The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [36]
“Really? For bringing your favorite foie gras to parties?”
Odette snickered. “Yes. But also for more.”
They continued down a narrow curving lane that opened up onto a large oval pool and crumbling marble columns. Claire stepped up to the water’s edge, breath suspended in her throat.
Odette smiled at Claire’s reaction. “Good. I didn’t think you’d been here yet.”
Claire tore her eyes away from the view. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
Odette watched her a moment before continuing. “You haven’t been able to leave the shop much, have you?”
Claire shook her head.
“These are dangerous days.” Odette’s eyes speared Claire. “Even more so if you don’t have papers.”
Claire started before she could cover her response. “What do you mean?”
Odette shrugged. “The way you arrived in Paris. At best your papers have expired, no? It wasn’t hard to figure out.”
Claire burrowed her hands deeper in her coat pockets.
“There is an option,” Odette said. “We spoke of it this morning.”
“We? Who is we?”
Odette pulled a half-smoked cigarette from her pocket and lit it, her hand cupped over the flame. She was either not at liberty or plain not willing to answer. “Sylvie is a collaborator. Her family’s factory—wool, cloth. They are shipping it all to Germany. Not because they were taken over.”
“For money,” Claire said. That had been made clear last night.
The winter, she had been told, was the coldest anyone could remember. Coal prices had gone through the roof; most was hauled away for the German war effort. People froze in their beds nightly. The only way to get a coat was to take it off someone’s back. Now it comes out the textile factories were shipping their cloth to Germany.
“What do you say to that, Claire?”
Sylvie left a horrible taste in Claire’s mouth. It would be easy to say what Odette was fishing for. But, Odette deserved to know the truth.
“I knew industrialists back in New York. Successful, hard men; my husband was one of them. Sylvie’s family is no mystery to me. My husband would let poor Americans die to make a buck.”
Odette’s eyes squinted as she tried to decipher Claire’s answer.
“If you are seeking moral high ground, don’t look to me. I have no high ground to climb onto, Odette. I gave that up years ago.”
Odette nearly spit her reply. “You agree with what they do?”
“I’m wearing a coat that was probably made before I was born.” Claire tugged on her lapel, shaking her head with a mirthless chuckle. “No. I don’t. Her greed is despicable. It’s just not surprising.”
“So?”
“Sylvie and her family are puppets. The money? The Nazis are throwing them crumbs. It is easier to pay them, right now. What does that mean to the Nazis? They print their own money. If they wanted, they could seize the factory today.”
Odette smiled grimly. “That is true.”
Claire’s voice softened; selling out was a topic she knew too well. “Sylvie has to spread ’em wide for her masters. She takes the reichsmarks left on the nightstand and pretends she is loved and respected. She’s not.”
“What Sylvie is doing, what you saw yesterday in front of the hotel—doesn’t it make you want to act?”
Odette knew about the old man too? Claire took an unconscious step back. “I don’t like any of it. But I won’t get involved.”
“You aren’t curious about what I may offer you?”
“I don’t think I’ll like the price.”
“Everything in life costs, Claire. You should know that.”
Claire did know. And she was damn tired of paying with her soul.
Odette glanced about them. They were alone. “You cannot speak of this to anyone, you understand? You would be able to travel about Paris, about France, as safe as any other Parisian.”
“How?”
“A false identification card. You would be American, of course, but married to a Frenchman. And gainfully employed. You could have a ration card.”
The possibilities swam in Claire’s mind. Bread. Meat. Potatoes. “How?”
Odette didn’t answer. Eyes watchful, she motioned for Claire to walk with her. “You couldn’t be Claire Harris anymore.