Read Online The Last Time I Saw Paris by Lynn Sheene - Free Book Online
Authors: Lynn Sheene
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dropped thousands of bombs in southwest neighborhoods in Paris. Nearly a thousand dead. And yet at ten in the morning, a man came in to buy flowers for his wedding anniversary. Thirty years married, a day worth celebrating. He was almost apologetic as he picked out the bouquets. But the look, a shrug. This was Paris. Life goes on.
A week later, June 11, and the air was thick with a heavy smoke that hung over the city like a shroud. The dingy sky smelled of dirty fires. No one wanted to think about what burned. Some said it marked the end of the world. Claire and Madame spent the day indoors reorganizing the back room, a wet rag stuffed into the crack between the front door and the floor.
The next morning dawned and they found they still lived. A mother came in for a large order of flowers for a fête that night for her daughter’s fifteenth birthday. The harried woman rushed to pull together all the details, making up for lost time after shops closed the day before. The greatest inconvenience, however—the government had abandoned Paris two days previous. Many invitees were bureaucrats and their families—the departure played havoc with the party’s seating arrangements. “C’est vraiment terrible.” The look again. Her daughter was only this age once. What could one do? This was Paris.
News got worse. The German army plowed through the last of the French troops to the north. The Nazis would be here any second. The Luftwaffe had bombed the heart of Rotterdam into the ground less than a month ago to guarantee a Dutch surrender. What might they do to Paris?
Claire took her first paycheck and bought a thin summer dress. It was the deep blue of a clear evening sky and swished playfully around her hips. She sprang for a little felt pillbox hat, dark grey with a ribbon in matching blue. She wore it that Sunday when she walked alone around the Left Bank. The city was nearly deserted but enchanting still. She rested on a park bench near the foot of the Eiffel Tower, craning her head back to see the rise of the massive spires. A handsome Frenchman sat beside her, smoking a Gauloises and unabashedly drinking her with his eyes. He tried in vain to make conversation en français . Claire finally said au revoir and left him, as well as his implied offer for company of an intimate nature. She moved on to see the jardin des Tuileries then watched what must be all the city’s remaining children ride the painted ponies at the jardin du Carrousel. It was a beautiful Sunday. And this was Paris after all.
By the next Friday, June 14, the radio said units of the German Sixth Army marched from the north into Paris. It was a quiet morning in the shop, and Madame and Claire froze when they heard a low rumble. They watched people stream toward avenue des Champs-Elysées.
“What is it?” Claire said, her chest tight.
Madame Palain just shook her head.
“I’ll see.” Claire hurried along behind the crowd.
The sidewalks lining the avenue were filled with people. Claire pushed her way forward into the mass as far as she could. She heard, or more felt, a rhythmic pounding. A collective gasp; a silver-haired man ahead of her cried out. Straining to see, Claire scrambled up on the base of a streetlight. She turned her head toward the Arc de Triomphe.
A line of Nazi soldiers, as far back as she could see. Led by a horseman, their grey uniforms impeccable, rifles slung over their soldiers. Marching like machines, their hobnailed boots rang out like a massive hammer battering the asphalt street.
As she watched, a bloodred flag was unfurled from the top of the Arc. At its center, a massive black swastika flapped in the breeze. The man standing near Claire’s feet turned away from the parade, tears streaming down his face. Feeling sick, Claire jumped from the base and headed toward the store.
“They are here,” Claire said as she entered the shop.
Madame turned back to her roses. “Bring me the dried greenery from the back. Supplies
A week later, June 11, and the air was thick with a heavy smoke that hung over the city like a shroud. The dingy sky smelled of dirty fires. No one wanted to think about what burned. Some said it marked the end of the world. Claire and Madame spent the day indoors reorganizing the back room, a wet rag stuffed into the crack between the front door and the floor.
The next morning dawned and they found they still lived. A mother came in for a large order of flowers for a fête that night for her daughter’s fifteenth birthday. The harried woman rushed to pull together all the details, making up for lost time after shops closed the day before. The greatest inconvenience, however—the government had abandoned Paris two days previous. Many invitees were bureaucrats and their families—the departure played havoc with the party’s seating arrangements. “C’est vraiment terrible.” The look again. Her daughter was only this age once. What could one do? This was Paris.
News got worse. The German army plowed through the last of the French troops to the north. The Nazis would be here any second. The Luftwaffe had bombed the heart of Rotterdam into the ground less than a month ago to guarantee a Dutch surrender. What might they do to Paris?
Claire took her first paycheck and bought a thin summer dress. It was the deep blue of a clear evening sky and swished playfully around her hips. She sprang for a little felt pillbox hat, dark grey with a ribbon in matching blue. She wore it that Sunday when she walked alone around the Left Bank. The city was nearly deserted but enchanting still. She rested on a park bench near the foot of the Eiffel Tower, craning her head back to see the rise of the massive spires. A handsome Frenchman sat beside her, smoking a Gauloises and unabashedly drinking her with his eyes. He tried in vain to make conversation en français . Claire finally said au revoir and left him, as well as his implied offer for company of an intimate nature. She moved on to see the jardin des Tuileries then watched what must be all the city’s remaining children ride the painted ponies at the jardin du Carrousel. It was a beautiful Sunday. And this was Paris after all.
By the next Friday, June 14, the radio said units of the German Sixth Army marched from the north into Paris. It was a quiet morning in the shop, and Madame and Claire froze when they heard a low rumble. They watched people stream toward avenue des Champs-Elysées.
“What is it?” Claire said, her chest tight.
Madame Palain just shook her head.
“I’ll see.” Claire hurried along behind the crowd.
The sidewalks lining the avenue were filled with people. Claire pushed her way forward into the mass as far as she could. She heard, or more felt, a rhythmic pounding. A collective gasp; a silver-haired man ahead of her cried out. Straining to see, Claire scrambled up on the base of a streetlight. She turned her head toward the Arc de Triomphe.
A line of Nazi soldiers, as far back as she could see. Led by a horseman, their grey uniforms impeccable, rifles slung over their soldiers. Marching like machines, their hobnailed boots rang out like a massive hammer battering the asphalt street.
As she watched, a bloodred flag was unfurled from the top of the Arc. At its center, a massive black swastika flapped in the breeze. The man standing near Claire’s feet turned away from the parade, tears streaming down his face. Feeling sick, Claire jumped from the base and headed toward the store.
“They are here,” Claire said as she entered the shop.
Madame turned back to her roses. “Bring me the dried greenery from the back. Supplies
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