Last Train to Paris by Michele Zackheim

doesn’t have a choice. Because he’s one of the best engravers in Berlin, those selfish bastards are convinced that they need him. He’s been ordered to decorate all the tableware, candelabras, and serving platters for the high commanders. Hitler’s first on the list.”
    â€œI saw. They’re beautifully ornate, with leaves and flowers. You have to look closely to see the swastikas. But it all seems impossible to me. I don’t get it.”
    â€œC’mon,” Pete said. “Do you think any of those horses’ asses would eat off the simple plates of the masses?”
    â€œNo, I don’t mean that,” I said. “That I understand. But how can he work for the enemy?”
    â€œBecause he doesn’t have a choice, R.B. They pay him a minuscule salary, which keeps his family from starving. And his contacts with the Reich keep everyone safe—at least for the time being. So, now do you get it?”
    â€œYeah, I get it.”
    â€œWell, Ramsey wants you back in Paris for a few days—so you’d better get yourself together. You look awful.”
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    I sensed that Leon was gone forever. I couldn’t believe how much I missed him. I wondered why he hadn’t asked me to help him and his family. I wondered why the two of us had played our silly game of noncommitment. And I wondered why he had said he loved me; he had never said it before. It all made my heart ache with longing for him. I felt stranded between the safety of being an American and the dark reality that was beginning to take shape in Europe.
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    * * *
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    I returned to Paris. Two days later, even though it was the middle of the night, I took a walk to try to clear my head. There was no moon as I strolled along the Seine. The river had become a dark mirror reflecting the shimmering winter stars. I walked beside the leafless plane trees whose shadows were projected on the walls from the feeble bridge lamps. Every now and then a cloud would appear and block the starlight. In those moments the river became menacing and mournful. I saw vagrants trying to stay warm around small fires that had been set against the damp gray walls along the river; I saw night-foragers picking through garbage bins; I saw a man walking with a battered guitar over his shoulder; I saw streetwalkers hobbling home on their high-heeled shoes; I heard the staccato clattering of hooves and then saw a shepherd leading two sheep to the market. I saw lurking men, but I had moved beyond my natural fear, and paid them no mind.
    I reached Les Halles. The marketplace offered up the splendid aromas and noises of life. It was a balm to the merciless ugliness and despair I was wallowing in. Les Halles was illuminated by bonfires made from broken wooden vegetable crates, along with kerosene lanterns hanging off the horse-drawn wagons and gas-driven trucks. The market was bustling with life and light in the middle of the night. Every so often, the men who were unloading crates of food stopped to throw back a shot of calvados, obviously convinced that this gave them the strength to carry on. Although it was winter and the only vegetables were potatoes and turnips, onions, some carrots, and cabbages, the scene made me hungry. But the huge hunks of bleeding horsemeat in the abattoir
section threatened my reverie. Even though I chose not to look, I could not escape seeing the gutters flowing with blood and bilious water.
    As I entered a café favored by journalists, I saw Andy Roth sitting morosely at one of the tables, obviously having had a lot to drink. I knew that Ruby was back in England.
    â€œAndy. Are you okay?”
    He didn’t answer, but I could see his trembling hands, see the weeks of heavy drinking and depression. I felt guilty for having been so tied up with my own troubles. I really hadn’t paid Andy much notice.
    â€œRuby has someone else and wants a divorce,” Andy said, and his already rummy eyes looked