Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

The early morning air was cold but dry. Only a few puddles remained on the cobblestoned square of the place Vendôme as evidence of the previous night’s downpour. A pinkish sun crept above the Ritz’s roofline, painting everything from the building’s arched doorways and peaked dormers to the monolithic Vendôme Column to the surrounding stone buildings in shades of rose gold. A half-dozen long black cars waited, engines running, hood to trunk in front of the hotel. From the hustle and bustle surrounding them, Genevieve deduced that one or more high-status guests had either just arrived or were imminently departing.

As Otto let her out as near as possible to the Ritz’s front entrance, Genevieve spent a wasted moment speculating on who said guests could be. Everyone who was anyone, from the highest-ranking German officers to royalty to stars of the stage and screen to playboys and heiresses to famous artists of various persuasions stayed at the Ritz, the only luxury hotel allowed to continue operating as such in the city. The soldiers guarding either side of the massive front doors seemed even more interested in the goings-on than she was, which she appreciated because it meant they accorded her scarcely a glance as she walked beneath the domed awning and entered the hotel.

The subtle scent of amber, which was unique to the hotel and never seemed to fade, greeted her as she strode into the lobby. Bellhops laden with luggage scurried about. A nod to the receptionist at the front desk, a glance at the lift that was being held and was clearly not available for immediate use, and then she turned a corner and headed up the curving steps of the marble-and-steel grand escalier.

Four flights later, she let herself into her suite. It was ornate, as was everything at the Ritz. High ceilings, crystal chandeliers, gilded wall sconces, cream paneling, tasteful paintings and a fireplace provided an elegant backdrop for exquisite furnishings, including an antique Louis XIV sofa beneath a portrait of the Sun King himself placed between a pair of tall, heavily curtained windows.

“There you are! I was worried when you didn’t return last night.” Berthe bustled out of the adjoining bedroom as Genevieve dropped the valise and took off her coat. Around Genevieve’s own height, thin as everyone these days but raw-boned and sturdily built, forty-four-year-old Berthe Krawiek slept in the auxiliary maid’s room that was part of the suite. She had nut-brown hair worn in long braids wrapped crown-like around her head and soft brown eyes set in a round, heavy-featured face that, unlined and smooth, bore no trace of the traumas she had endured as a result of the war. Despite the early hour, she was fully dressed in one of the high-necked, long-sleeved black dresses she wore every day.

“There was trouble in the streets.” Genevieve handed Berthe her coat.

“That’s why I was worried. I wouldn’t have, otherwise, because I knew you were with M’sieur Max.” Berthe knew nothing of Max’s true identity, or his work for the SOE, but she adored him. He had, quite literally, saved her life. When Max had found her, in Warsaw on one of the early tours he’d arranged after Genevieve had left Stockholm with him, Berthe had been starving and living in the ruins of her bombed-out home. Her husband had been killed in the fight for Warsaw, and the theater she’d worked in had been destroyed at the same time. In the aftermath, as the Nazis had consolidated control of the city, she’d been hanged as part of one of many mass executions. The only reason she’d survived was because the rope broke, and in all the confusion she’d been able to crawl away. She still bore the marks of that horror on her throat, which was why she never wore anything but high-necked dresses. Max had hired the former lady’s maid turned theatrical wardrobe mistress even though, at first, Berthe had been so weak and traumatized that she’d barely been able to communicate. With food and care and kind treatment she’d recovered, physically at least, although her face still lapsed into melancholy when she thought no one was looking, and shadows darkened her eyes.

“That is a reason not to worry,” Genevieve agreed, crossing the room to draw back the gold silk curtains and stare pensively out at the place Vendôme, where the black cars still waited, sending up white puffs of exhaust. The wrought iron wonder that was the Eiffel Tower was visible in the near distance, not far from the muddy brown waters of the Seine. Behind her, Berthe hung up her coat and rang downstairs for coffee—the Ritz’s guests were served the real thing—and croissants, a decadent luxury that accompanied the coffee as a matter of course. As she watched, a rotund man in a long fur coat puffed out of the hotel. He was bowed into the lead car by his Nazi-uniformed entourage, who then piled into the following cars. Moments later the motorcade pulled away. “Someone very important is leaving. I wonder who?”

A male voice said, “It is Reichsmarschall Göring, Mademoiselle Dumont. He has been recalled to Berlin, for an urgent conference with the Führer.”

Genevieve turned to find that Berthe had admitted the white-gloved waiter, a wizened old man named Albert, who in different times would have long since sought the comforts of retirement. He placed a silver tray with her breakfast on a low table in front of the sofa.

Inhaling the guilt-inducing smell of coffee and fresh bread, she said, “Thank you, Albert.”

“He says he will be back within a week. He is a fan of our steak with truffles.” A naughty twinkle. “And our bathtubs.”

Which were opulently king-size, having been upgraded after Britain’s portly Edward VII got stuck in one while cavorting in it with his mistress and was forced to endure an embarrassing extraction by hotel staff.

Genevieve smiled in response and sat down as Berthe shooed the waiter out.

“I’m just going to put these things away.” Berthe picked up the valise. “Call out if you want me.”

Taking a sip of the strong, bitter coffee—oh, she needed that—Genevieve nodded. Berthe took herself off.

After supplementing the coffee with a few bites of buttery croissant, Genevieve pushed the tray aside and stood up, too restless to eat. The curtains hung open from her earlier perusal of the courtyard, allowing pale sunlight to pour in. She crossed to the window, pushed a cool silk panel farther to one side and looked out again. The place Vendôme was livelier now as Paris woke up, busy with bicyclists and pedestrians and street vendors as well as cars.

She watched the activity without really registering any of it until her attention was caught by a woman holding a little girl by the hand as they hurried across the square toward a waiting bus. The child was three, maybe four years old. Beneath a bright blue beret, black curls bobbed.

Genevieve closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, she knew what she had to do.

Turning away from the window, she walked to the closet and selected a coat. Not one of her own: Berthe’s big black box coat. She tied on Berthe’s black-and-gray plaid head scarf and traded her pumps for the pair of sensible flats with corrugated wooden soles she wore for walking outside in inclement weather. Then she picked up the cloth bag Berthe used for shopping.

She strapped on her wristwatch, dumped the contents of her everyday handbag into the shopping bag, added her papers, called “I’m taking a walk” to Berthe and left the suite.

She took a bicycle taxi to the place de la Bastille and got out in front of the Colonne de Juliet, a tall column with the golden statue Génie de la Liberté at its top, which paid tribute to those who had died in labor uprisings a hundred years before. From there, she walked to her destination: the house where Max had taken baby Anna.

The street bordered a leafy park. So early in the day, there was almost no traffic, vehicular or pedestrian. The house itself was narrow, four stories tall, stucco with a blue-painted front door.

The woman who opened the door to her knock regarded her with narrow-eyed suspicion. Fortyish, with a long, narrow face and smooth bands of sandy hair pulled back into a neat chignon, she stood in the opening as though to block the visitor’s view of the interior of the house.

“Yes?”

Of course she would be wary. Genevieve was surprised at herself for not having expected that.

“I—” Genevieve broke off as, beyond the woman, she saw a dark-haired baby girl left sitting on the hall floor as her minder answered the door. Her breath caught—as she knew so well, one moment of inattention was all it took—but a swift glance around found no obvious hazards. Meanwhile, the baby crawled over to a chair nearby and pulled herself into a standing position, looking around with a delighted grin as she succeeded: Anna.

Genevieve’s heart turned over even as she smiled.

Glancing around to see what Genevieve was smiling at, the woman looked back at her, her expression less welcoming than before.

“What can I do for you?”

“The baby—Anna—I brought her—” the woman’s expression had her hurriedly correcting herself “—I gave her to the man who brought her here. Huntsman.”

“Come in.” The woman pulled the door wider. Genevieve stepped inside. Anna cruised from the chair to a nearby low table, obviously getting close to taking her first independent step. Genevieve remembered...

The pain was sharp as a knife.

“I wanted to see if she was all right. Her mother—”

“Her mother has died in Drancy. We just received word last night.” The brusqueness of the woman’s voice softened slightly at what must have been the stricken expression on Genevieve’s face. “L’enfant will be taken care of, you may be sure.”

The woman had not offered her name, and Genevieve had not given hers. These were dangerous waters, the taking in of children such as Anna a serious crime. To be caught doing so was punishable by death.

Genevieve’s throat was tight as she watched Anna moving gleefully along the front of the table, oblivious to what she had lost, to the darkness swirling around her. The sounds of other children deeper inside the house told her that Anna was not alone.

Genevieve looked at the woman. “She will stay here?”

The woman shook her head. “We are waiting for her papers. When they arrive, she will be taken to the Catholic sisters in Vère, where she will be among many sheltered in the school they run there.”

The papers she referred to were false, lifesaving identity cards that would hide Anna’s Jewish heritage.

Before Genevieve could reply, Anna lost her grip and sat down with a hard plop, toppled back and hit her head on the floor.

Instinct had Genevieve rushing over and scooping her up almost as soon as the child began to cry.

“Shh, Anna. Shh, shh.” Bouncing and patting, she cuddled the little girl close as her initial wails subsided into sniffling sobs. The weight of her, the soft baby smell of her hair, the little hands that clutched at her neck—it was too much. Genevieve’s eyes closed. She sucked in air.

“Here.” As the memories threatened to overwhelm her, she thrust Anna at the other woman, who took her with a flicker of surprise.

Hiccuping more than sobbing now, Anna strained back toward Genevieve, stretching out small, plump arms beseechingly.

“Mama,” she said, tearstained eyes wide on Genevieve’s face. “Mama.”

A boulder dropping on her chest couldn’t have caused a more crushing agony. She could feel the blood draining from her face.

“I have to go,” she said. “Please...watch her carefully.” Somehow she managed to get herself out of the house.

She made it as far as the park, and no farther. Sinking down onto an iron bench, she bent forward and dropped her head between her knees.

Memories, so many memories, an ocean of them, a universe of them, sent her tumbling head over heels, catching her up in a vast whirlpool of images: Anna with Rachel; Vivi, darling Vivi, in her own unworthy arms; herself with her own maman.

When the dizziness subsided, when the waves that buffeted her withdrew, Genevieve was left with one certainty. The tie that bound mothers and daughters was like no other. It was eternal, stronger even than death.

Anna would never have a chance to know Rachel. Genevieve would never in this life hold Vivi again.

But her mother was still out there.

The love—the bond they shared—it was still there, too.

Finally, she acknowledged what for the last seven years she had willfully refused to face: angry and hurt and destroyed by Vivi’s death as she had been, she had missed her mother, her family, every day they’d been apart.

She stood up, dashed a hand across her eyes to vanquish any lingering tears and started walking.

The need that drove her was so strong that it was nothing short of a compulsion.

She was going to find her mother.

She was going home.

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