thirty-two
25 July 1944
Nicole stared at a miracle: six pastries. Two lemon tarts, two napoleons, and two éclairs. Mimi had attended a party on the Île Saint-Louis the night before, in honor of the opening of Monique’s latest play. She had managed to sneak the pastries out of the party in a discarded cigar box.
“Go ahead,” Mimi urged. “The Allies are coming at any moment. We will start our celebration early.”
Liz-Bette coughed fitfully, eyeing the pastries. She had a respiratory infection that she seemed unable to shake. “But if I eat even one, it will be gone forever.”
Her mother held up an éclair. “Eat, darling.”
Her darkly circled eyes grew huge as she took a bite. “Oh, Maman, it is so good!”
Mme. Bernhardt nodded and put one lemon tart aside. “We will save this for your father.”
Nicole bit into the remaining tart. The taste was amazing—sugar and flour and butter, and the soft lemony center stinging her tongue. “Astonishing,” she rhapsodized. “This is the most delicious thing I ever tasted in my life.”
“I’m happy to have liberated them from the enemy,” Mimi said proudly.
“Tell us more about the party, Mimi,” Nicole urged. “Jacques was the handsomest boy there, right?”
“If you say so.”
“Did he dance with a lot of pretty girls?”
“Only with Monique and Maman and me,” Mimi assured her. “But the party was completely decadent. The Boche pig ambassador was there. There was champagne, and real coffee—”
“Real coffee,” Mme. Bernhardt echoed wistfully. “To taste real coffee.”
“Maybe Mimi can steal that for you, too, Maman,” Liz-Bette joked, her eyes fixed on the napoleons. Her mother pushed one in her direction. She snatched it up and took a big bite.
“Liz-Bette, I must tell you about the most embarrassing thing that happened to me at the party,” Mimi said, clearly seeking to distract the girl from the fact that two small pastries could not begin to satisfy her hunger.
“What?” Liz-Bette mumbled through her chewing.
“Well, it was a very formal event. Since I did not happen to have a spare ball gown, my mother decided to sew me one from the drapes in our kitchen. How humiliating! It was much too big in the bosom. She said I would grow into it. a.”
“That’s all right,” Liz-Bette commiserated. “I don’t think I’ll ever get a bosom, either.”
“So,” Mimi continued, “I stuffed myself with socks to make it look as if I had a bosom. And when Monique’s brother asked me to dance, the socks fell out, right in the middle of the dance floor!”
Liz-Bette shrieked with laughter. “What did you do?”
“I stepped right over them and kept on dancing.”
Mme. Bernhardt applauded. “Good for you, Mimi.”
“Dancing,” Nicole said wistfully. She gazed at the newspaper-covered window as if she could see through it, all the way to a fancy theater party. “I miss dancing.”
“When all of this is over, you and I shall go dancing every night,” Mimi declared. “We will have sexy high heels with leather soles—”
“And real silk stockings—” Nicole added.
“With seams,” Liz-Bette put in.
“We’ll dance and dance and dance,” Nicole murmured. She closed her eyes, hearing music in her head. “I will be in Jacques’s arms—”
“And I will be with a handsome Resistance fighter,” Mimi said.
Liz-Bette flung her arms wide. “And I will be with Clark Gable!”
They all laughed, then Liz-Bette began to cough again. Her mother rubbed her back until she could catch her breath. There were no workers downstairs at this hour, so Nicole didn’t worry so much about the noise. But she did worry about her sister’s cough, which seemed to worsen every day.
“Do you know what I saw today on avenue Foch?” Mimi asked. “Some wart-faced Huns packing documents into a lorry. They looked so nervous. It was wonderful. The Occupation really is almost over.”
Nicole nodded. “Papa says a month at the most.”
Liz-Bette fingered her filthy hair. “Maman, do you think my hair will ever get pretty again?”
“I am certain of it.”
“In that case, after the war, I want it styled like Hedy amarr.”
Mimi chucked Liz-Bette under the chin. “Liz-Bette, you will be a devastating beauty, breaking the heart of every young man in Paris. And if you still want to be editor of For Her, you shall be that, too.”
Liz-Bette nodded. “Most likely.”
Mimi checked her watch. “I have to go. I am supposed to meet my brothers in ten minutes. André is on duty near here. He wants us to try to catch our dinner in the Seine. Can you picture me reeling in a fish?” She shook her head at the ridiculousness of the concept. “But Jacques says that I must help, it increases our chances. My brothers are maddening.” She reached for Nicole’s hand to pull her friend to her feet. “Promise me that when you two are married, you won’t let him boss you around.”
“There is no chance of that,” Nicole assured her. “Maman, excuse us a moment.”
“Of course. Liz-Bette, come sit with me.”
Liz-Bette shuffled over to her mother as Nicole and Mimi crawled into the recesses of the nook, their backs turned to the others. Nicole slipped a hand into her pocket and passed Mimi the latest edition of Notes from Girl X; Mimi hid it under the waistband of her skirt. “Perhaps the Allied paratroopers will arrive tonight and this will be your last one,” Mimi whispered.
“I hope so.”
Liz-Bette’s voice rang out. “What are you two doing?”
“It’s private,” Nicole called back.
“That is extremely rude,” Liz-Bette said.
Mimi kissed Nicole on each cheek. “I will see you soon.”
“Give Jacques a big kiss from me.”
“Why anyone would want to kiss my brother is beyond me, so I will let you deliver that message yourself. Liz-Bette?”
“Yes?”
Mimi went to her. “Next time I come, you and I will have a secret discussion, eh?” Liz-Bette nodded and Mimi kissed her good-bye.
“Be careful that no one sees you leave, Mimi,” Mme. Bernhardt warned.
Mimi grinned. “I will be like the Lone Ranger and ride on the wind.”
Nicole watched Mimi disappear out the secret half-door, aching to follow her. She could so easily picture the two of them walking on the rue de Passy, stopping in Alain’s cafe, going to the movies. Or just being together in her room in the apartment on avenue de Camoëns. How wonderful it would be to be back home again, to sleep in her own bed. How wonderful simply to open her window on a July morning.
“I wish I could go with her.” Liz-Bette’s voice was small. Nicole turned. Her sister was staring at the half-door, blinking.
“Me, too,” Nicole admitted. “She’s meeting Jacques. I miss him so much. Even when he’s here, I miss him. I know that sounds stupid.”
Liz-Bette spun around crazily and then dropped to her knees. “Oh, Jacques, Jacques. I love you so.” She imitated Nicole, kissing up and down her own skinny arms. “I want to smooch you all over!”
“Shhh,” Nicole cautioned, because their mother was already snoring softly. They sat in the nook.
“Nicole? What is it like, to kiss a boy?”
Nicole smiled. “Wonderful.”
Liz-Bette put her head in Nicole’s lap. “But what if ... promise you won’t laugh?”
“I promise.”
“What if—by mistake—you spit in his mouth?”
Nicole bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I have never heard of a girl spitting into a boy’s mouth before, so I don’t think you have to worry.”
Liz-Bette looked up, worry lines creasing her forehead. “I could be the first.”
“Practice on the back of your hand.”
Liz-Bette looked dubious. “Really?”
“It’s what I did.”
Liz-Bette held her hand out, then moved it close to her lips. “Oh, Clark, we mustn’t let your past, or your mustache, come between us.” As she began to smother her hand with kisses, her body was wracked by coughs.
“Why don’t you rest, Liz-Bette?” Nicole asked. “You need to get rid of that cough in time for liberation.”
“All I do is rest.” Liz-Bette pouted, but she stretched out on the blanket. “Don’t cover me. It is far too hot in here already.”
She was right. The attic was hot. Stifling, in fact. “All right, no blanket,” Nicole agreed. “But close your eyes.”
“I don’t want to close my eyes.”
“You have a very obstinate nature, Liz-Bette.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do. You are not my mother.”
Frustration welled up inside Nicole. Suddenly, she could not stand it one moment longer—the sameness, fear, hunger, heat, and filth. She didn’t care if the Allies were arriving in an hour or a day or a lifetime. She had to have five minutes in the open air, to breathe like a human being, or else she was sure she would lose her mind.
“Liz-Bette?”
“What?”
“I am going to tell you a secret. You must promise never to tell Maman or Papa.”
“What?”
Promise first.”
“I promise. What?”
Nicole glanced at her mother, to make sure she was asleep, then leaned close to her sister. “I am going up on the roof.”
“What?” Liz-Bette sat up quickly.
“Shhh! There’s a ladder to it. And a trapdoor at the top. I will be gone for five minutes only.”
“I’m coming, too.”
“No. And don’t say I’m not your mother, either. What if you started coughing up there and someone heard you?”
It was a long moment before Liz-Bette spoke. “I admit you are right. But I remember what Paris smells like in summer. Like flowers.”
“I wish I could bottle the air for you, but I can’t.”
“No,” Liz Bette agreed sadly. “You can’t.”
Nicole put a finger to her lips, reminding Liz-Bette to be silent, then tiptoed to the half-door and opened it. There was the ladder. She climbed it rung by rung until she reached the top. There was the trapdoor. She pushed. It opened easily. And she was outside.
The fresh air tasted like champagne. She climbed out and sprawled on her back, inhaling, exhaling, swimming in the deliciousness of it. She wished she could tear off her disgusting clothes and fling them from the building, to let the clean air touch her everywhere.
Giddy with oxygen, she crawled to the building’s edge and looked down. Though the light was fading, Nicole could make out people walking on the street, people on bicycles, all going somewhere. It would be so wonderful, she thought, just to be going somewhere.
Behind her on the roof, there was a loud noise. Her heart lurched. She lay still, not daring to look.
“Nicole?”
Maddening! She should have known Liz-Bette wouldn’t listen. Nicole stabbed the air with her index finger in the direction of the trapdoor, meaning that Liz-Bette should go back this instant. But her sister ignored her and strolled over as if she were walking in the Luxembourg gardens.
“Crawl,” Nicole hissed. Liz-Bette dropped to her hands and knees. Nicole held up two fingers, meaning Liz-Bette could stay on the roof for two minutes. Her sister held up five in response, negotiating for extra time. Already, she was edging close to the parapet wall of the building, to look at the street below. Nicole was about to drag her backwards when they were both startled by the sound of three quick explosions. They froze.
Moments later, sharp gunfire echoed in the streets. “It’s the Allies!” Liz-Bette cried.
Nicole didn’t think so. She crawled to the building’s edge, Liz-Bette beside her, and looked to her left, where she thought the sound had originated. Yes! There, at the metro station entrance, a fire raged. Suddenly, she saw flashes of gunfire.
“It’s the Resistance,” Nicole marveled.
“Die, lousy Huns!” Liz-Bette uttered fiercely. The sisters watched, transfixed, as the fire in the metro entrance intensified.
“I love you, whoever you are,” Liz-Bette whispered. Sirens sounded. They had to get off the roof. If their mother awoke, she’d have a heart attack. Nicole cocked her head toward the trapdoor. They didn’t speak again until they were safely in the hiding place. Thankfully, their mother was still snoring.
“Oh, I am so happy!” Liz-Bette hugged Nicole as sirens wailed on the street. This time, though, the sirens meant something terrible for their tormentors instead of for them. “Nicole, what do you think they were attack—”
She was interrupted by three hard raps on the half-door, silence, then two more raps. The code knock.
Nicole hurried to the door as Mme. Bernhardt jerked awake. “Who’s there?” she demanded.
Mimi fell into the room, breathless. “Quick, you have to leave!”
A fist clutched Nicole’s heart. “What is it?”
“They threw bottle bombs in the metro, at the Permilleux Service. It was an ambushl”
“So why—”
“André was on duty, that’s where we were meeting him. My brother is dead!”
“No!” Nicole’s hands flew to her mouth.
“It was your father!”
“Oh, God.” Nicole reached for Mimi. “It wasn’t meant for your brother—”
Mimi pushed her away, wild-eyed. “But it killed him anyway! I saw it all, they attacked from the back, they didn’t know André was there. Your father was shot, he couldn’t get away.”
“No,” Nicole insisted, as if denying it could make it not be true.
“Jacques saw, too! He was in shock, he didn’t mean to, he yelled at your father, ‘I loved you, I brought you food, and you killed my brother!”
“Please God, no,” Nicole moaned. “Please don’t let it be—”
“You have to leave!” Mimi grabbed Nicole. “They’ll torture Jacques until he tells where you are. Run!”
“I am so sorry—”
“Leave now!” Mimi whipped around to Mme. Bernhardt, who stood in mute shock. “Don’t you hear me, leave—”
The pounding of a dozen jackboots on the stairs leading to the attic, and screams of guttural German, cut her off.
“Raus! Juden! Raus! Raus!”
The half-door to the hiding place was smashed open. Liz-Bette screamed and leaped into her mother’s arms. Mimi and Nicole clung to each other, heart to heart, and waited for the end.