Read Online The Last Time I Saw Paris by Lynn Sheene - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lynn Sheene
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will be a challenge. You will need to learn how to use more fill to accentuate fresh blossoms.”
Paris still stood, Claire thought the florist meant. They would outlast this.
She worked a full day then crawled into bed and cracked open a tattered children’s grammar book Madame had scrounged from Georges. Claire tried out the new words—they all sounded like poetry—until early morning when she slept.
The French tricolor flag was lowered and the swastika rose all over the city. That Sunday, Claire sat on a high stool in the flower shop, her elbows resting on the long zinc counter as she stared at the large print in the children’s book. Around her, the tin pails that brimmed with flowers the day she arrived were stacked empty against the walls. Only the hardiest blooms now graced the shop. Music crackled from the radio beneath the counter. “Mood Indigo” then “Fleur de Paris.”
Madame flitted about the shop, busy as ever. Claire knew nothing actually needed to be done. The florist only paused when asked a question or to correct pronunciation.
“Mon père est un homme d’affaires,” Claire said, face buried in the book. My father is a businessman.
“No. No.” Madame looked over Claire’s shoulder at the pages. “ Mon père. It sounds like you are choking. Encore. Try again.”
The radio scratched loudly, then went silent. Both women froze, eyes wide. A man broke in, his somber voice old and tinny over the airwaves. Claire could only pick out two words. Coeur , meaning heart, and France .
The broadcast ended. A tune started up, something solemn. Madame flicked the knob off. She turned away; her slender shoulders trembled.
Georges barged through the door, his young face a mask of fear and hurt. He rushed around the edge of the counter. “Madame, la France s’est rendu. Maréchal Pétain—”
The florist gently cupped his shoulders and pulled him in to her. His head rested on her shoulder, great shuddering sobs exploded from his chest.
“What is rendu ?” Claire asked.
“Surrender. Marshal Pétain has surrendered us.”
France had fallen.
Claire shifted on her stool and took Georges’ free hand. His grip was strong, the skin hot. He burned with the emotion they tried not to feel. Madame stroked his hair, her eyes on Claire.
Claire looked back to the pages of the book. “Mon père est un homme d’affaires.” She carefully butchered the sentence.
The florist tilted Georges’ face up with a thumb under his chin. She spoke a few emphatic words then shook her head and sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes toward Claire. Understanding dawned on Georges’ face as he stared at the book, then at Claire. His sobs softened to sharp gasps as he gulped air. A trace of smile tracked across his red face.
“Georges will help you learn to speak, Claire,” Madame said. “I cannot. You are impossible.”
Chapter 3
THE CANE
Avenue Montaigne, Paris. November 27, 1940.
T he wind clawed at Claire’s face as she trudged through the frozen slush coating the sidewalk. The sky was murky, the faint sun shrouded by writhing pewter clouds. A storm brewed sullenly overhead, but it was too cold for snow. Claire felt the bite despite the long wool overcoat, two sweaters, and yesterday’s issue of Le Temps stuffed between each layer of fabric.
Winter had come early and with malice. It was as if Paris closed the door and shut off the lights. Go home, the city told the occupiers. But Nazis weren’t the ones freezing in their beds.
A woman passed by, her breath fogging the cold air in front of her. In her arms, a heavy bundle of fabric. The lump startled Claire when it chortled, baby laughter. Claire sighed and tugged up her coat collar around her ears. Somehow life moved on.
Her shoulder ached from the weight of the cart behind her, clenched fingers numb on the handle. The intersection ahead was avenue Montaigne. Another block to the delivery entrance at Hôtel Emeraude. And warmth. Claire moved faster,
Paris still stood, Claire thought the florist meant. They would outlast this.
She worked a full day then crawled into bed and cracked open a tattered children’s grammar book Madame had scrounged from Georges. Claire tried out the new words—they all sounded like poetry—until early morning when she slept.
The French tricolor flag was lowered and the swastika rose all over the city. That Sunday, Claire sat on a high stool in the flower shop, her elbows resting on the long zinc counter as she stared at the large print in the children’s book. Around her, the tin pails that brimmed with flowers the day she arrived were stacked empty against the walls. Only the hardiest blooms now graced the shop. Music crackled from the radio beneath the counter. “Mood Indigo” then “Fleur de Paris.”
Madame flitted about the shop, busy as ever. Claire knew nothing actually needed to be done. The florist only paused when asked a question or to correct pronunciation.
“Mon père est un homme d’affaires,” Claire said, face buried in the book. My father is a businessman.
“No. No.” Madame looked over Claire’s shoulder at the pages. “ Mon père. It sounds like you are choking. Encore. Try again.”
The radio scratched loudly, then went silent. Both women froze, eyes wide. A man broke in, his somber voice old and tinny over the airwaves. Claire could only pick out two words. Coeur , meaning heart, and France .
The broadcast ended. A tune started up, something solemn. Madame flicked the knob off. She turned away; her slender shoulders trembled.
Georges barged through the door, his young face a mask of fear and hurt. He rushed around the edge of the counter. “Madame, la France s’est rendu. Maréchal Pétain—”
The florist gently cupped his shoulders and pulled him in to her. His head rested on her shoulder, great shuddering sobs exploded from his chest.
“What is rendu ?” Claire asked.
“Surrender. Marshal Pétain has surrendered us.”
France had fallen.
Claire shifted on her stool and took Georges’ free hand. His grip was strong, the skin hot. He burned with the emotion they tried not to feel. Madame stroked his hair, her eyes on Claire.
Claire looked back to the pages of the book. “Mon père est un homme d’affaires.” She carefully butchered the sentence.
The florist tilted Georges’ face up with a thumb under his chin. She spoke a few emphatic words then shook her head and sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes toward Claire. Understanding dawned on Georges’ face as he stared at the book, then at Claire. His sobs softened to sharp gasps as he gulped air. A trace of smile tracked across his red face.
“Georges will help you learn to speak, Claire,” Madame said. “I cannot. You are impossible.”
Chapter 3
THE CANE
Avenue Montaigne, Paris. November 27, 1940.
T he wind clawed at Claire’s face as she trudged through the frozen slush coating the sidewalk. The sky was murky, the faint sun shrouded by writhing pewter clouds. A storm brewed sullenly overhead, but it was too cold for snow. Claire felt the bite despite the long wool overcoat, two sweaters, and yesterday’s issue of Le Temps stuffed between each layer of fabric.
Winter had come early and with malice. It was as if Paris closed the door and shut off the lights. Go home, the city told the occupiers. But Nazis weren’t the ones freezing in their beds.
A woman passed by, her breath fogging the cold air in front of her. In her arms, a heavy bundle of fabric. The lump startled Claire when it chortled, baby laughter. Claire sighed and tugged up her coat collar around her ears. Somehow life moved on.
Her shoulder ached from the weight of the cart behind her, clenched fingers numb on the handle. The intersection ahead was avenue Montaigne. Another block to the delivery entrance at Hôtel Emeraude. And warmth. Claire moved faster,
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