The Paris Apartment, page 27
Yet three days had passed, and Sophie Beaufort had not reappeared, and with each passing day, Estelle’s trepidation grew. True to her word, the British spy had vanished into the streets of Paris the morning following her chaotic arrival and breathtaking promises. It was possible the agent had simply been unable to realize the hope that she’d offered. It was also possible her absence had far more sinister implications.
At least the American was gone. He’d left the same day as Sophie, trailing a discreet distance behind Estelle. He’d been dressed in a new set of clothes, his throat bandaged so that injury could be provided as a reason he couldn’t speak, and a set of forged doctor’s papers in his pocket declaring this so. Estelle had made the short journey with him to Troyes, every second on that train an exercise in dread, but the Germans who had asked to see their papers had looked harder at the copy of Signal they were both pretending to read than they did at their documents. Estelle had left the young gunner in a house she’d been to only once before, and if the elderly woman who had opened the door had been surprised to see Estelle and not Jerome, she didn’t indicate it.
Estelle wrapped icy hands around what little warmth remained in her mug and finished her drink, examining her surroundings for anything out of place. She saw nothing. It didn’t make her feel any better. She surreptitiously checked her watch. She couldn’t linger much longer. She would have to try again tomorrow, but in the meantime, she needed to figure out an alternative plan to get Aviva out of that apartment and out of the city.
Estelle set her empty mug down on the surface of the table and dug into her pockets for payment.
Something thumped down on the table beside her, and Estelle started. She looked up to discover that someone had put a book down and taken a seat beside her. She glanced at the tome and, with a jolt, realized that the title was in German. A Fatalist at War, she translated silently. How poignant.
The newcomer pulled the scarf from her head, setting it neatly on top of the book. Two schoolgirl plaits escaped over her shoulders. Estelle remained motionless as Vivienne ordered a cup of the same awful brew.
Beneath the table, Estelle clasped her hands together so hard that her knuckles went white. She hadn’t yet told Vivienne about Jerome. Hadn’t been able to find her, though Estelle had tried. But now that she was inexplicably here, sitting beside Estelle, the words wouldn’t come.
Vivienne’s drink arrived, and she blew gently on the steaming surface.
Estelle took a deep breath and forced herself to speak. “There is something you need to know—”
“I do.” Vivienne cut her off.
“What?”
“I know what happened at Sacré-Coeur.”
“Oh.” There must have been others watching that day. Others who had seen what had happened. Hope flared. Maybe Vivienne had been missing these last days because they had found—
“We haven’t found him. Not yet.” The petite woman snuffed out her hope.
“Oh.” Estelle managed again, looking down at her hands.
“What about young Frederick?”
“What?” The use of the American’s name nearly jolted Estelle from her seat.
“Is he safe?”
“Yes.” Estelle was trying not to stare at Vivienne. Nobody knew the airman’s first name save for Estelle.
And Sophie.
Suspicion colored her next question. “What are you really doing here?”
“Celine didn’t think you would trust her. Not with something this important.” Vivienne paused. “Not with the life of a child.”
Estelle froze.
“Was she right?”
Yes. Except Estelle didn’t reply because she’d come to the sudden realization that the ice princess might know her better than she seemed to know herself.
“Do you trust me to help you with this?”
“Yes.”
“I wish you had told me about the child before now,” Vivienne murmured.
“I couldn’t,” Estelle managed. “I was trying to be careful.”
“I understand.” Vivienne set down her cup and ran a spindly finger around the rim. “But I know now. And everything is in place.”
Estelle’s fingers tightened so hard around the handle of her mug that she was afraid it would crack. She loosened her grip. The possibility of Aviva escaping—of her having a real chance to get out from under the constant threat of discovery, deportation, and death—had seemed distant. Now it was a real entity, a double-edged sword, capable of salvation as easily as it was capable of tragedy.
“Um” was all that came out of Estelle’s mouth.
“Can you go through with this?” There was a sharpness to the question, as if she had been reading Estelle’s mind.
Could she? What if she was doing the wrong thing? What if— She stopped. She couldn’t go down this road. At some point in this godforsaken war, she had to trust someone. And at the moment, that someone was both Sophie and Vivienne.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“She’ll be in good hands.” Those words were softer. “I promise.”
“Yes,” Estelle whispered again, because she didn’t know what else to say.
“Cimetière de Montmartre. Jacques Offenbach.”
Estelle swallowed. “I understand.” Estelle had seen Offenbach’s grave before. Knew exactly where it was.
“Three.” Vivienne paused. “He won’t wait.”
“I understand,” Estelle repeated. Three o’clock. Estelle would say good-bye to Aviva today.
“Make sure she’s ready to leave you.”
The words were soft but Estelle recoiled anyway.
Vivienne finished her drink and paid. She stood, picked up her scarf, and wrapped it tightly over her head.
And then, without another word, she left.
The book still lay on the table. Estelle shifted slightly and looked around the café but no one paid her any attention, preoccupied with their own thoughts, silent sufferings, or conversations. Outside the café on the street, pedestrians hastened past the cracked panes, their heads down.
Unhurriedly, Estelle set her own cup aside and picked up the book, putting it out of view on her lap beneath the table. She ordered another cup, drinking it slowly but deliberately, leaving a safe interval between their departures. Eventually she stood, paid the waiter, tucked her chair neatly back beneath the table, and exited the café in careful, measured steps. No one stopped her. On the pavement outside, Vivienne was gone.
Estelle walked back to her apartment, when all she wanted to do was run.
Once she got into her building, she took the stairs two at a time.
“In a rush to get somewhere, Mademoiselle Allard?”
Estelle stumbled to a stop on her landing, coming face-to-face with Frau Hoffmann. The woman was wearing another flowered dress, this one the color of her scarlet lipstick.
“You left early this morning.” The frau put her hands on her hips.
Estelle shrugged and stepped around the woman. She wasn’t going to answer.
“Another man?”
Estelle froze, unease pricking. “Pardon me?”
“I saw you the other day out my window. Leaving with a man. I was going to report you. I might still.”
“Report me? Or the man I was with?” She tried to put scorn into her voice in an attempt to cover the unease. “Because I’m not so sure you want to do that.”
Estelle was rewarded with a flicker of uncertainty. “But—”
“I do not question you about what goes on in your bedroom, Frau Hoffmann. Please extend the same courtesy to me.”
“He could be a spy,” Hoffmann spluttered, flushing.
“Did you get a good look at him?” Estelle went on the offensive and took a step closer to the woman.
“No, but that is not—”
“Discretion is a virtue valued not only by myself but by officers of the Wehrmacht. I’d hate for your husband’s business connections to be…blemished because his wife made assumptions about important people. Put certain individuals into awkward situations.” Estelle was making this up as she went but it seemed to have the desired effect. The flush of the woman’s cheeks drained, leaving behind a crimson slash in an otherwise pale face.
“I think we can both agree that we can leave the matter there, yes?” Estelle prompted.
Frau Hoffmann stared at her.
“I’m glad we understand each other, then.” Estelle put her key in the lock and opened her apartment door.
“You might fool them, but you don’t fool me,” the woman shouted as the door closed. “I know what you are!”
Estelle leaned against the back of the door, her heart beating loudly in her ears. Frau Hoffmann, for all her unhappy vitriol, was a real threat. Her husband did indeed dwell in high circles within the Reich, high enough that a complaint from him, if only to placate his wife, would have dangerous consequences. The noose around this apartment, and everyone in it, was tightening.
Estelle pushed herself away from the door, made her way to the dining room, and set the book on the table. With its faded cover and rusty water stain in the lower right corner, the volume looked sorely out of place against the gleaming rosewood. With exaggerated care, Estelle opened it. At first glance, the book was unremarkable. She flipped through pages yellowed at the edges, but there was nothing tucked inside. No notes, no papers, no instructions, no cleverly hollowed-out chapters. For a moment, Estelle wondered if she had lost her mind. If she had imagined everything.
She reached the end of the book. The inside of the back cover was also water-stained and torn along the bottom. Someone had tried to repair it at some point—
Estelle lifted the water-stained edge with her thumbnail. Someone had done more than repair it. A document had been tucked between the lining and the back cover, its edges just visible. Carefully, Estelle extracted it from its hiding place.
It was a birth certificate. For a Marthe Marie Varennes, born in Marseille, France, on 4 May 1939, daughter of Jules Varennes and Edith Marie Bouchet. It had all the official stamps required, and all the creases and folds one might expect from a travelling document.
Estelle stepped away from the table and the document that lay on its surface. The clock on the mantel chimed noon. She had three hours left before she would say good-bye to Aviva Wyler.
The cemetery had been well chosen. It sprawled with organized abandon in all directions, avenues that cut through in an eclectic collection of angles, straightaways, and curves. With its collection of jutting monuments, squat mausoleums, and elevated sculpture, the sight lines were nonexistent. It would be an easy place in which to get turned around and lose one’s bearings. It would be easy for a body to slip away into a myriad of hiding places. Which, Estelle assumed, was the entire point.
They entered on rue Rachel, Aviva’s hand clutched tightly in hers. The breathtaking irony of the street name was not lost on Estelle. It was as if all the fates were conspiring to make her doubt what she was doing. To make her remember the promise she had made to this little girl’s aunt to keep her safe.
Yet on their journey to the cemetery, the little girl had shrunk from other pedestrians, the occasional passing vehicle, and even a pigeon that had fluttered over their heads to land on the pavement just ahead of them. Inside the lining of Aviva’s coat, Estelle had sewn the only picture she had of Aviva’s family, the one she’d taken from the Wylers’ apartment that horrible night. She’d written nothing but the date on the back of it. No names, no places, nothing that could betray Aviva’s real identity if it ever fell into the wrong hands. But the idea of Aviva disappearing without at least a tiny piece of the family who had loved her was intolerable to Estelle.
The grave where they were to meet the people who would take Aviva to safety was up ahead. Estelle stopped, and in the lacklustre light beneath a bruised sky, she crouched in front of the small child, double-checking the buttons of her coat, as if she could stall the inevitable. As if such action could stay the tremble of her fingers and smother the sense of loss that was already rising to choke her. Another soul slipping away from her as silently and surely as smoke through her fingers.
“Are you ready to go on your adventure?” Estelle asked, knowing her smile was entirely too bright. She would not cry.
Aviva nodded, her dark eyes filled with nothing but the sadness that had haunted them for far too long.
“They are going to take you out of Paris,” Estelle continued. “Somewhere you can play outside with friends your own age. Somewhere that you might even be able to have a dog.”
Aviva stood up straighter at the mention of a dog. She reached for Estelle’s hand.
Estelle took a deep breath. “Aviva, I can’t come with you. We talked about this.”
The little girl shook her head frantically, her forehead creasing.
“But I promise I will come and find you,” she rushed on. “As soon as I am able. I’m going to look for your mama and aunt, too, and we’ll all come to find you.” Estelle refused to acknowledge that what she was saying was likely impossible. “Do you remember what I told you? That you can’t tell anyone your real name. Or where you used to live. There are people who will take good care of you until I come to get you. All right? Can you do that?”
Aviva nodded uncertainly.
“You are the bravest person I know,” Estelle said and hugged the fragile body close to her.
And then, with an almost physical pain, she forced herself back to her feet and tugged Aviva forward.
Three people waited in front of Offenbach’s memorial, where a sculpted bust of his likeness stared sightlessly out over his final resting place. A round-faced man in an ill-fitting suit accompanied a dark-haired woman holding a folded umbrella in anticipation of the threatening rain. Beside them, dressed in a drab grey coat and her pale hair covered by a scarf, was Sophie Beaufort. The little knot of people stood at ease in front of the memorial, looking to all appearances as though they were simply sightseeing. Vivienne was nowhere in sight.
Sophie turned as Estelle approached and lifted a hand in greeting.
“Good afternoon,” she said easily. “And good afternoon, Mademoiselle Varennes,” she said to Aviva.
Aviva shrank away from her and pressed herself against Estelle.
Estelle extracted her hand and crouched down in front of Aviva. “These are my friends,” she said. “They are going to take you somewhere safe. I need you to go with them.”
Aviva stared at her, wide-eyed.
“Do you remember everything I said?” Estelle asked. “What I need you to do for me? And your mama and aunt?”
Aviva nodded.
“Good.”
“My name is Edith.” The dark-haired woman was smiling kindly down at Aviva, but there was worry and wariness in her eyes. “But we have to go quickly.” She held out her hand to the child.
Aviva looked up at Estelle.
Estelle nodded and forced her face into what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “It’s all right. Go with her. Listen very carefully to what she says.”
“Does she not speak?” The man had moved beside Estelle.
“Not for a year,” she managed, watching the woman lead Aviva away.
“Probably for the best,” he grunted and then set out after the pair.
In less than ten seconds, all three were gone.
“Walk.” The ice princess’s command was cold. She threaded her arm through Estelle’s and forced her around. She started walking, half dragging, half propelling Estelle with her. She paused long enough to retrieve a small suitcase that had been left near the memorial, half hidden behind a clump of overgrown grasses.
“Who was that man? The one who took her?”
“His name is Georges,” Sophie replied. “And that’s all I can tell you because that’s all I know.”
“But where are they—”
“Somewhere safe.”
“But—”
“Don’t think about it anymore,” Sophie said, dragging Estelle forward again. “You did the right thing.”
“I can’t not think about it.” Estelle could barely get the words out. Tears were blurring her vision, and she thought she might be sick. “What if I just did the wrong thing?”
“You saved her life.” Sophie was now propelling them back toward the rue Rachel entrance. “And one day, when she is a very successful doctor and dancer, she will thank you.”
Estelle squeezed her eyes shut and stumbled along with Sophie, leaning on the other woman as if she were a hundred years old. “I didn’t think it would be so hard.” Which was a stupid thing to say. She had known it would be awful. She just hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on it while she was still with Aviva. Hadn’t dwelled on the very real possibility that she would never see Aviva again.
She stopped and wrenched herself away from Sophie and retched into a pot of withered flowers. When she was done, she put her hands on her knees and tried to catch her breath.
“Here.” A handkerchief appeared in front of her.
Estelle wiped at the tears that had leaked from her eyes and then swiped at her mouth. “I’m fine.”
“I can see that. Just be a little more fine before we leave here,” Sophie said. “We don’t need a reason to draw any more attention than necessary.” She slipped her arm back into Estelle’s.
Estelle tried to return her handkerchief.
“Keep it,” Sophie said.
“Where are we going?” Estelle croaked.
“Back to your place.”
“Right.” Estelle tried to get her thoughts in order but her mind couldn’t seem to focus on anything. “You need me to start—”
“I don’t need you to do anything now, except come back with me to your apartment, where you will grieve properly.”
“I don’t need to grieve. She’s not dead.”
“No, and nor will she be. But gone hurts just as much as dead. This I know.”
Estelle sniffed, feeling slightly ashamed. This woman knew better than most what grief was. And yet still, she was the one who was comforting Estelle.
