The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [136]
Jacques fought for his life, cursing and muttering at her side. On the street below, Paris did the same. Claire watched men in Resistance armbands walk openly with captured Nazi guns in their hands. They tore up the street below, building a barricade with bricks, felled trees, twisted metal and stone.
She hadn’t seen skirmishes, yet, but she’d heard them. Resistance fighters defended barricades across the city; battled with German tanks and heavy arms burrowed in strongholds. A dangerous time for the soldiers without uniform, as they had become known. She’d seen them carried in, patched up when possible and laid out on cots down the line.
Jacques stirred and sighed. It was only in the last few hours he slept, though every once in a while he thrashed and moaned. The room beyond him was filled with wounded. In the dim light, men huddled together, their heads close over Resistance papers, published openly now, or around a crackling radio reporting the BBC.
Outside, Paris was quiet, as if the city itself held its breath. Beyond distant gunfire, the only sound was the faint splash of the Seine testing its banks, a muffled cough from the fighters below. It was just before midnight and balmy. Claire welcomed the faint breeze that cooled her aching cheek.
The radio crackled. Allied troops moving into Paris. Heavy fighting in the region around Rambouillent and d’Arpajon. General von Choltitz threatens to attack the public buildings with heavy arms. It was reported Hitler ordered the maximum destruction of Paris. That was no surprise. She’d seen the smoke rise from Grand Palais as it burned yesterday.
Claire watched the moon trail across the sky, rubbed her burning eyes. She was ungodly tired but couldn’t sleep. No one in Paris would sleep that night. Everyone knew Allied soldiers were in the outskirts of Paris. And that Choltitz might destroy the city before they arrived. Claire shut her eyes and breathed deep.
Across the square, the bells of nearby Notre Dame began to ring. Another church took up the refrain and then another. A cascade of sound washed over her. Her body vibrated to the chimes. She gripped the ledge to keep from floating away.
“Claire?” Jacques spoke.
Claire turned to him. His eyes were shining in the dimness.
“Yes, Jacques?”
“What is it? What has happened?” His first coherent words in days.
The bells of the churches could mean only one thing.
“The Allies are here, mon ami. Paris is free.”
The faintest smile touched his face then he let out a long breath, closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Tears flowed down her cheeks as Claire gazed back out at that radiant moon, her arms pressed tight about her. As she watched, darkness faded and the first rays of sun lit the stones of Notre Dame. The church doors were flung open as a crowd filled the courtyard. A liberated Paris came to give thanks.
The Seine flowed on.
Chapter 14
LA VIE EN FLEURS
La Vie en Fleurs. May 15, 1945.
La Vie en Fleurs was as alive as the Parisian streets that bustled outside. Plaster walls pockmarked from the spray of bullets were adorned once again with lines of blossoms. Claire, in a simple grey skirt and white shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, stared up at two framed photos on the scarred wall next to the counter. The images were small, intimate, in plain silver frames. As she studied the photos, she unconsciously slid her fingers over the thin white scar lining one cheekbone. She frowned as she caught the gesture, and dropped her hand to her side.
Madam Palain smiled from the left frame. She was seated, her hands in a rare restful place on her lap.
“Bonjour, Madame,” Claire said, under her breath.
On the right, the photo of a simple garden; the jagged rip visible from the Nazi raid that killed Madame. She reached up her hand and stroked the edge of the frame.
The newly replaced door squeaked open behind her. Claire turned to see Jacques and Gerard enter. Jacques nodded hello, still holding his side a bit gingerly. Dusky hair curling about his ears, Gerard beamed at Claire with his mother