The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [22]
By the next Friday, June 14, the radio said units of the German Sixth Army marched from the north into Paris. It was a quiet morning in the shop, and Madame and Claire froze when they heard a low rumble. They watched people stream toward avenue des Champs-Elysées.
“What is it?” Claire said, her chest tight.
Madame Palain just shook her head.
“I’ll see.” Claire hurried along behind the crowd.
The sidewalks lining the avenue were filled with people. Claire pushed her way forward into the mass as far as she could. She heard, or more felt, a rhythmic pounding. A collective gasp; a silver-haired man ahead of her cried out. Straining to see, Claire scrambled up on the base of a streetlight. She turned her head toward the Arc de Triomphe.
A line of Nazi soldiers, as far back as she could see. Led by a horseman, their grey uniforms impeccable, rifles slung over their soldiers. Marching like machines, their hobnailed boots rang out like a massive hammer battering the asphalt street.
As she watched, a bloodred flag was unfurled from the top of the Arc. At its center, a massive black swastika flapped in the breeze. The man standing near Claire’s feet turned away from the parade, tears streaming down his face. Feeling sick, Claire jumped from the base and headed toward the store.
“They are here,” Claire said as she entered the shop.
Madame turned back to her roses. “Bring me the dried greenery from the back. Supplies will be a challenge. You will need to learn how to use more fill to accentuate fresh blossoms.”
Paris still stood, Claire thought the florist meant. They would outlast this.
She worked a full day then crawled into bed and cracked open a tattered children’s grammar book Madame had scrounged from Georges. Claire tried out the new words—they all sounded like poetry—until early morning when she slept.
The French tricolor flag was lowered and the swastika rose all over the city. That Sunday, Claire sat on a high stool in the flower shop, her elbows resting on the long zinc counter as she stared at the large print in the children’s book. Around her, the tin pails that brimmed with flowers the day she arrived were stacked empty against the walls. Only the hardiest blooms now graced the shop. Music crackled from the radio beneath the counter. “Mood Indigo” then “Fleur de Paris.”
Madame flitted about the shop, busy as ever. Claire knew nothing actually needed to be done. The florist only paused when asked a question or to correct pronunciation.
“Mon père est un homme d’affaires,” Claire said, face buried in the book. My father is a businessman.
“No. No.” Madame looked over Claire’s shoulder at the pages. “Mon père. It sounds like you are choking. Encore. Try again.”
The radio scratched loudly, then went silent. Both women froze, eyes wide. A man broke in, his somber voice old and tinny over the airwaves. Claire could only pick out two words. Coeur, meaning heart, and France.
The broadcast ended. A tune started up, something solemn. Madame flicked the knob off. She turned away; her slender shoulders trembled.
Georges barged through the door, his young face a mask of fear and hurt. He rushed around the edge of the counter. “Madame, la France s’est rendu. Maréchal Pétain—”
The florist gently cupped his shoulders and pulled him in to her. His head rested on her shoulder, great shuddering sobs exploded from his chest.
“What is rendu?” Claire asked.
“Surrender. Marshal Pétain has surrendered us.”
France had fallen.
Claire shifted on her stool and took Georges’ free hand. His grip was strong, the skin hot. He burned with the emotion they tried not to feel. Madame stroked his hair, her eyes on Claire.
Claire looked back to the pages of the book.