The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [20]
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.
Over 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.
52, rue du Colisée, Paris. June 3, 1940.
Claire 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.