The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [23]
The florist tilted Georges’ face up with a thumb under his chin. She spoke a few emphatic words then shook her head and sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes toward Claire. Understanding dawned on Georges’ face as he stared at the book, then at Claire. His sobs softened to sharp gasps as he gulped air. A trace of smile tracked across his red face.
“Georges will help you learn to speak, Claire,” Madame said. “I cannot. You are impossible.”
Chapter 3
THE CANE
Avenue Montaigne, Paris. November 27, 1940.
The wind clawed at Claire’s face as she trudged through the frozen slush coating the sidewalk. The sky was murky, the faint sun shrouded by writhing pewter clouds. A storm brewed sullenly overhead, but it was too cold for snow. Claire felt the bite despite the long wool overcoat, two sweaters, and yesterday’s issue of Le Temps stuffed between each layer of fabric.
Winter had come early and with malice. It was as if Paris closed the door and shut off the lights. Go home, the city told the occupiers. But Nazis weren’t the ones freezing in their beds.
A woman passed by, her breath fogging the cold air in front of her. In her arms, a heavy bundle of fabric. The lump startled Claire when it chortled, baby laughter. Claire sighed and tugged up her coat collar around her ears. Somehow life moved on.
Her shoulder ached from the weight of the cart behind her, clenched fingers numb on the handle. The intersection ahead was avenue Montaigne. Another block to the delivery entrance at Hôtel Emeraude. And warmth. Claire moved faster, taking short strides on the balls of her feet to keep from sliding on the ice-covered cobbles. Instinctively, one hand reached back to test the blanket stretched over the cart’s top. The arrangements she had worked on all morning. Yes, still wrapped up tight like her own newborn babes.
A man rushed around the corner and smacked full-body into Claire. She fell hard to a knee, wind knocked from her. From the cart, the loud clink of jolted vases. The man scrambled to his feet and scurried away.
“Merde!” Claire hissed as she stood and steadied the cart before it tipped. She didn’t even want to imagine the flowers, twisted and broken on the cobbles. They would be impossible to replace. She glared back down the street, looking for the rushing man. From her quick impression of a tailored wool coat and the faint scent of woodsy cologne, he didn’t seem like the type to trample a woman and leave. But he was gone. This was not the Paris she had found six months ago.
Claire glanced down at her faded green coat, a kindness from Madame Palain. Heavy black stockings swathed her legs beneath her long skirt. But then again, maybe it wasn’t the times that kept him from stopping. Perhaps it was her. Sighing, she tucked her scarf carefully into her coat collar and reached for the cart. Too bad she couldn’t have dressed a little more interestingly for Leluc. She would have had a better chance of getting something extra, perhaps a chunk of coal for the stove at home from the hotel’s special supply.
The wind was stronger on avenue Montaigne, channeled down the wide linear boulevard. Claire pulled her hat lower and squinted against the chill. She blinked and then froze.
A half block ahead, a black sedan idled at the curb, its muffler smoking. Her heart skipped. Only the Germans had cars. Her gaze swung to the sidewalk next to the car. Soldiers in feldgrau, field grey. The color buried Paris and made the harsh winter even colder.
Two soldiers stood in front of a man in a worn suit. He was talking earnestly, gesturing with a clenched hand that flashed white. Papers. The Nazis were examining identification papers.
A sweep.
A third soldier stepped into view from a doorway. He returned to the car, cigarette in his mouth. His eyes caught hers. An irritated frown and he gestured her toward him, his gloved hand flashing impatiently.
Her mind raced. She forced herself to start walking, but slowly, a limp forming on one leg. She thought of the