hotel?”
“Can’t afford it. I work in a travel agency, a good one, on the Champs-Elysées. The offices are splendid, but the pay is low.”
“Can your family help?”
“I don’t think so. The family’s been in Strasbourg since the Middle Ages, but when my parents heard the stories of the refugees coming from Germany, they became frightened. The Germans have always claimed that Alsace rightfully belongs to them. My parents feared, after Chamberlain gave away the Sudetenland in ’38, that France might use it to buy off Hitler. So they sold everything and went to live in Amsterdam. My brother and his family had emigrated just after the first war—he went into business with his in-laws in Montreal. My mother pleaded with me to come to Holland with them, but I wouldn’t. I liked the life in Paris, I was seeing someone, and nothing was going to happen to France and its glorious army.”
It had been a long time, Casson thought, back at the Benoit. For her too, apparently—trembling as he undid her bra and her breasts tumbled out. He almost fell asleep afterward, warm in a way he barely remembered. He propped himself up on one elbow and smoothed the damp hair back off her forehead.
“It’s funny,” she said, “how things happen. Laurette asked me to come along. I said no, she insisted. She’s been kind to me, more than kind, so finally I had to come. I’m going to hate it, I thought. But then . . .” Idly, she ran a fingernail up and down the inside of his thigh. “See?” she said. “I’m flirting with you.”
“Mm.”
“Is your name really Jean?”
“I’m called Jean-Claude.”
“A film producer.”
“Yes, before the war. But I shouldn’t talk about the past.”
“It doesn’t matter. Laurette told me all this has to be kept quiet.” She laid her head on his chest, heavy and warm. “Poor Laurette,” she said. “Degrave’s wife is rich. And mean as a snake. Laurette used to dream of marriage, but it’s not to be.”
Casson put a hand on her hip, smooth down there. “I shouldn’t talk about these things,” she said. “But it all seems like nothing now, with the world the way it is. I never imagined what it would all come to. Never imagined.”
His fingers traced idly along the curve, up and back. “Yes,” she said, “I like that.”
They stopped Weiss at a Kontrol, the early evening of 15 November, in the Saint-Michel Métro station. Pulled him out of line and made him open his briefcase. “What’s all this?” the German sergeant said, holding a sheaf of blank paper. “For leaflets, maybe, huh?”
Weiss studied the hands; thick fingers, with cracked nails and callus. “I’m a printing salesman,” he explained. “See, it’s the same name and address on each piece of paper, but the lettering is different. Personal stationery. Maybe, ah, maybe you’d like to have something like this for yourself?”
“Me?” the sergeant said. This was something that had never occurred to him. “Well, I don’t know. I mean—what could I have? I stay at a barracks.” He paged through the sheets. “But my wife, in Germany, she would be thrilled to have such a thing.”
Weiss took a pen from his pocket. “Here, just write down your name and address, and I’ll get it made up for you.”
“French stationery?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant began writing, slow but determined, carving the letters onto the paper, then handed it over to Weiss. “Jürgenstrasse,” Weiss said.
“Yes. And it must look exactly that way. Can you print the German alphabet?”
“Oh yes. We have all the German fonts.”
“Well.” He was very pleased. “Could I have it by the twentieth, to send to her?”
“Of course. I’ll see to it.”
“It’s her birthday.”
“You may count on it, sir.”
“It must be quite costly, this kind of thing.”
“With my compliments.”
“Ah, all right then.”
“If you write down your name and address in Paris, I’ll have it sent over in a day or
“Can’t afford it. I work in a travel agency, a good one, on the Champs-Elysées. The offices are splendid, but the pay is low.”
“Can your family help?”
“I don’t think so. The family’s been in Strasbourg since the Middle Ages, but when my parents heard the stories of the refugees coming from Germany, they became frightened. The Germans have always claimed that Alsace rightfully belongs to them. My parents feared, after Chamberlain gave away the Sudetenland in ’38, that France might use it to buy off Hitler. So they sold everything and went to live in Amsterdam. My brother and his family had emigrated just after the first war—he went into business with his in-laws in Montreal. My mother pleaded with me to come to Holland with them, but I wouldn’t. I liked the life in Paris, I was seeing someone, and nothing was going to happen to France and its glorious army.”
It had been a long time, Casson thought, back at the Benoit. For her too, apparently—trembling as he undid her bra and her breasts tumbled out. He almost fell asleep afterward, warm in a way he barely remembered. He propped himself up on one elbow and smoothed the damp hair back off her forehead.
“It’s funny,” she said, “how things happen. Laurette asked me to come along. I said no, she insisted. She’s been kind to me, more than kind, so finally I had to come. I’m going to hate it, I thought. But then . . .” Idly, she ran a fingernail up and down the inside of his thigh. “See?” she said. “I’m flirting with you.”
“Mm.”
“Is your name really Jean?”
“I’m called Jean-Claude.”
“A film producer.”
“Yes, before the war. But I shouldn’t talk about the past.”
“It doesn’t matter. Laurette told me all this has to be kept quiet.” She laid her head on his chest, heavy and warm. “Poor Laurette,” she said. “Degrave’s wife is rich. And mean as a snake. Laurette used to dream of marriage, but it’s not to be.”
Casson put a hand on her hip, smooth down there. “I shouldn’t talk about these things,” she said. “But it all seems like nothing now, with the world the way it is. I never imagined what it would all come to. Never imagined.”
His fingers traced idly along the curve, up and back. “Yes,” she said, “I like that.”
They stopped Weiss at a Kontrol, the early evening of 15 November, in the Saint-Michel Métro station. Pulled him out of line and made him open his briefcase. “What’s all this?” the German sergeant said, holding a sheaf of blank paper. “For leaflets, maybe, huh?”
Weiss studied the hands; thick fingers, with cracked nails and callus. “I’m a printing salesman,” he explained. “See, it’s the same name and address on each piece of paper, but the lettering is different. Personal stationery. Maybe, ah, maybe you’d like to have something like this for yourself?”
“Me?” the sergeant said. This was something that had never occurred to him. “Well, I don’t know. I mean—what could I have? I stay at a barracks.” He paged through the sheets. “But my wife, in Germany, she would be thrilled to have such a thing.”
Weiss took a pen from his pocket. “Here, just write down your name and address, and I’ll get it made up for you.”
“French stationery?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant began writing, slow but determined, carving the letters onto the paper, then handed it over to Weiss. “Jürgenstrasse,” Weiss said.
“Yes. And it must look exactly that way. Can you print the German alphabet?”
“Oh yes. We have all the German fonts.”
“Well.” He was very pleased. “Could I have it by the twentieth, to send to her?”
“Of course. I’ll see to it.”
“It’s her birthday.”
“You may count on it, sir.”
“It must be quite costly, this kind of thing.”
“With my compliments.”
“Ah, all right then.”
“If you write down your name and address in Paris, I’ll have it sent over in a day or
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