Last Twilight in Paris

11. Louise

11

Louise

Paris, 1953

Late morning the day after I arrive, I step out of the hotel and onto the brisk autumn street. I had planned to get an early start but, exhausted from the journey, had slept much later than I intended. Dark clouds hang to the west, threatening a storm. Up close, Paris looks different than I imagined it. The once-elegant buildings are worn and pockmarked, the shop windows still half-empty from shortages. Other than a lone Citro?n idling at the corner, the street is devoid of cars, owing to the lingering gas shortages. The women who pass by are well-coiffed, their hair and makeup done impeccably, but they are rail thin from the years of having to survive on rations. Even the tiny dog who passes by on the end of a tattered leash looks tired and skinny.

I walk to the phone booth on the corner and ring Ian’s office once more. The same receptionist answers as the previous evening. “Ian Shipley, please.”

“I’m sorry, he’s not in.”

“Do you have any idea when he will be?”

“I’m afraid not. He didn’t come in today.”

I leave my name and hotel information once again, then hang up, annoyed. Ian is not there. To be fair, I did not tell him I was coming in advance. But I hope he has not gone out of town and my whole trip is for nothing.

I do not have much time in Paris and I cannot afford to wait for Ian to turn up. I walk back to the hotel. “I’m trying to get to a department store called Lévitan,” I say to the clerk.

He shakes his head. “That store is not in business anymore.”

My heart sinks. “Can you at least tell me how to get to where it used to be?” He gives me walking directions too quickly for me to follow in French and I do my best to keep up.

I start down the street in the direction he indicated, turning right at the corner, then left, hoping I am going the correct way. As I walk, I pass scaffolding at every turn. Despite its tattered appearance, Paris is a city under construction, with those who can afford to rebuild attempting to erase the weariness of the war and begin anew. The streets are strangely quiet, save for a few pedestrians and an elderly woman who pedals by on a dilapidated bike.

Soon I reach Rue Faubourg du Saint-Martin, the wide boulevard where the department store is located. The word Lévitan is still engraved in the granite above the doorway. But it is no longer a department store, I note with a mix of surprise and disappointment. Instead, it is an office building of some sort, converted and modern, not at all the same kind of business it had been during the war. I question, not for the first time, whether my coming here for answers will be in vain.

I walk inside the building, where a young woman with a sleek bob sits behind a reception desk, clacking on a Rooy typewriter. “Can I help you?” she asks, still typing. I admire her easy, confident way. Women still have jobs here. Not everyone had let that be taken away.

“I’ve come to ask about the department store that was once here, called Lévitan.”

“I’m afraid it went out of business years ago.” That was not unusual. So many livelihoods were disrupted by the war and many never returned. “Or at least that’s what my mother told me,” the receptionist adds. “I was too young to remember much before the war.”

Of course, there is a whole generation that has largely been raised since then. “I’ve got a necklace from the jewelry department. I was hoping to learn about its origin. Are there any records?”

“Not that I know of,” she says. I hope that she might offer to check, but she does not.

“Is there someone else who might know?”

“Maybe the managing director, but he isn’t in yet.”

Deflated, I start to go. Outside, I look across the street at a pharmacy with a clouded glass window. Pharmacie Dupree, Established 1912 , the sign reads . The pharmacy had been here during the war. Perhaps someone there knows something more about Lévitan. I try not to get my hopes up. Just because the pharmacy was here doesn’t mean the people who work here now are the same ones who had been here then.

I cross the street and go into the pharmacy. The man behind the counter, who wears a short white coat and looks to be in his twenties, eyes me warily. “Can I help you?” the pharmacist asks. He is young, too, and I begin to lose hope that anyone here will know about things from the wartime.

I look at the medicines, pretending to be interested in buying something. “Some aspirin tablets, for headaches,” I request. He ducks under the counter and pulls out a bottle, counts some pills into it. “I understand the pharmacy has been here since before the war,” I remark after he hands me the package and I pay. “That’s quite a history.”

“Before the First World War,” he corrects with a note of pride in his voice. “Not me personally, of course, but my father and my grandfather before him.”

“How remarkable,” I say. He nods. “The building across the street,” I continue, trying to sound nonchalant, “do you know what it was before the firm took it over?”

“A department store. But I’m sorry to say that during the war, the Germans imprisoned Jews there,” he adds.

I struggle to contain my surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, it’s dreadful, I know. They actually used it as a kind of concentration camp.” My heartbeat quickens. I had come here to find out about the necklace, whether it might have been purchased at Lévitan. I had not imagined that the store had such a direct and immediate connection to the war.

The pharmacist continues, “My father owned the pharmacy then. I was just a teenager. But I remember he and my mother speaking of people kept in the department store when they thought I wasn’t listening. My father prepared medicine for them more than once.” His eyes narrow a bit. “Why are you asking?”

“I’m studying architecture,” I lie. “And I’m interested in the history of the building.”

“My mother might know more. Maman?” he calls into the back of the shop. There is a silent pause and then a protracted rustling as a stooped, older woman appears, walking with the aid of a cane. “This is…” He hesitates. “You didn’t mention your name.”

“I’m called Louise Burns,” I say. “I’m from England.”

“I’m Paul Dupree and this is my mother, Celeste. Maman, Madame Burns is asking about the Lévitan building.”

Madame Dupree eyes me skeptically. “You aren’t interested in the architecture.” She must have been listening from the back room, her hearing sharp despite her age.

“No,” I confess, then pull out the necklace. “I’m sorry for not being more forthright. I found this necklace in a crate marked Lévitan and it looks like one I saw during the war. I’m trying to find out more about it, including where it came from and to whom it might have belonged. But I wasn’t able to learn any thing when I stopped in there just now. Do you know about the history of the building? Your son said that it was used as a prison during the war.” Even as I say the words aloud, they sound impossible to believe.

“Yes, the building has a very shameful history, I’m afraid. The Nazis used Lévitan as a kind of camp. They kept Jews in the department store during the war as prisoners, and if you can believe such a thing, they had them sell items plundered from Jewish homes to the Germans.” Though the woman seems lucid, the explanation is so strange, I wonder if she is confused with age. It doesn’t make sense. How could a department store serve as a prison? What on earth did they sell? But her son nods gravely beside her, confirming her account.

And something about what the woman said resonates: the night before Franny died, she had been talking to the cellist, who was a French prisoner of war. Might he have some connection to the camp that had been here in the department store?

“The receptionist in the former Lévitan building did not seem to know anything about it,” I say.

“Of course not.” Madame Dupree waves her cane dismissively. “Come with me.” Without waiting, she hobbles out of the pharmacy and across the street into Lévitan.

Seeing us enter, the receptionist stops typing this time. Remembering what Madame Dupree and her son told me, I’m incredulous that the receptionist did not know about the building’s history. Was she lying or really that young and naive? “I’m here to see Georges,” Madame Dupree informs her. Without waiting for a response, she starts past the front desk and into what had once been the center of the store. Beyond the reception desk, the store opens into a massive indoor courtyard. It is four stories high and ringed with balconies, their rails and balustrades white marble. The store could have just as easily been a museum and I can only imagine how grand it was in its heyday. “Georges!” she bellows. I expect the receptionist to protest or try to stop her, but she sits helplessly, as if she has seen this all before and can do nothing. “Georges!” The old woman’s voice ricochets through the cavernous hall.

A spectacled man in a pinstripe suit appears on the stairwell. “Bonjour, Madame Dupree,” he says with feigned patience. “What can I do for you?”

“For me, nothing,” she replies tersely. “But for this woman, you can answer some questions about the history of Lévitan. Your infant receptionist was, of course, useless.” The receptionist seems to sink lower in her chair, as if trying to disappear entirely.

The man turns to me. “I’m Georges Larent, managing director of Chateau Design. How can I help?” His voice is calm, but beneath the surface I can sense tension. I realize then that just asking questions is not enough. No one is going to give me the answers I seek. I need to see the history for myself.

I lift my chin to meet his eyes. “If you please, I would like to see the department store.”

“Madam, you are in it.”

“The whole store, I mean, including the upper floors.” I am curious now, not just about the necklace, but the people who were kept in the store, how and where they lived.

“I’m not certain that I can do that during working hours,” he begins, and I am sure that he will say no. But Madame Dupree is still standing there, arms folded, and I know he will not refuse her. “Very well, but we must be swift. I have a meeting in thirty minutes.”

“I will take twenty and not a second more,” I promise.

“Come with me.” Monsieur Larent turns and walks deeper into the store.

I follow, as does Madame Dupree. “I have helped his family with medicines late in the night more than once,” she explains to me in a low voice. “He owes me.”

The managing director stops in the middle of the store and turns to us. “As you may know, this building housed a depart ment store called Lévitan before the war,” he says, sounding like a tour guide. “You can see how our architect preserved the original stalls in which goods were displayed.”

“I was told that people were imprisoned here during the war, that it was a kind of labor camp.”

Monsieur Larent shifts uneasily. “I think labor camp might be overstating it. The Germans forced Jews to sort and sell goods in Lévitan.”

“Goods that had been taken from Jewish homes,” I interject. I marvel that he can be so dismissive about the building’s horrific past.

“I’m afraid so. When we first renovated the building, we did find some bed frames here, so it is possible that people had stayed here for a time to sort goods. But I would hardly call it a camp.”

“It was a camp,” Madame Dupree says firmly. “My husband and I saw the faces behind the windows, the Jewish prisoners who were held here for months, if not years. Can you imagine it, people living here, sorting Jewish belongings for sale?” Her eyes cloud. “And it was not just the Germans who did it,” Madame Dupree adds. “There were plenty of French who helped, like the police and the moving companies. It was the shame of our nation. My own husband was arrested for trying to smuggle medicine to the people inside the store. Later, when he was freed, he told me about the poor souls he had seen close-up at the store. They were rail thin and pale from lack of sunshine. After that, the police were watching me constantly, and it was impossible to help.” She is trying to explain to me, I realize, why she had been close enough to see everything, yet powerless to do more.

“It must have been a very difficult position,” I say. I want her to know that I understand, even though absolution is not mine to give. “You mentioned something about the moving companies… What did they have to do with all of this?”

“The French moving companies were complicit. The big ones, and the same ones that you see moving furniture today. They carried the goods from the Jewish homes to Lévitan. One could say, what choice did they have? Someone had to transport. But they did the work and they were paid handsomely for it.”

“May I ask why you wanted to see the store?” Monsieur Larent interjects.

“I found a necklace and I am trying to learn more about it.” I pull it from my purse and hold it up. “It was in a crate marked with the name Lévitan, so I thought perhaps it came from the store.”

Monsieur Larent shakes his head. “Lévitan didn’t sell jewelry before the war. It was primarily a home goods shop.”

“What about during the war?” Madame Dupree asks. “Could the necklace have come here then?”

“Not then either,” he replies. “They sorted housewares and furniture here. Valuable jewelry would have been confiscated by the ministry and other pieces melted for their metal. Jewelry was not sold in Lévitan.”

That stops me in my tracks. The necklace was not sold at the store. What other reason could it have possibly come from there or been in the crate? Of course, I knew it was possible that the crate had just been used as a container without any connection to the store whatsoever, but I didn’t want to believe it. Now it suddenly seems I have reached a dead end. I am no closer to finding out about the origin of the necklace than I was in London. I turn around, dejected. I should just go home.

“I’m sorry not to be of more help,” Monsieur Larent says, trying to steer us toward the front entrance.

But Madame Dupree then asks, “What about the dormitory?” Monsieur Larent looks at her blankly. “On the fourth floor where the prisoners slept.”

“Yes, of course,” he answers, too quickly. “That’s a storeroom now.”

“You’ll show it to us.” Her words are not a request.

“As I mentioned, I have a meeting.”

“You have a meeting in ten minutes,” she replies. “We will only need seven.”

Defeated, Monsieur Larent leads us to a lift at the back of the store. We step inside and he closes the wire gate behind us. The lift is deep, and I imagine the large pieces of furniture that might have been moved in it during the war. None of us speak as the lift groans and creaks its way to the top.

When the doors open, we step out into a long room filled with storage boxes. “You see,” Monsieur Larent says. “Not much interesting history here.”

I take in the room with the sloped ceiling, imagining dozens of people forced to sleep here in the drafty, bare space. “Look at this,” Madame Dupree says, pointing to the wall where there is what looks like graffiti. Closer I can see that they are hash marks, I assume, made by a prisoner, marking off their days.

I turn to Monsieur Larent. “And you still do not call this a camp?” I demand. He does not answer. “Are there any documents? Records of who stayed here?”

“I’m afraid not. Lévitan was one of three satellites of the larger camp Drancy, which was just outside Paris, so they were all listed there.” Listening to him provide this information so readily, I grow angry. He must know so much more than he is pretending to. He continues, “Who was detailed to this specific shop and when, I’m afraid, remains a mystery.”

“It’s ironic,” Madame Dupree remarks, “that the Germans cataloged all of the people’s belongings so very immaculately, but not the people themselves.”

“So there was a register for goods, but not people?” I ask.

She nods gravely. “They recorded those which had value to them.”

“Even if there had been records, the Germans destroyed just about everything before fleeing at the end of the war,” Monsieur Larent adds. “The records would’ve been burned.”

I can see that I will get no further with the managing director, that I have learned all that there is to learn here. I take a long last look around for clues, and finding nothing, I turn to leave.

Madame Dupree and I walk from the store. “I’m sorry not to be of more help,” she says. “We had almost no contact with the people in Lévitan and even less so after my husband was arrested. But we could see them. They occasionally came near the windows, and I glimpsed them on the roof sometimes. I wish I knew more. There was another half to that necklace, yes?” I nod. “What do you think became of it?”

“I don’t know. I assume it was lost to the war—along with whoever possessed it.”

“Not necessarily. This half survived the war. Why not the other? Of course, finding it would be a needle in a haystack. So many unanswered questions and the truth will never be brought into the light.”

“Not at all. You’ve been extremely helpful.” I am still trying to sort through it all, but there doesn’t seem to be anything more to say. I take out a scrap of paper and write down my name and hotel information, as well as my address at home. “I’ll be in Paris for another day or so and then I’m headed back to England. Please contact me if you think of anything else.”

Discouraged, I start away. “There is one more thing,” Madame Dupree says. I turn back. “I just thought of it. After the war, Henri Brandon, a man who had been prisoner in the store, came here to the pharmacy as a customer.”

“Did he live nearby?”

“I suppose so, yes. I would have wanted to get as far away from such an awful part of my life as possible, but it was almost like he couldn’t leave. He eventually moved out of the city, though. Wait here.” She goes into the pharmacy, and through the glass window, I can see her rifling through a cabinet in the rear of the store. She pulls out a sheet of paper, then copies something from it onto a small pad before ripping off the top sheet. She walks from the shop and hands the paper to me. “Here.” The address is in Belleville. “That’s located in the 20th arrondissement, but a bit farther out.”

“Do you have a phone number?”

“I don’t. I’m sorry. I’d be surprised if he has a phone.”

It is just as well. It would be easier to ask for help in person—and harder to tell me no than it would be by phone. “You’ve been so helpful and I’m forever grateful.”

Madame Dupree squeezes my hand. “There was so much I couldn’t do during the war. Helping you now won’t change that, but maybe it will be a little easier to bear. Good luck.” She turns and goes back into the shop. I marvel at her candor. If more people were like Madame Dupree and took responsibility for what they had failed to do during the war, the world might be a very different place.

I study the address Madame Dupree has given me, considering. Though I would like to go right now, I have to think about how I will get there. Perhaps the front desk at the Meridien can give me directions or even help me arrange a car. I start back toward the hotel.

When I reach the lobby, I go to the front desk. “I need to arrange a car to Belleville,” I say, showing the receptionist the address.

“The soonest I can do this is tomorrow.”

“But…” It is early afternoon and I hate the idea of waiting and wasting time. I need to see if this man has the answers I seek so that I can get home to Joe and the children.

The receptionist shrugs. “There are few cars now and a petrol shortage. If you would like to go by Metro, you would have to transfer.”

Listening, I am overwhelmed. My head swims. “The car tomorrow morning sounds fine.” I will take a night to myself in the hotel, I decide. The idea is suddenly appealing. It is not just that I am exhausted from travel. I am also eager for the room that is all mine for the evening, without anyone asking me to help them, or to do or get something for them. I worry fleetingly about the children, whether they miss me and if they have what they need. I push the thought away. This is the first time I’ve had real time to myself in nearly a decade and it is like getting to know someone I’ve never met. I’m going to make the most of every minute of solitude this trip affords.

I decide to go for a walk, perhaps find something to eat. I step outside the hotel onto the pavement once more. “Which way is the city center?” I ask the doorman.

He points. “Go left at the corner and keep walking down the boulevard until you reach the Seine.”

“Thank you.” I start in the direction he had pointed. As I make my way down the unfamiliar streets, I find that I enjoy the anonymity of a city where I know almost no one, and am largely unknown. In the distance, the Notre-Dame beckons. I walk faster, as if doing so will allow me to outrun the ghosts of the past and the uneasy questions about my own life now.

I travel much farther than I planned, strolling the quay along the river and even crossing the bridge into the Latin Quarter. Only when the sun begins to sink low behind the Eiffel Tower do I make my way back in the direction of the hotel.

At last I reach the street where the Meridien is located.

“Louise!” a familiar voice calls as I near the hotel door. Hearing my name, I stop short and turn.

Coming toward me with rapid strides is Ian.

Germany, 1944

We neared the second camp after nightfall, having crossed into Germany in the darkness. We were a smaller group now, just Franny, Ian and myself, plus the driver. The other volunteers had started for home, as I would have if I had not chosen to come with Ian and Franny. We rode now in a lone truck, Franny stretched out on the small second-row bench, snoring. Ian sat next to me, too close, our legs pressed warm against one another. His head was tilted back and I thought he might be sleeping. But when I looked over, his eyes were open, alert. His fingers brushed against mine and I expected him to pull back. He did not. Instead, he put his hand atop mine and held it gently.

Though we had been in occupied territory for days, there had been an ominous feeling as we entered Germany. This was truly in the belly of the beast now, behind enemy lines and far from where anyone could help us. I was suddenly paralyzed with fear. We were in Nazi Germany, under the control of the enemy. Despite the assurances that the Red Cross was neutral, we might be detained at any second.

The new camp was a stalag, designated for enlisted men and not officers. It was in the forest, away from prying eyes of civilians, and any pretense of decency was gone. The buildings were ramshackle wooden huts with broken windows and gaping roofs, scarcely providing any shelter at all. Barbed wire fencing ringed the camp and bright searchlights scanned the ground. In the distance, a guard dog barked menacingly.

Our quarters here were converted railcars, leaky and windowless, parked on an abandoned stretch of track just outside the camp fence. The message the Germans sent by housing us in such a place was clear: we were inferior and unwelcome. I watched Franny, wondering how she would react to the grim accommodations. “Want to share?” she simply asked. I nodded, and we carried our bags inside one of the railcars, which sat low to the ground, wheels removed. The interior was bare except for two metal cots and a basin for washing. There were no showers and the toilet was an outhouse behind the train. We put our things away and prepared to go to sleep on the hard cots inside without speaking.

I turned to Franny. “How is it that they let you perform for these men?” I asked. “The POW officers in the last camp are one thing. But the men in this dreadful place seem beyond hope.”

“I insisted,” she said. “If I was coming for one prisoner, I was coming for all of them. I wanted to see it all, to bear witness and help where I can. Not just what the Germans wanted me to see. After all, who needs our help more than those who have no hope?”

Still, taking in the new camp through the barbed wire, I was seized with the urge to leave. Go now , a voice seemed to say. I had promised Franny I would stay, though, and I would not abandon her, nor the work that might mean the difference between life and death for some of these men. I lay awake feeling very much a prisoner myself.

The next day, I awoke to a steady rain beating against the railcar. Franny was not in her bed. She was up already, standing in the doorway of the railcar and peering outside. She seemed to be searching across the barbed wire, as though looking for something or someone.

Outside, the heavy downpour had turned the dirt to a thick mud. I lay in the uncomfortable bed, not wanting to face the grimness ahead. But Franny gamely pulled on high black Wellingtons and a bright red poncho. “Come,” she said brightly. “There is work to be done.” We spent the morning sorting and delivering packages to guards who took them from us at the gate without speaking. The rain slowed to a mist. I watched Franny work in her red poncho, which made her stand out like a beacon amid all of the drab gray and brown.

Around midday, we stopped and returned to the railcar for lunch that Ian had left us, thin cheese sandwiches on stale bread and a cold, watery stew. “I have to go,” Franny said when she’d finished eating. “There’s a rehearsal.”

“A rehearsal?” I was surprised. At the previous camp, Franny had simply gone onstage.

“Yes, I’m playing with an orchestra here. Well, not an or chestra exactly, but a few chamber musicians, a violinist, a flute player and a cellist, who are prisoners themselves. Want to come watch?”

“Sure.” In truth, I did not want to go inside the camp. But I also did not want to be left behind in the railcar, alone. I followed her down the muddy road, which ran parallel to the barbed wire fencing of the camp. The prisoners I glimpsed through the fence were bald and emaciated beneath their khaki uniforms, bespeaking months of starvation. We walked to the gated entrance of the camp, where Franny showed her identification card and we were let inside. Prisoners, who seemed to be lining up for work details, eyed us strangely, whispering.

A guard escorted us past rows of ramshackle wood huts to an old barracks that served as the practice hall. There, three men waited. I took a chair in the corner as they began to practice without introduction. I marveled at their instruments. Though they were worn and likely not the ones the musicians had played before coming here, they still looked like treasures, fragments of light in this dank and hopeless world.

The musicians came from different places and had not played together before their imprisonment. Their skill levels were different, too, the most gifted being the cellist. Though I was not trained in music, I could see that he led the others, and seemed to follow Franny’s singing and cues effortlessly. It was the difference between simple playing and art.

The rehearsal ended and I waited, thinking Franny and I might walk back together. But she waved me off. “You go on. I need to go over some notes.” She walked to the cellist and conferred with him, heads leaned close, voices low. There was a familiarity between them, as if they had met before. Dismissed, I walked to the door of the practice hall where the guard who had brought us in waited. He escorted me from the camp and I went back to the railcar where Franny and I slept.

When a half hour passed and Franny did not return, I set out to find Ian in his railcar. There was work to be done distributing Red Cross care packages and I wanted to be useful. I neared Ian’s railcar and stopped. Franny was there, I noted with surprise. She must have gone straight from her rehearsal. Through the doorway, I saw Franny and Ian talking. No, not talking. Arguing. Franny pleading with him, close to tears.

Still, I moved closer, curious to know what they were talking about. “What do you mean, you can’t help?” I heard her ask him, her voice equal parts demanding and beseeching. Help with what? I wondered.

Soon after, she broke away from Ian and started toward me. “Are you all right?” I asked. She did not answer but stormed past me into our railcar. I followed her inside. “Franny, what’s going on?” I demanded.

Franny pulled me to the corner of the room. “There’s a prisoner who has asked me to deliver something to his wife in Paris.”

“Franny, that’s so dangerous.” It was one thing to take photographs for making illegal identification cards. But secretly carrying something for a prisoner seemed even more risky, a step too far.

“I know, but he begged me and what other choice do I have? I’m not headed back to Britain straightaway because I have performances scheduled on the French Riviera. So I’m trying to see if Ian will arrange to have it delivered for me. Of course, he doesn’t want to.”

I could see her frustration with Ian. He was balancing the competing demands and where he could do the most good. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

“Do you think it would help?” Even as she asked this, we both knew that it would not. Ian might be fond of me, but no amount of attraction would deter him from the mission or doing what was best for it.

“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll think of something else.”

Neither of us spoke for several seconds. “Sure, you invite me here,” I said. “But what about the French Riviera?”

She laughed at my feeble attempt to joke. “You could come if you wanted.” She was not entirely kidding. For a moment, I could almost see it, going along with Franny for her performances, the two of us having adventures. But I could not follow her forever. I needed to go back to London and figure out what my own life would look like after the war.

As evening fell, we returned to the camp. The audience began to gather for Franny’s show, I hid in the wings of the makeshift stage, peering out. The POWs stood subdued around the back, the seats reserved for the German guards. Despite the prisoners’ downtrodden state, there was a buzz of excitement about them, as though they could not believe this very special thing was for them, a bright spot.

The musicians she had practiced with sat in a semicircle behind Franny. It was the first time I’d heard her playing with accompaniment and the music was even richer, the chords from the instruments lifting her voice.

A commotion in the audience tore me from the music. A man in the audience was having a coughing fit and a guard was trying to remove him so that he did not interrupt the show. “I want to stay,” the man wheezed. Franny and the musicians stopped mid-song. The guard yanked him roughly from the crowd and smashed a club down on his head.

“No!” I cried, horrified by the brutality. I expected the others to protest, but they kept their eyes low, fearful that they would be next. The guards beat the man mercilessly. Sickened, I wanted to look away. But I could not. This was not the fair treatment that was required by the rules of war. Here, the pretense of civility was gone. And if they were willing to treat an enemy combatant like that, what might they be doing to the Jewish prisoners?

When the man had been dragged away and the show resumed, I marched from backstage, searching for Ian. Not seeing him, I left the camp and went to find him at his railcar. I knocked but did not wait before walking through the open door. Ian looked up from where he was seated on the edge of his cot, sorting papers. “Did you see what just happened to that man?” I asked. He nodded slightly. He must have left just after the incident as I had. “We have to do something.”

He looked up, brushed his hair from his eyes. “We will issue a letter of protest,” he said evenly. Despite my anger, I could not help but feel drawn to him in the intimate, too-close space.

I pushed my feelings of attraction aside. “A letter? That won’t do anything.” Once, Ian had seemed so very committed to helping. Why wouldn’t he do more?

“It will send a statement.”

“A statement?” I repeated, my voice rising with disbelief.

“Well, what do you expect?” he exploded, standing up. “Shall we call the police? We aren’t in Britain anymore, Louise! We are behind enemy lines and we are powerless.” I saw his frustration. He shared all of my same anger and pain at the situation in the POW camps, but at the same time he had the extra responsibility of seeing that the mission was fulfilled and we all made it home safely.

I remembered then Franny’s argument with Ian. “Franny said you wouldn’t help her deliver something for one of the prisoners.”

“Franny doesn’t know when to stop,” he said darkly. “It’s complicated, Louise. We must all be careful. Things are very bad elsewhere. The POW camps are the best of it. There are camps filled with people, Jews mostly, and you can’t even imagine the atrocity of what’s happening there.”

“Why doesn’t the Red Cross do something? The Red Cross is a humanitarian operation—how can it bear witness to barbarism so contrary to its mission and do nothing?”

“It’s complicated. We’re doing all we can. I’m doing all I can.” A wave of empathy came over me then. Ian had so much responsibility put upon him, for delivering the packages and helping people, and for trying to keep us all safe.

“I’m sorry,” I offered, putting my hand on his arm. “This can’t be easy.”

He dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “It isn’t easy—for any of us.”

Ian and I stood in silence, staring out across the field. Our shoulders pressed against one another. “What do you miss most?” he asked suddenly. “From before the war, I mean.”

I considered the question. “I miss oranges,” I replied finally.

He looked puzzled for a moment. Then he smiled. “Oranges.” Citrus had always been scarce. But now with rationing and shortages, they were nonexistent.

“I miss the quiet,” he said. “Long walks in the countryside with nothing but the sound of the larks, you know? When I was a child in Wales, you could walk for a day and not see or speak to anyone.” I see him then, not as the head of our mission, but as a boy, not so very much older than myself. He was, like the rest of us, just trying to find peace and go home.

“Ian…” I found myself moving toward him. I looked up into his eyes and the connection between us was undeniable. Our faces were just inches apart and I wondered if he might try to kiss me.

“This can’t happen,” he said abruptly, straightening. “I’ve seen it a half-dozen times, men and women spending too much time together in the field. I like you, Lou. But I have to focus on the work at hand. I’ve got an operation to run and people to care for, and you…you get in the way and you cloud my judgment.” His words stung.

“I won’t bother you again.” I hurried away, feeling foolish.

When I returned to our railcar, Franny was already there. I waited for her to share a story as she always did, witty or sad. But tonight she was silent. Outside I heard a guard walking by. Footsteps paused by the window and I held my breath. We were in enemy territory and might be apprehended at any moment. The danger seemed more acute now that I knew about Franny trying to help one of the prisoners. I fully understood in that moment that we might never make it home.

“Fancy a smoke?” she asked, holding out the pack. I took one and accepted the light she offered. I smoked now, too, a way to manage all the danger and stress.

I thought that Franny would get ready for bed. But after she took off her makeup, she reached for her coat. It was a subtle gray and, unlike the bright poncho she had worn earlier, designed to make her blend in with the drab surroundings.

“Where are you going?” I asked. We were not allowed inside the camp and there was nothing else around for miles.

“Just walking,” she said. I wondered if she was lying and had planned to meet the man who had asked for her help.

“You shouldn’t walk alone at night,” I said.

She tossed her head and laughed. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

“But it’s dangerous.”

“Bloody hell, it’s all dangerous!” Now Franny was angry. “You can’t just keep your head in the sand. We give out packages and we sing and none of it matters at all.”

Franny stormed away, her hair fanning behind her like a kite tail. I started to follow her, but I knew when she was in a state, it would do no good. I would wait until she came back, I decided, and try to talk to her again.

I drifted off but slept fitfully. I dreamed that we were on the boat once more. I lost Franny to the dark, stormy sea. I awoke in a sweat, calling her name. She had not come back yet.

Restless, I walked outside. I spotted a figure in the distance. Franny, I realized with relief. Only the picture was all wrong; Franny was where she should not have been, pressed up close to the fence, talking to a man. I recognized the man as the cellist who had accompanied her performance. He was handing her an object. He must be the one who had asked her to carry something to his wife.

I started toward her, wanting to warn her, to call her back. We were not permitted to interact with the prisoners, other than during the shows, and being that close to the fence was dangerous.

Then I stopped. Something told me that it was not my place, Franny would not want me there. But I was curious, worried even. Franny was always pushing things and it was only a matter of time before she went too far.

Reluctantly, I returned to the railcar and forced my eyes shut. Eventually, I fell asleep.

At some point during the night, I was awakened by a rustling as Franny settled in beside me. “What were you doing?”

“So many questions,” Franny said, trying to sound light and chiding.

But I was unwilling to let it go, would not let her dodge the question. “I saw you talking to one of the musicians and he handed you something. What was it?”

“It’s none of your affair.” Franny’s tone was cold and I was taken aback. “I need to get some sleep before tomorrow’s show.” She was shutting me out, keeping me at a distance, and the rejection stung.

“I’m sorry,” Franny said later. “I didn’t mean to snap. This is just all so difficult and stressful. The truth is, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve never had many female friends. After my sister left, I was alone. And then in the theater, there are not so many genuine people. It’s hard to know who to trust, you know?”

“I do.” Having a difficult childhood like Franny, I had never developed many friendships. It was as if I had formed a protective outer shell that kept anyone from getting close. Only Franny and I had gotten close, and it was both wonderful and scary. “But I’m glad you’re here and that we met.”

“Me, too. Letting someone in, though, it’s bloody terrifying.” We both laughed softly.

Later, when she was snoring soundly, I crept to the far side of her bed. I hesitated. Franny and I had just talked about trust and I felt guilty snooping. But I had to know what she was doing. I peeked into her bag. There, wrapped in cloth, was a necklace charm, a half heart with the words watch and me inscribed upon it, and it had a nick in the top arch of the heart, as if it had been somehow chipped. It did not look particularly valuable, yet at the same time I could tell that it was precious, unique. I fingered it, curious. Why did the man want Franny to take it to his wife?

The next morning when I awoke, the events of the previous evening came rushing back. I rolled over, half-afraid that Franny would be gone again as she had the previous evening. But she was sleeping soundly beside me, as if none of it had ever happened at all.