Last Twilight in Paris

15. Louise

15

Louise

Paris, 1953

I awaken early the next morning. As I look around the hotel room, I recall all that had happened the previous night: Our conversation and quarrel. Ian’s confession that he once had feelings for me—and I for him. Our kiss. I push that last part aside; it has no bearing on why I have come to Paris or finding out about the necklace or the truth about Franny’s death.

Franny. Her death, and my grief about it, arises in me anew, stirred up by all that I have learned in Paris. I had not known Franny long before she died. We had formed an instant connection, though. That—and the sudden way she had been taken—made my grief outsized beyond our brief friendship. How could someone as young and vibrant as Franny be snuffed out like a candle? Struck by a car, that had always been the official answer. But her death, right after I saw Franny take the necklace from the man, had shortly made me suspect there was something more.

As I dress, my thoughts shift to what Ian had told me about the Red Cross the previous night: they had seen what was happening in the camps. After the war, governments had claimed not to know what was happening to the Jews of Europe as a justification for failing to help. The Red Cross had been inside the camps, though, not just the POW camps like the ones we had visited, but some of the camps where the Germans imprisoned and killed the Jews. Its representatives had witnessed the atrocities firsthand. And still they did nothing.

But that has nothing to do with Franny’s death, and I need to focus on that. Franny had been angry with Ian because he would not help deliver the necklace for the cellist. She had been angry with me for the same reason, I think, my guilt redoubling. She was determined to deliver it herself. If someone wanted to stop her… I pause, then dismiss the far-fetched idea.

The necklace, I am still certain, is the key to finding out what had happened to Franny, more so than any conspiracy theories about the Red Cross. It had disappeared—seemingly forever—the night Franny died. Or at least it had until it appeared in the charity shop where I work, out of the blue, like a hand reaching down from the heavens and tapping me. I have to find out where it came from.

In the distance, cathedral bells toll nine. I start down to the lobby. In the lift, I consider what I will say about the previous night. Part of me wants to tell Ian that we need to put all of this silliness between us aside and figure out the secret behind the necklace. Perhaps he will not bring it up and we can forget all about it.

The lobby is bustling with businessmen and other visitors starting their day. But Ian is not there. He is probably sitting in the hotel bistro eating a big breakfast, I decide, when we really need to get to the business at hand.

I walk to the bistro and scan the patrons seated at tables. Ian is not among them.

I go to the hotel front desk and give my name. “Are there any messages for me?” The clerk shakes his head.

Perplexed now, I start from the hotel. I walk to the phone booth at the corner and ring Ian’s office.

“This is Louise Burns, I mean Emmons,” I say when the receptionist answers. “Is Ian Shipley there?”

“He isn’t in,” the receptionist replies. My heartbeat quickens. Ian was supposed to help me today. Perhaps he had taken the day off. But then why isn’t he here?

Now I am annoyed. Ian has not even given me the consideration to leave word that he wouldn’t be here as promised. He knew we were going to see the man who had been imprisoned at Lévitan first thing. I consider waiting a bit longer to see if he returns, then decide against it. I don’t need Ian for this. This is still my mission and I am happy to manage it alone. The man might be less likely to talk if I bring a second person anyhow.

I return upstairs to my room to retrieve the necklace before heading out. I check the nightstand, but the necklace isn’t there. Panic rises in me. Had I lost it? I remember then how I had given it to Ian the previous night. He had set it down on the nightstand and I had forgotten to put it back in my purse. It should still be there, but I do not see it.

Stay calm , I think. Ian must have put it somewhere for safekeeping. I walk to the nightstand and open the drawer. Except for a copy of the Bible, it is empty. I check the floor around the nightstand in case it has fallen to the ground. Nothing. Ian likely took it with him. But why? And where is he? I look at the clock on the wall. It is after nine o’clock and the car I arranged will be outside now. I cannot wait any longer. I will have to go without him.

I set out, and as I cross the street toward the hired car waiting for me, I berate myself for being so careless. I never should have left the necklace behind. Now I have to go see the man who was imprisoned in the department store without the very thing I am going to ask him about.

Twenty minutes later, I step out of the car onto Rue Sainte- Marthe. Far from the polished city center, Belleville is a working-class neighborhood. The houses are more dilapidated and narrower, seeming to lean on each other. Laundry hangs from the wrought iron fire escapes above and the smell of something garlicky cooking wafts from a half-open window.

I walk to the address Madame Dupree gave me, then hesitate. I feel bad calling unannounced, but I didn’t have a phone number. Even if I did, the man might have been less likely to speak with me if I rang.

I scan the column of door buzzers, then push the bottom one, which has the name Brandon, H. listed beside it. There is no answer. Perhaps the address Madame Dupree gave me is outdated and the man no longer lives here. When I push it again and there is no response, I open the door to the apartment building. The lobby is dusty and the wallpaper peeling. I ascend the stairs, my footsteps echoing too loudly through the open space. I expect someone to emerge from one of the apartments, ask what I am doing there and tell me to leave. No one does.

I reach the top landing, my breathing slightly heavy from the climb. There is a lone door and I knock softly, wondering if there will be no answer once again. “Monsieur Brandon?”

“Oui. Who is it?” a raspy voice calls. I hear in it an apprehension, left from the wartime days when an unexpected knock often meant trouble.

“I’m Louise Burns and I’ve come from England. I was given your name by a woman at the pharmacy on Rue Faubourg du Saint-Martin.”

There is a pause. “Come in,” the voice says at last. Inside, a man is seated in a chair in semidarkness. I cannot tell how old he is for the war had aged so many before their time, but his hands and face are flecked with brown age spots.

“Monsieur Brandon?” He nods in acknowledgment. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Madame Dupree sent me.”

He smiles. “She’s a good woman.” He gestures to a chair close to his. “Please, sit down.” Then his expression turns puzzled. “Why have you come?”

I lower myself into the chair before replying. “I wanted to ask about Lévitan.”

There is no response for several seconds and I worry that he will refuse to speak with me.

“The camp?” Monsieur Brandon seems to shudder. “No one has talked about that in years. I’d rather forget it, personally.” His voice wobbles and his eyes dart away. “It was hell.”

“I’m so sorry.” I regret having to bring up memories so painful to him.

“They put us there because of our so-called ‘privileged status’ or special skills, and we did have it better than those in the camps in the east. But it was horrendous. Many suffered and died. And afterward, it was as if we had no right to talk about what happened to us among those who had been through worse.”

I should just go , I think remorsefully. In trying to put my own questions about the past to rest, I have stirred up painful memories for others. But I have come too far to give up without trying now. I need to ask my questions and then leave this man in peace. “Monsieur, I’m terribly sorry to come here and bring up such painful memories. But I was hoping that you could help me. You see, I found a necklace in a box that was marked Lévitan and I came to Paris to learn more about it. In my search, I met Madame Dupree and discovered what went on at Lévitan during the war. I’m trying to see if there is any connection between the necklace and the store.”

“Can I see the necklace?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have it with me,” I say, feeling foolish. “A colleague of mine has it and he’s…not here. It is gold and shaped like a half heart.”

“I see.” The man scratches his chin, as if thinking. “I don’t think the necklace would have come from Lévitan. The department store was used to sell Jewish goods. But it was mostly housewares, china, that sort of thing. There wasn’t a jewelry counter, though, so the necklace wouldn’t have been sold in the store.” His words are a refrain of the managing director’s the previous day, confirming the lack of a connection.

“Perhaps it belonged to one of the Jews imprisoned there,” I suggest.

“That would have been impossible,” he replies. “Most of the Jews were thoroughly searched upon arrest, and their valuables were confiscated. And even if someone was able to smuggle something past the guards, they would have kept it hidden. In any event, I’m certain that I never saw a necklace like the one you describe during my time at Lévitan.”

My shoulders slump with disappointment. “Thank you anyway.” I stand to go.

“Wait a moment,” Monsieur Brandon says. He gestures for me to sit once more. “Why is finding out about the necklace so important to you? If you tell me more, then perhaps I can be of some help.”

His wide brown eyes peer out at me from behind his spectacles, demanding an explanation as the price for my coming here and interrupting his solitude. “Because I think the necklace is the same one I saw a man give my friend in one of the camps just before she died. And I’m hoping that finding out its origin will give me some of the answers I seek about her death.” I brace myself for the skeptical expression that always comes when I tell someone this, followed by condescending or dismissive words.

But his face remains somber and attentive. “Tell me about your friend.”

“Her name was Franny Beck and she was a great stage actress. She was singing for the prisoners in the camp. A musician, a cellist who was accompanying her, had given her the necklace.”

“Wait a moment. Did you say cellist?”

“Yes, why?”

“Mon Dieu!” he exclaims. He pauses, rubbing his chin in thought. “There was a woman in Lévitan who was married to a cellist. I remember because there was an article in the newspaper, which one of the prisoners had, that said the cellist was playing in Germany. There was some allegation that he was a collaborator.” Ian had said as much, I recall, my excitement rising. We were talking about the same man. “There was a rumor that he might have even come to see her once at the store.”

“Was his name Gabriel Lemarque?”

His eyes brighten with recognition. “Yes, that sounds right. I’m afraid I don’t remember his wife’s name, though. It was something like Helen or Elaine. I’m sorry not to have more information, but memories escape me.” He rubs at his temple. “I’ve blocked so much out from those years.” I understand; like Joe, forgetting is a form of self-preservation. “I wish I could be of more help.”

“That’s all right. You have helped, a great deal, and I appreciate it. But if you think of anything else, please send word.” I scribble down my contact information on a scrap of paper and hand it to him. “This is my address back in England. I’m staying at the Meridien hotel, but for how much longer, I do not know.”

“Good luck. Whatever answers you are looking for, I hope that you find them.”

“Thank you.”

I hurry from the apartment building and into the car that is waiting for me at the curb. As the driver pulls into traffic, I gaze out the window as the Paris streets roll by, considering all I have learned. The connection is now clearer: the cellist had tried to get Franny to take the necklace to his wife imprisoned at Lévitan, though I do not know why. Maybe he was sending a message to let her know he was alive. But Franny had died almost immediately after, yet the necklace had somehow made it to Lévitan. How had the cellist managed to get it to his wife after Franny died? And why was it so important to him that she receive it?

The film, I remember. Perhaps Gabriel was not only trying to deliver the necklace, but what was inside. I had taken it out of the necklace and put it in my purse. So even though Ian has the necklace, I still have the film. I lean forward to the driver. “Pardon, but do you suppose you could take me to a camera shop or somewhere else that can develop film?”

“Oui, madam.” If he is surprised by the unusual request, he gives no indication. “I know of one not far from your hotel.”

Ten minutes later, he pulls up alongside the curb in front of a shop with La Photographie etched in the glass window. “Shall I wait for you?” he asks.

Recognizing the street we are on, I know that my hotel is just around the corner. “I’ll walk back, but thank you.” I go into the store and a bell tinkles overhead, announcing my arrival. It is small and cluttered, with different cameras and other film apparatuses placed precariously on the crowded shelves.

I walk to the counter in the back of the store, where a man with a trim goatee looks at me, not speaking.

“Bonjour,” I say, then hold out the film. “Can you develop this for me?”

He takes the film from me and holds it up to the light, studying it. “It’s somewhat old and I will need special equipment to manage it. Two days.”

My heart sinks. I do not have two days. I need to get home to Joe and the children. And while I can take the film back to England with me and have it developed there, something tells me that any answers it contains will be most helpful right here in Paris. “Is there any way you can do it faster? Please. I can pay extra.” I reach into my bag and pull out a few of my precious remaining francs, then pass them to him.

The man sniffs and takes the francs. “Come today after four.”

I leave the store and set out down the street, eager to find Ian and share all I have learned. But where is he? I pull his business card from my purse and turn it over. On the back, Ian had scrawled his home address: 29 Rue de la Hutchette #2 . Wishing I had not sent the hired car away, I walk to the taxi stand at the corner, get into the first waiting cab and give the driver Ian’s address. “Is it far?”

“Across the river in the Latin Quarter,” the driver says. The cab pulls away from the curb and accelerates through the street.

As we start to cross the Pont Neuf and the Seine, I take in Notre-Dame, bathed in sunlight. Paris, more so than ever, seems a city of buried secrets. I know now that the cellist was trying to get the necklace to his wife in Lévitan. But I am no closer to learning what that has to do with Franny’s death.

After the bridge, the cab drives into the tangle of streets that make up the Left Bank. I am surprised that Ian lives here and not in a more posh neighborhood close to the embassy.

We pull up on a side street lined with row houses. I pay the driver and get out and then walk up to the door of the address Ian gave me. Inside on the second floor, I find the apartment marked #2 and knock. There is no answer.

Across the hallway, a door flies open and a woman in a housecoat appears. “What are you doing here?” she asks rudely.

“I’m looking for Monsieur Shipley. Have you seen him?”

“Non.” She shakes her head. “I’m the owner of the house and I rented the room to him, but I have not seen him this morning.”

“My name is Louise Burns. I’m a friend from England. I’ve knocked and he isn’t answering and I’m concerned. Can you let me in so I can check on him?”

She eyes me warily and then returns into her apartment and gets a set of keys. She unlocks the door to Ian’s apartment. “Hello?” she calls inside. There is silence. She turns to me. “As you can see, he isn’t here.”

“Yes, but…” I stall, searching for some pretext to get inside the apartment and look for the necklace, or at least a clue as to where he has gone. “I left my scarf last night. If I can just see if it’s here.”

She eyes me warily, then takes a step back to let me pass. “Two minutes. I shouldn’t be letting you in.”

Inside, the apartment is bare.

“It looks like he left,” the landlady remarks. “He better still pay me for the last month’s rent.”

For a moment, I wonder if I have made a mistake. I double-check the address on the card. It is correct. But the place where Ian claims to live looks as if no one has ever lived there at all. I am confused, about so many things. But I know one thing for sure.

Ian is gone, and so is the necklace.

Germany, 1944

“No!” I cried. “Franny!” She lay lifeless on the side of the road, close to the draining ditch. Her limbs were splayed elegantly, a show woman even in death. A few of the guards from the camp stood nearby, staring but keeping their distance.

I looked away from her, unable to bear the sight. My mind raced, searching for answers. She might be unconscious, I thought desperately. Perhaps she had fallen and hit her head. “Call the medics!” I cried, but the guards did not move.

“She was struck by a car,” a voice I didn’t recognize said behind me. But it didn’t make sense. Franny always walked after dark. She knew not to walk in the road so as not to risk getting hit. The car engine would have been loud in the night silence. She would have moved out of the way if it got too close. And most importantly, if she had been hit by a car, there would have been bruises and broken bones. Instead, Franny’s beautiful appearance was perfectly intact.

I forced myself to look at Franny once more, searching for answers. She was lying in the same peaceful position I had seen her in so many nights as she slept. Her arms were splayed above her head in a kind of surrender. I watched her chest, willing it to rise and fall with breath. Though I knew she could not be asleep, I prayed that she somehow was.

“No!” I cried again, dropping to the ground beside her. I wanted to rewind the scene and go back to the moment when I had left her alone in the field, refusing to help. If I had said yes, she might have come to bed, instead of going out walking. Could I have stopped this from happening?

My cries had drawn others and someone behind me pulled me away. A siren wailed in the distance, growing louder as an ambulance neared. Of course, it was too late. The medics came, but they didn’t rush. Their movements were slow and methodical, and they lowered a stretcher beside her. Why weren’t they doing more? They should be working to resuscitate her. Instead, they lifted her onto the stretcher and covered her with a blanket.

“Lou…” Ian rushed up behind me. Though I didn’t take my eyes from Franny, I could feel the same emotions cascade over him as they had me: shock, then horror and devastation. He wrapped his arms around me and turned me toward him. I buried my face in his coat, not watching as the military police carried Franny away on the stretcher.

Someone led me away from Ian and into one of the buildings, wrapped a blanket around me and brought me tea. Outside I could see Ian directing people, taking charge, his eyes dark knots and his face creased with pain.

I sat numbly, unsure how much time had passed. Finally, Ian came into the room, and I ran to him and threw myself into his arms, not caring who noticed. “What happened?”

“A car hit her while she was walking.” I noticed that his eyes were red as though he had been crying. “The road was dark, and the driver must not have seen her.”

“Do they have him?” Why, I wondered, did I presume it was a man? “The person who hit her, I mean.”

“No. I’m afraid he drove off before anyone arrived.”

“Did anyone see the car?”

“No one.”

“Then how do we know it was an accident?”

Ian looked genuinely puzzled. “What else could it have been?”

“I don’t know.” The notion that someone could have hit Franny on purpose sounded too preposterous to voice aloud. But nothing about this situation made any sense.

“Come, we have work to do. Another pallet of packages arrived and they need to be distributed before it rains.” I stared at him in disbelief. Did he really expect us to press on with operations just hours after Franny had died? But he was right: the work was the work and it had to be done. Lives depended on getting the rations contained in the care packages.

I tried to carry on as best I could that day delivering the rest of the care packages. Franny would have wanted it that way. But her absence was a gaping hole in our world. Tears streamed down my face and my limbs were leaden. I thought ahead to the evening when Franny normally would have been getting ready to perform and the stage that would remain forever dark.

When we neared the end of the workday, Ian came to me. “Where will you stay tonight?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

He gestured toward the railcar. “After everything that has happened, I didn’t think you would want to be in there alone.” I had not thought of it before, but I could see his point. The railcar had been Franny’s and mine. How could I be there without her?

I followed him wordlessly to his railcar, a duplicate of our own, except for his belongings. I considered the impropriety of us staying in the same space. But after what had happened to Franny, right and wrong didn’t matter anymore, not here.

I sat down on the bed and he looked at me uncertainly. “It’s all right,” I said, indicating the space beside me.

“Are you certain? I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

“It’s fine.” I knew it was not proper. But nothing was as it should be anymore. And why had I come here, if not to be close to him?

We lay side by side, not touching.

As I lay awake beside Ian, little snippets of the past few days began to appear in my mind: Franny talking to the man by the fence, the necklace she had asked me to carry. I gathered the scraps together like a bird building a nest, trying to make sense of it all. Franny would have been performing now. I saw her face, illuminated on the stage, and heard her voice, soaring across the sorrowful camp and bringing joy. Then the image flickered and was gone.

My grief rose up like a wave. I moved closer to Ian for comfort. Mistaking this for something else, he reached for me then. His lips were on mine, body pressed close. I wanted to tell him that we should not do this. It was the wrong thing and the wrong time, for all of the wrong reasons. I was not entirely naive about men. I had dated Joe. We’d had some stolen moments, kissing in the darkness of the park, in the movie theater. I’d even been back to his dormitory once or twice. But I’d always stopped short. I’d seen what wrong decisions had done to my mum. I didn’t want to wind up alone with a baby and no way to support myself.

But passion exploded inside me then, eclipsing logic, and I kissed Ian back with equal intensity. I needed to feel alive. This was not just about our shared grief. The attraction between us was undeniable and real. We tore off each other’s clothes and I let myself be carried from this terrible place to somewhere that pain and suffering no longer existed.

Afterward, I was filled with remorse. What had I done? My friend was gone not a day and I was engaging in some silly affair with my boss in a place that could not be more inappropriate. I gathered my clothes and slipped from his railcar. I returned to the space I had shared with Franny just a day earlier, feeling sadder and more alone than ever.

Then I put my face in my pillow and sobbed.