The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [83]
“Thoughtful,” Claire said.
“Provincial and prudish were her words,” Marta said, with a touch of humor. Her face darkened. “After the Nazis came to Paris, my father fled to Marseilles. This spring, he wrote Mother a letter. He arranged for Anna and me to go south to a country house with mother’s paintings. To be safe. But mother thought it was silly. She said she wouldn’t let her paintings be snuck out of the city like gypsies. We were Parisians now.”
Over the crest of a hill, a thick growth of delicate purple hyacinths blanketed a slope beneath a green canopy of beech trees. Claire chose a grassy spot beneath the branches, setting the basket at her feet. She leaned back against a thick trunk and patted the ground next to her.
Marta sat, her face scrunched up into a scowl. She plucked a flower and crushed the petals, one by one. “But I couldn’t go to school anymore. Anna and I stayed inside with Madame Russo, our servant. Mother said the Nazis wouldn’t dare bother her. She still painted for those who could pay, and many nights went out.”
The muscles in Claire’s back relaxed against the trunk, warmed from the walk in the sun. The soft breeze and touch of shade was pleasant on her skin, but she felt a chill with Marta’s listless tone. “What happened?”
“One morning, it wasn’t quite light yet, I was watching out the window, waiting, like I always did, for Mother to come home from a party. Police stopped her on the street in front of our house. I recognized one of them, his father was our boulanger. They made her open the door. I heard them downstairs. Where are your children? Where is your husband, Jewess? Madame Russo rushed in our room—her face was so pale. She grabbed Anna from her bed. We ran to the side door. There were two cases there, waiting. We snuck out into the courtyard. Mother screamed so loud at the men. So loud. Madame Russo made us climb over a fence into the alley and run.” Marta’s face was still, but large tears rolled down her face unheeded as she stared at passing clouds. “Father knew they would come. He had ordered Madame Russo to pack our bags and be ready. She hid us in a neighbor’s cellar. But father never came for us.”
“Your mother?” Claire asked.
“Madame Russo told me the police took all the Jews they could find in all of Paris. They hauled them away in our school buses. They were shipped away to Germany on a train.” Marta wadded the flower stem in her fist then dropped it into the grass. “I know my mother isn’t coming back.”
Claire rested her hand on Marta’s arm.
“No. I don’t miss Paris,” Marta said.
Marta sank silently into her arms. Claire’s heart ached. Months ago, Christophe had told her about the roundups. Perhaps she’d wanted to believe that he was just trying to draw her into his fight. Madame Palain and the shop had to come first. But thousands of people? Her fists clenched as she absorbed the girl’s agony, her betrayal by the world and her own anger at herself.
A breeze blew a lock of hair in Marta’s face. Claire brushed it from her eyes. At that simple kindness, the girl shuddered and released deep, wracking sobs. Legions of puffy clouds marched overhead as Claire rocked her in her arms.
Marta grew soft against her, sobs fading to breaths. She pulled her head away, swiping futilely at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, her cheeks red from tears and embarrassment.
Claire wiped the girl’s face with the hem of her dress and looked deep into her eyes. “I am your friend, Marta. Truth, no matter how sad, is meant to be shared among friends. I am grateful you chose to tell me. And please, call me Claire.”
Marta nodded, her eyes taking in Claire as if for the first time. Hand-in-hand, they meandered back toward the farm, picking hyacinths and white anemones until the bucket was full. Marta wore a crown of braided flowers in her hair and a fragile smile when they got back to the house.
Anna’s laughter sounded like a bird’s trill as she and Grey returned from the forest. Grey cradled a bag bulging with eggs. Anna