The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [49]
From Odette, Claire learned the Nazis had one hell of a dress code. Each group had different caps. The collar patch signified rank and branch, whether Waffen-SS, Kriegsmarine or Luftwaffe. Shoulder straps showed rank, sometimes the unit and specialist. Then there were chevrons, badges, arm shields. The Waffen-SS, Luftwaffe, Heer and Kriegsmarine had different styles of eagles. Even the cuffs had to be examined; the smallest insignia could reveal the presence of an elite unit or special command.
Claire dutifully reported the uniforms she saw at each hotel in notes dropped at the dentist. More and more, her reports were interesting enough for Grey to meet her on her walks about the city. A few questions about her report, who she saw, if they were coming or going or staying put. How he knew where to find her, she never understood.
Still, as the days of summer stretched languidly, Claire found herself wearing her best dress, arranging her hat just so and listening for his footsteps behind her. A curt nod when he stepped in stride at her side, a short word about the day or the location, but his slate eyes glinted warmly.
They spoke of flowers and parks as they walked, shoulders touching, along the Champs-Elysées, traced their way through tombs at Cimetière de Montmartre, and meandered through the fountains and greenery of the jardin des Tuileries. They did their best to stay away from the roving patrols of feldgrau and the units of goose-stepping young fascists of the Garde Français. They did what the rest of the Parisians did: felt the sun’s warmth on their skin, shared a lingering glance, savored another’s soft touch through thin summer fabric. And tried to remember how it felt to be alive.
Chapter 6
THE WARNING
52, rue du Colisée, Paris. August 16, 1941.
Claire fell asleep with Madame’s art book again. A painting of Venus, the goddess sat half-naked on a low seat in front of a temple, primped by the Graces for Adonis’ seduction. Two Graces styled her hair; a third brought a net sewn with pearls. A cherub held her mirror while another fastened her sandal.
She dreamed the painting in flowers. The Fantin-Latour rose, with its soft blush pink petals, portrayed Venus herself. Trailing green Queue-de-Renard amaranthus were her robes. A gossamer web of pearls draped over the entire arrangement, displayed against a blue wall. The flowers replaced the Parisian artwork carted off to Berlin or hidden in dark corners. She woke smiling.
At Madame Palain’s instruction, Claire pushed pails of asters and dahlias, all that remained, into one corner of the back room. On hands and knees, first a bucket of sudsy water and a brush, then rubbing with a soft cloth, Claire spent the morning polishing the stone floor. The floor shined. And Claire ached. Yesterday it was the walls. Tomorrow, she imagined Madame would want the countertops polished. By next week, if things didn’t change, she would be out on the street cobbles with a toothbrush in hand.
Business had dried up. No celebrations for the parents, no little posies to lighten up a room. As the summer heat drained into fall, all the customers remaining were the occasional German soldier buying for his Parisian girl. Madame did not approve and charged them outrageously. What did they care? They printed up more Occupation money.
Claire was lining up the flower tins against the wall when the phone rang. She ran to the counter, Madame close behind. Claire forced herself to wait for the end of the second ring before she picked up.
“Allô?” Claire said. Not bored exactly, not rude. Just a touch inconvenienced by a call interrupting a very busy day. She examined her worn nails.
“Madame Badeau?”
Claire paused. “Yes.”
“Of the flower shop?”
“Yes. You have an order?”
“I am calling for Comte Jean-Luc de Vogüé.”
Claire swallowed. “The Comte?”
Madame frowned