between the rich yellow curtains. Cécile walked toward a waiting car, where Hauptmann Wolfgang opened the back seat door. The colonel wore a neat dark-gray uniform and pressed his hand to her back.
Once Oberst Schmidt had lowered himself into the car, the captain closed the door. For a brief instant, he glanced up toward the apartment, and I could swear he saw me. We’d barely spoken since the executions at Les Halles, but he was always watching me, always aware. My heart leaped in my chest, and I let the curtain slip from my fingers. As I drew back, I pressed palms to my flushed cheeks.
Cécile’s flirting had constantly tested the bounds with men. I’d had a lover when I first moved to Paris but working at the factory and with the refugees left me little time for love. Over time, my lover lost interest in the affair and had moved on.
I realized now that I missed a man’s touch. How could I be thrilled by a German captain’s glance? And what did that say about me?
I spent the night sitting in the drawing room, fully dressed, and waiting for Cécile. I drifted off sometime after 2:00 a.m., but my sleep was light and troubled. I dreamed of Warsaw in the days when I was a child. In those golden years, my mother laughed a lot, I took drawing and piano lessons, and my father dressed the most sophisticated clients in Poland. I’d had all a child could desire. But in the next moment, my mother was gone, and the Germans were firing into the crowd of six innocents at the market.
I sat up, shaking off the dream as the front door opened just after sunrise.
Cécile wore her fur coat wrapped tight. Her hair was messy and her eye makeup smudged, but she’d repainted her lips a bright red. She slid off the coat, tossing it over a chair as she crossed to the secretary and sat. “Sylvia, strong coffee, please.”
I hurried to the kitchen, set the kettle on the stove, and filled the press with fresh coffee grinds now worth a month’s pay in Paris. When I brought her a cup of coffee in a delicate porcelain cup, she had already pulled out paper and pen and had filled one full white page with neatly scripted words.
“What are you writing?”
“There were so many conversations last night. Germans were discussing manufacturing plants and factories. I must put everything I heard on the page.”
I sat at the table as the pen moved with great speed. “You can remember conversations like this?”
She sipped her coffee. “It’s harder when there are so many distractions, and Schmidt never let me out of his sight. But I can recall most of it.”
She didn’t need to explain. “Where was Henri?”
“He never showed.”
I took her now-empty cup and refilled it along with one for me. She was scribbling on a second sheet when I sat back at the table. She gulped coffee.
“ Oberst Schmidt is a pilot?” I asked.
Cécile hesitated as if understanding that this conversation bound us in a new, risky way. “He’s an ace in the Wehrmacht Luftwaffe. Apparently, he’s quite skilled at fighting in the air. He and other officers were discussing bombing missions, and they also mentioned a Renault factory near our studios that supplies vehicles to the Germans. You must get this information to Emile, and she’ll pass it on to Marc and his friends in England.” Her eyes glowed as if this new danger had ignited a fire in her.
“Where is Oberst Schmidt now?”
“He had important meetings this morning, but he wants to see me again. For now, he’s sent me back to the toy box to wait.”
I noticed the small rip in her side seam when she leaned back to stretch. There were faint bruises on her forearms, as if Schmidt had held her on her back. “Are you all right?”
She stared momentarily at a bruise. “My mother said I was born to be a whore. And she was right. I’ve used my body ever since I allowed the baker’s son to touch my breasts in exchange for bread. Parisian men and the Germans are no different. All men want the same thing, but my price has changed. Once it was stardom, and now it’s revenge.”
“For Rupert?”
“For all the boys and girls like him.”
“If this information is as sensitive as you say, it’ll be traced back to you.”
“Maybe, but it’ll take time. Everyone at the party didn’t see beyond my dress or the size of my breasts. It would never occur to any of them that I could remember conversations so easily.”
“Henri knows you have a good memory.”
“He has no idea of how sharp it is.” There was no bravado, simply a statement of fact.
“Finish writing down your thoughts, and I’ll draw you a bath. Later today, I’ll deliver your letter to Emile.”
Her gaze lifted from the pages to me. “This is no longer a letter between sisters. What’s contained in these will get you arrested, shot, or deported.”
I’d accepted this consequence each time I’d delivered forgeries or escorted refugees. “Rupert died for less. I don’t want Paris to become like Warsaw.”
Her gaze lifted to mine. “You’re Polish?”
Emile suspected the truth, but I’d never admitted it to anyone in Paris. “It was a long time ago.”
“Do you receive news from home?” she asked.
“Not for some time.” The Ghetto walls encircling a portion of Warsaw had cut off almost all communication. Refugees still escaped the Ghetto via the sewers, but I’d heard precious little lately.
“You understand why we must do this,” she said.
“I understand very well.”
She brushed back a strand of hair. “Let me finish my note.”
“I’ll draw that bath.”
“Thank you. I want to wash off the scents of last night.”
As I turned, I paused. “Was the colonel cruel?”
She showed no emotion. “I’ve had worse.”
When I left the apartment at noon, Cécile was still sleeping, and the servants were going about their duties. A basket dangled from my arm. Inside was Cécile’s letter tucked between two fresh baguettes and covered with apples, a wedge of cheese, and a precious sleeve of salami. As I stepped out the front door, Hauptmann Wolfgang approached me.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” he said.
I was surprised to see him. Had he been lingering outside the apartment all morning? “Hauptmann Wolfgang, how are you today?”
“I’m well.” He fell in step beside me. “It’s been some time since we spoke.”
“Yes.”
“And where are you off to today?”
“Have you been here since you dropped Cécile off?”
“It’s important that someone keep an eye on our film star. Where are you going?”
The captain had been watching the apartment. Had Schmidt ordered this? Was he already suspicious? “To drop off a basket of food for Emile.”
He matched my pace. “Your mistress is very generous with her sister.”
“It’s natural, isn’t it?” Had he taken note of my visits to Emile?
“It is.”
“I must hurry.”
“Emile lives in the Marais. It’s a long walk, and the Métro is not running today. And we know how dangerous it can be. My car is parked a few steps from here. I’ll drive you.”
“That’s very kind, but it’s such a lovely day. I need to stretch my legs.”
“Nonsense,” he said with authority. “There were more disturbances on the streets yesterday. Several arrests have been made already. I wouldn’t forgive myself if you were injured on your way to Mademoiselle Dupont’s residence.”
To argue might have raised his suspicions and given him a reason to seize my basket and search it. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”
He opened the front passenger-side door, and I settled in, tucking my skirt close. I hadn’t ridden in a car since the shootings at the market.
The faint scent of Cécile’s perfume still lingered in the air, a reminder of why she’d gone out with Oberst Schmidt last night.
“You had a late night?” he asked as he started the engine.
“I would guess yours was later than mine.”
“I’ve always slept whenever I can.” His keen interest and unasked questions darkened his gaze.
“There can’t be much to do while waiting on your clients.”
“There are other drivers to talk to. I catch a minute or two of sleep, and there’s always food to be had from the kitchen staff.”
“We’re indeed fortunate.”
“I’m blessed.” He drove past a line of women queued up outside a butcher shop. The women looked tired, their shoulders stooped, the baskets they held empty. Many appeared restless, glancing impatiently toward the front of the line. By this time of day, the shop would most likely be out of supplies.
As if anticipating trouble, six uniformed German soldiers moved toward the women. I tensed. But this time the soldiers didn’t draw their weapons but announced that the food was gone, and it was time to move along. Some old women left in disgust, but others were bold enough to complain. However, no one was foolish enough to raise a fist. Every Parisian knew that the consequences of disobedience were severe. I held my breath until the crowd had cleared.
Hauptmann Wolfgang drove toward the Seine, glancing in his rearview mirror. “They must learn patience.”
“Hunger breeds impatience.”
“Discipline is important.”
He spoke with such authority, but that was easy when his belly was full and his place in the world secure. As I stared out my window, the weight of the hidden note reminded me to tread carefully. We crossed the Pont Neuf toward the large markets at Les Halles. Only a few vehicles were on the streets, and most citizens traveled on bicycles or by foot.
“You don’t agree?” he asked, breaking my silence.
As we passed the Les Halles market, my mind grew blurry with the sounds of gunshots and screams. This market looked very different to me now. I no longer approached it with anticipation or excitement. “I didn’t say that.”
He cast a sharp glance at me. “Your mouth flattens into a thin line when you’re unhappy.”
I moistened my lips. “It does not.”
“It does. I pay attention to the details,” the captain said. “Amazing what I see on the movie sets.”
I intentionally softened my expression but suspected it didn’t look natural. My father had warned me that I wore my emotions like a thick wool coat in summer.
“Do you want to know what I’ve noticed?” he asked.
I knit my fingers in my lap. “Do I dare ask?”
“You’re not French,” he said with conviction.
I squeezed my palms together. “Why do you say that?”
“Your paperwork is French, your name is French, but”—he raised his finger—“your very faint accent and your face remind me of my boyhood. I grew up on the eastern border of Germany, a stone’s throw from Poland.”
To admit to my origins was cause enough for arrest or deportation. So, as my false papers stated, I said, “I grew up in eastern France, in Alsace, on the German border. That must be what you’re hearing.”
He took a right at the next corner and followed the route leading out of the city along the river.
“I believe you need to go the other way,” I said.
“There’s a roadblock in that direction. If we don’t take a detour, we’ll get stuck.”
Tension knotted my belly, sending bile up my throat. As we drove toward the suburbs, I wondered if we were nearing a police station or a Gestapo outpost.
“When were you last in your hometown?” he asked.
“It’s been some time. What about you?”
“My parents passed, and I never had a desire to live on their farm. I moved to Berlin when I was young and then studied in Paris for a time.”
“Do you miss home?”
“I do. But life moves on, does it not?”
“Yes, it does.”
Up ahead, there was a roadblock and three German guards waiting with guns. Hauptmann Wolfgang seemed unconcerned as he slowed and waited for the signal to advance. When we pulled up to the guard, he rolled down the window and handed him his identity papers.
The guard glanced toward me. “And the woman?”
I removed my papers from my purse and handed them to the captain, who turned them over to the guard. I’d paid Marc a month’s salary for the documents. He’d assured me they were near perfect. But in this world, the Germans didn’t need a reason to detain anyone.
The guard looked at the papers and studied me. Seconds passed as his frown deepened. Finally, he handed the credentials to the captain, who tucked both sets in his breast pocket.
We continued, driving farther and farther from Emile’s. Fear pressed against my breastbone. “May I ask where we’re going?”
“It’s a lovely day. We aren’t on duty, so we have time for a short adventure. When was the last time you left the city?”
“It’s not allowed.” He knew this. “But I don’t need to leave. I’m fortunate enough to have everything I need.”
“Lucky indeed.”
Under other circumstances, a trip to the country would be welcome, but this unexpected detour only stirred images of guards aiming rifles at the very old and young. “I cannot linger long. I must return and press Cécile’s evening dress.”
“She’s very popular. Is she meeting anyone tonight?”
I deliberately unfurled my fingers around my basket’s handle. Was the captain testing me? Or simply making conversation? “I don’t know.”
“Ah, well, we’ll both know soon enough, eh?” He continued driving farther east. Taller stone buildings gave way to smaller-profile structures surrounded by more land that rolled and dipped into ravines. In Poland the gullies had been filled with bodies.
“Sir, I must make my delivery and return to work.”
He continued to drive. The route he’d chosen would have been lovely with someone else. But with him all I could see were places ready to swallow a woman’s body whole. The farther we went, the more tense I became. Finally, after another twenty minutes of driving, he pulled off the road beside an open field. “We must take moments like this whenever we can, Sylvia. I can call you Sylvia?”
“Yes.”
He rolled down his window and inhaled the fresh country air. My own breath caught in my throat.
He shifted in his seat toward me. “Why are you nervous?”
The expanse of his chest blocked my view of the road. “I’m not.”
He laughed. “Remember, I can read you so well.”
I shifted. “The unexpected makes me nervous.”
“You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Sylvia?”
“No, of course not.”
He stared ahead. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
The captain had saved me at the market. If he’d let me rush inside, I would have protested the execution and likely been shot myself. “I know.”
“Do you?” The question was tinted with doubt.
“Yes.”
Hawk eyes studied me, and I struggled to read his expression as he had mine. But just as quickly, he shifted that searing attention to the road and angled the car back toward the city. A half hour later, when we were parked in front of Marc’s boulangerie, the worry cramping my belly still lingered.
“I’ll come in with you,” he said.
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be quick.”
He shut off the engine. “Nonsense. It would be rude of me not to escort you.”
I glanced over at the empty shop. The morning bread was long gone, and Marc was in his basement making forgeries.
Several old women, who’d heard the rare rumble of a car engine, peeked out from between curtains. Were those who remembered me from my days in the Marais whispering words like “collaborator” or “traitor”?
Hauptmann Wolfgang approached my side of the car and opened the door. Nodding my thanks, I rose, holding the basket close.
“Let me take your basket,” he said.
Worry razored up to a forced smile. “Thank you.”
He accepted the basket in a gloved hand, and when we crossed to the side door, he opened it. “I’ve never been inside the building. I sat outside once or twice when Cécile still visited Emile, but that was last year. Why are the sisters not visiting each other anymore?”
“I don’t know. Sisters fight, I suppose.”
“You have a sister?”
“No.”
“Brother, father, mother?”
“All gone.”
“Like me.” He motioned me to enter first.
I climbed the stairs, looking up toward Emile’s second-floor door. She might have been expecting me, but indeed, not the captain. I had no idea if she was alone or had invited one of her Resistance friends or Marc to her room. As I flexed my fingers, the soft leather tightened against my skin.
Moving toward Emile’s door, I wanted to put distance between the captain and me. But quick, determined steps kept him close.
I knocked on the door. “Emile, it’s Sylvia. Hauptmann Wolfgang and I have brought you a few gifts from your sister.”
The apartment’s interior was quiet, and there appeared to be no signs of life.
“Perhaps she worked the early shift,” I said. “And is sleeping now. Or she could be out for deliveries this afternoon.”
“It wouldn’t be wise to leave your basket in the open.”
“No, it won’t last an hour.” I didn’t begrudge a hungry soul who stole food, but once the letter was discovered, it wouldn’t take long to trace it back to the source.
Finally, footsteps padded on the apartment floor toward the door. Chain locks scraped free of their holders, and the door handle turned. When the door opened, I saw that Emile wore a light-blue robe. Messy hair drew attention to the dark circles ringing under her eyes as she clutched the folds of her robe with her uninjured hand.
“Sylvia, this is a surprise.” When she glanced toward the captain, her smile was apologetic and relaxed. Acting came naturally to both sisters. “Apologies, I was making bread all night and am now stealing a few hours of sleep. Marc should return with fresh bags of flour soon so we can begin work again.”
Her story was as believable as it was likely false. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Marc was hiding on the other side of the door with a gun in hand. But as tempting as it might be to kill the captain, his death would mean more reprisals and the death of more innocents like Rupert.
I held out my hand. “We won’t trouble you, Emile. The captain and I must get back. There’s much to prepare for this evening.”
“Is this evening special?”
“There’s a party.” Always a party. “I believe Monsieur Archambeau plans to announce his next film.”
“Good for him and Cécile. Thank you for the food. It’s always appreciated.”
The captain touched the bill of his cap, and Emile smiled and softly closed her door. Silence settled on the other side, and I could imagine Emile and perhaps Marc holding their breaths.
I turned toward the stairs, expecting the captain to follow. When he didn’t, I paused. “Hauptmann Wolfgang?”
His frown deepened as he stared at Emile’s closed door. He turned and silently followed me outside.
When we reached the bottom stairs, the joyous shouts of children echoed. To my right, three boys, all younger than ten, had dark hair, dirt-smudged faces, and clothes that seemed too small.
The boys kicked a patched ball back and forth. When the ball returned to the largest boy, he glanced at the captain and kicked it so hard it skidded past his companions and bounced off the captain’s legs. The younger boys grew silent, and even the oldest froze as if he realized he hadn’t expected the ball to hit with such force.
As the ball ricocheted forward, Hauptmann Wolfgang immediately trapped it under the sole of his black boot. He reached down and picked up the ball.
The two littlest boys stepped back, but the oldest stood his ground. Hauptmann Wolfgang moved toward him with slow, measured steps until he loomed over him. All traces of defiance vanished from the boy’s face.
Hauptmann Wolfgang tossed the ball in the air and caught it several times. “What’s your name, boy?”
The oldest boy swallowed. “I’m Anton.”
“Do you live nearby?”
Anton puffed out his chest. “Several blocks from here.”
“And who are the others with you?”
“They are my cousins. But I’m in charge of them today.”
“You have quite the kick, Anton.”
I stepped beside the captain. “Children can be reckless.”
“So it seems.” The captain shoved the ball into Anton’s chest. “You have a good leg, young man.”
The boy gripped the ball. “Thank you.”
“Be more careful.”
The boy and his companions turned and ran.
“They’re careless children, no?” I noted with relief as they vanished around a corner.
“Children today, but young soldiers tomorrow,” the captain said as he brushed the dust from his pant leg.
He was right. If this war raged for a few more years, the oldest boy would either take up arms or be shipped to a German labor camp. Childhood passed too fast in times of war.
The captain opened the car door for me, and I settled in the front seat. As he walked around to his side of the car, I glanced up toward Emile’s apartment and saw movement flickering over the curtains. She was tracking our departure before she dared open her basket.
“That was very kind of you,” I said.
He started the engine and glanced at me. “There’s no reason not to be courteous.”
It had been easy for the captain to be generous today. But he enjoyed this power that war had given him.
“You’re nervous now,” he said. “Your gloves stretch over your clenched fingers like a second skin.”
I glanced at the straining seams and then worked the stiffness from the joints. “The boys and the soccer ball ... not everyone would’ve let the slight slip.”
“Was it a slight or a mistake?”
I didn’t answer. Panic clawed.
“I made a few mistakes as a child,” he said. “We all do.”
“Do you have children?” Of course, I realized, he could have a wife or children back in Germany.
“Once. The child and my wife died.”
“I’m very sorry.”
He was stoic. “It’s the past.” After he drove for several minutes, he asked, “Do you speak German?”
“A little,” I replied in German. “Why do you ask?”
“Nice to hear my mother tongue. It reminds me of home.”
“But there are so many Germans in the city. German is a second language in Paris now.”
“It’ll soon be the first.”
The offhand remark spoke to a terrifying scenario.
“Knowledge of the German language will make it easier for you in the summer,” he said.
“The summer?”
“There’s talk of organizing a tour for Cécile in Germany. She’s quite popular in Berlin, and many important people want to meet her.”
“Berlin?” I held my breath until I thought my lungs would burst. A trip to Germany would mean my papers would fall under greater scrutiny. “Does she know?”
“She was notified yesterday.” He glanced at me. “She has not told you?”
Had she forgotten, or was she too distracted? “She was exhausted this morning and went to bed immediately.”
“Perhaps today she’ll give you the details.”
I stared out the window, studying the ancient buildings awash in grays and afternoon shadows. She’d known about this trip to Germany, and yet she’d still written her letter. Many would have hesitated. Perhaps I would have. But not her. And now Cécile, Emile, and I were playing a very high-stakes game.
“I’m sure she will,” I said.