The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [82]
“If the girls or Walker had the right papers, special Ausweis , they could take the train south, pass the soldiers at the demarcation line, then cross the border into Spain in the comfort of a car. But those papers are impossible to get, and the bribes would be enormous. More likely, more common, they could be smuggled past the demarcation line in hidden compartments, under loads of rotting vegetables or rancid meat. Then, they would make their way south, sleep in barns, ride in wagons or walk, until finally they bribed a farmer to cross his land to bypass the French border guards. Then they must hike over the Pyrenees into Spain.” He shook his head, his mouth tight. “Not an easy journey for girls or the wounded. And even then, if the border guards in Spain catch them without the correct papers, they will arrest them and notify the Gestapo.”
Claire examined the edges of Grey’s face, dimly visible under the stars. From his tone, what was unsaid, Claire knew he’d suffered much of that to reach London. Something she named admiration stirred in her stomach, doused with a single thought. “You must love her very much.” She choked on the word, mistress , and said instead, “Your child.”
His eyes were black and probing in the darkness. “Abigail isn’t mine.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s war, dammit. Things happen and we can’t control the outcome. We can’t control people, even when we know what they are doing is wrong. Hell, we can’t even control ourselves. She lacks a father. But it’s not Abigail’s fault,” Grey said, as if it were an argument he’d had too often before.
Laurent’s words echoed in Claire’s mind, A woman and a child. Grey is a steadfast sort of creature. A responsible man. “And so you’re responsible for her, aren’t you?”
“Always,” Grey said.
A wave of sadness, like the tide, rose up and submerged her. “I don’t think anyone is getting rescued tonight.” She turned and walked to the house alone.
She rolled up in a blanket on the kitchen floor, her gaze on the window. The stars were streaks of light in the wavy glass. She heard the door creak open and the curtain rustle as Grey came inside. Always, she thought. How would it feel to be promised always by a man like that?
The next morning, Grey disappeared into the forest to gather bird eggs with Anna riding on his shoulders. Walker made slow circles in the farmyard, gaining strength through willpower and sunlight. Marta watched from the step, her face shadowed.
Marta’s face mirrored old feelings Claire knew, a caustic mix of longing and despair. For Claire, childhood had been a longing for a better life, of seeing the world, despair at never getting off the farm. Marta had seen the world, too much of it, perhaps. Claire wondered if the young American soldier was the target of Marta’s longing for the strength he offered, or for the promise of a new life in a free country. Misery etched her young face.
“Marta, come pick flowers with me,” Claire said.
They walked side by side along a path that edged the forest, at the base of the rolling hills.
“I miss Paris,” Claire said, a way to begin. “Did you live there?”
Marta leaned over a grouping of primrose. “We left Poland when I was nine, so six years in Paris.”
“A long time. You could be called a real Parisian, then.”
“I suppose. I am Polish too. I remember it before things got bad. We were very happy there.”
Claire nodded. She knew Paris was full of refugees that fled countries suckling fascism for years before Hitler’s armies marched. Jews had taken the brunt of it, many landed in Paris.
Marta tugged at a few of the blooms, just opening, and handed them to Claire.
Claire slid the ends into the thin layer of water at the base of her bucket. “Were you happy in Paris?”
“My mother was. Very happy. My father was not.” Her cheeks colored. A delicate subject. They walked for a while in silence before Marta continued. “My mother is an important modernist artist. She paints, painted, portraits of the wealthy in Paris. She loved it. The parties, salons. It was very glamorous, you see, and my mother