The Twilight of the Naturally Occuring Elements --Chapter One

Twilight of the Naturally Occurring Elements

It is May. They took the Cross away

And the afternoon creeps away.

A damp breeze rises at the river

Where my heart was cast an hour since.

On the square, the crowds are gone;

 I wait, drifting, drifting with the ashes

Still riding the hot current over the dark

Stain on the cobblestones.

Up, white rags, into that lavender sky.

Across small windows, fairy wings or relics

 Melt on damp black branches and new leaves

Too painfully green.

Blossoms sink that pale, already on the wind, I wait,

not for their crowing, nor their weeping

But for that old blue light, for the soft corner of her dress,

Or his radiant brow.

Splitting clouds, they come

For me

At last

I knew too much, but never, never

Enough

Chapter One

Paris, Oct. 1937

Monsieur Bardet appeared in the crémerie like a large carrion bird. His dark coat flapped  around his knees, a felt hat crushed in his hand, ragged  hair continually falling over one eye. He scanned the room as if looking for trouble, breaking into a brilliant smile when he saw Noelle and Lili spooning up ice cream in the corner of the shop.

The white enamel counters and pastel walls of the crémerie caught the equally pale light of the winter afternoon. Nöelle watched her friend in the long section of mirrored paneling ran along one wall, reflecting the white sky and throwing the caramel of Lili’s hair a hundred times across the room. Although the two girls met here often, an awkwardness had hung between them this afternoon. They ignored it, falling into comfortable patterns of conversation.

She loved to hear her friend speak, relished the mixture of compassion and cruelty, candor and humor, the cutting observations, the rapid-fired delivery, and the half-buried romanticism that infused Lili’s monologues. Nervous as she was today, she could still be distracted in laughter. “No, I’m telling you, you can’t possibly believe it, when the Spengler’s come in with their little monster, Phillipe, she’s practically kissing their feet, ‘Oh Madame, Monsieur, quelle precieuse, darling boy, don’t hurry back, we’ll have a lovely time, won’t we my dove?’” Lili’s thin white fingers danced in the air as she described her evening at the nursery school. Her weekly reports pilloried the snobby parents and spoiled toddlers and her despised employer, Mme Richoud. Lili had an intriguing ability to expel her observations in an almost visible mass.  Nöelle’s own reflections on daily life always stuck somewhere inside her, the ideas and images tightly bound and too mysterious to emerge in conversation. With Lili, understanding  frequently outpaced experience, her intuitive analysis multiplying exponentially along with the boundaries of her life. Nöelle listened and laughed and was comforted, her own half-formed observations brought to life in her friend’s chatter.

“And then, take my word for it, she literally shoves the little terror in my direction. Meanwhile, every single, solitary baby has a messy diaper, and she just flicks her hand at me and she’s hissing over her shoulder in that little sing-song voice, ‘Oh, Lil-li, I think someone’s stink-y!’” She paused for breath, and the image of the plump, powdered nursery director rose between them, conjured out of the cool air of the crémerie, a sycophant to the richest couples at Synagogue. Nöelle grinned and relaxed into Lili’s review of the week.

Still, the day wasn’t quite like every other day. They weren’t killing time before studying; they weren’t passing an hour waiting for a crowd to gather at someone’s house to play American jazz and debate politics. They were waiting for a man to come, someone with a mission in the real world, a man who wanted their help. At last he arrived on a draft of cold air, his black and grey tweeds out of place in the little shop.

After his first smile there was no laughter in his face, none of the faintly ridiculous pretensions of most adults in their circle. He bent to kiss Liliane and pulled out a chair, scraping it along the tiled floor. Looking at him made Nöelle uncomfortable and frightened her a little. The conversation died around him. Lili’s uncle didn’t notice.

“So this is Nöelle Lorraine?” His eyes encompassed her in one glance. Suddenly she was  aware of the moth-hole in the sleeve of her sweater and began to doubt her choice of a wide, fashionable belt. Under his gaze she felt reduced, a pretentious, bourgeois brat -- motherless, fatherless, without family connections, of middling intelligence. Her studies at the Sorbonne vanished under his appraisal, along with her violin lessons, her attempts to learn Greek, her work sorting Egyptian potsherds for a favorite professor. Nöelle pressed her lips together, and straightened her back. He was here to ask a favor of her, not the other way around.

“Uncle, this is my friend Noelle Lorraine de Cassignac. Noelle, my mother’s brother, Monsieur Bardet.”

“Charmant.” The waitress brought him coffee before he asked. He was a man in a hurry and the world moved out of his way. Silence hung over the small table, broken only by a slurping sound as he drank.

“So,” he said at last, looking directly at Nöelle as if making up his mind. “Mademoiselle, you are aware of the situation in Germany, no?”

She nodded. Was there anyone left in the world who was not aware of Hitler? The student world seethed with hatred for his efficient and extreme anti-Semitic government. Headlines concerning Hitler’s latest moves screamed from the front pages of the dozens of competing French newspapers, polarized at the extremes of right and left wing politics. The controls to aggression set up at the end of the Great War had disintegrated. Hitler cast his eyes upon his neighbors and no one could meet his stare. A year ago the Olympic games in Berlin had allowed Hitler to demonstrate the new prosperity wrought by Fascism. The elaborate ceremonies effectively disguised the dismantlement of Germany’s parliamentary system and the systematic dispossession of the Jews. Germany was all anyone talked about anymore.

“There are people in Germany that need to get out,” he said. “Every day, the restrictions to travel and emigration grow more extensive and the price of escape has become nearly impossible. Not only Jews must get out, but Communists and others who have been vocal in their objections to Hitler’s government.”

Both girls nodded, but he was not satisfied. “We are not discussing people who at risk of losing a scholarship or a promotion, jeune filles. There are camps now for agitators or alcoholics, the homeless, communists, gypsies …” He stared at them, obviously wondering how to describe such places to these two well-dressed children. “I’m talking about brutal penal colonies designed to break men. Break them.” His thin face hardened into lines of despair. I’ve seen a few come back from these places, and they are … ruined, human husks, barely recognizable. “

Lili spoke up calmly. “Uncle. We aren’t babies. We’re at University.”

“And the Race Laws?” he gestured for more coffee. “You understand that in Germany Lili would no longer be a citizen, couldn’t attend your Sorbonne, couldn’t become a lawyer…,” a half smile, “or a chemist.” He must be following Lili’s progress and knew she was having trouble making a decision about her studies. “You two could no longer sit together here, for in Germany there would be a large sign on the door saying ‘No Jews allowed.’”

Nöelle spoke for the first time. “It’s why I came to meet you.” She tried to get him to smile. “The infamous Uncle Fleury!”

His face softened a little. “Alright then. Tell me about this coming trip, Mademoiselle Nöelle. “

And so she told him, seeing her strange family from the outside as she spoke. “I’m visiting my cousin, Cette. She just got married last summer, into an old Prussian family. Her husband is a baron or something.”

Uncle Fleury interrupted, “His name?”

“Von  Sternau. Frederich von Sternau. Very nice, very good to my cousin. So, I’m going there for Christmas – we’re always together for Christmas. She and I, we’re more like sisters. We went to school in Switzerland together and I’ve always spent summers with either her family --or Lili’s.”

“And your mother, she travels with you?”

How to explain her mother. “Mm, no. She has other plans.”

He waited.

“She isn’t close to that side of the family. They are my father’s people.”  She hoped that would be enough, that she wouldn’t have to explain the apartment on the Rue Nicolet, the parties, the writers, the men, then the long weeks of shuttered gloom before the cycle began again.

“And your father?”

“He owns textile mills, mostly in South America. I hardly ever see him.” Nöelle drew a breath, “What difference does it make?”

He frowned. “If you attract attention, someone will be asking such questions. Better to know what will be known.”

Rapidly he extracted all the necessary information. Her timetable, her shopping plans, events she might attend, the address of Cette’s new house in the suburbs of Berlin. He had said nothing about her task. What, exactly, did he want her to do? At last, as they gathered their things and walked out into the windy street, he confided a few specifics.

“I’m asking you to carry money for us. Money for papers, for bribes, to get people out. It will be hidden, of course, but I don’t know how yet. Nothing obvious, no false bottoms in your suitcase.” He grinned showing perfect white teeth and looking suddenly more like the beloved rascal Lili’s mother had described so often. “You will do well. You are young, innocent, but smart. I commend you and I thank you.” He didn’t mention that it would be dangerous. That much was obvious, even to young girls.

Monsieur Bardet settled his soft hat on his head, kissed his niece on both cheeks, and offered Nöelle a short bow. “We’ll meet again, my dear, before Christmas.”

He was gone. The girls walked home in the twilight with little to say. At Lili’s apartment they paused. “Can you stay?  Papa will help you with your translation.” It was tempting to clamber up the stairs to the warmth and laughter of the Rostaing household. There would be something hot and savory for dinner and being near Mama Rostaing brought its own comfort. It would, however, be difficult not to mention their meeting with her brother. They had contacted Mama Rostaing’s brother without her permission and Lili’s mother was a difficult woman to keep a secret from. Usually no one tried.

“I think I want to go home.” Suddenly she was really very tired.

Lili shook her head. “He came on a bit strong,” she paused, “You don’t have to do it you know.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”  Lili’s lips were cold as they brushed Noelle’s cheek.

“Ça va. But you’ll be sorry when you start on your Greek tonight!”  Lili forced a cheerfulness that neither felt, each aware of the other’s discomfort, helpless to dispel it.

It was a short walk to her own tiny apartment but the wind grew stronger, whipping across Noelle’s face and throwing her breath back into her throat. She ducked her head, hitched her book bag higher on her shoulder and hurried for the corner where she could jog right and have the wind to the side. She should have worn a scarf or brought a hat, why did she never think ahead. It occurred to her that a person who couldn’t remember a hat on a winter day might not be best suited for smuggling money into a foreign country.

At home in her tiny apartment she ran a bath and put the kettle on the hot plate. The water took an age to fill the giant cast iron tub, and Noelle had the evening ritual down to an art. She put her boots away and put on chenille slippers, hung up her coat and pulled one of her father’s old sweaters over her head, switched on a small lamp with a rose-colored shade. Then to check the bath. Only half full and making a magnificent steam. She sprinkled a small handful of carnation-scented bath salts into the tub and watched the color bleed and disappear into the water as the smell of oeillet filled the room. In the kitchen Noelle sliced a thin sliver of butter and dropped it into her favorite mug, an iridescent golden thing her father had once brought home from the United States.  A dollop of cream, a gurgle of brandy, a touch of nutmeg. Boiling water made this concoction into a toddy that was very comforting on a cold night. Once, on a Christmas visit home, Papa had made her a drink like this. She had wrinkled her nose at the bite of the brandy as he sat on the end of her bed and told stories about his trips. Hot milk punch was popular on the ski slopes in upstate New York. She like to think of him there, long ago, wearing ski pants and a big sweater, the dashing Frenchman among all those happy Americans.

As she sank into the water she imagined that distant life. There would be a big fireplace and snowshoes crossed on the mantle. A piano, of course. Someone would start a song, some American boy with a friendly face, like Bing Crosby. All the young people would gather there, and then her father would sing. Young and fresh, his black shiny curls touching the collar of his sweater, Papa would sing with Bing Crosby. Outside big snowflakes fell on a black lake, and golden light lit the snow banks outside the windows. 

 Maman hated those stories of American life, the life that took him away from them. She hated his leaving, but not enough to go with him. Not enough to leave France and her friends and her pretty house. After a while, Papa didn’t come home as often. For the past few years, he had barely come at all, though he still paid the bills. Last summer, after Nöelle had written begging for permission to move in with him in Sao Paulo, Paul de Casingnac began to send money directly to Nöelle. This allowed her to escape the house on Rue Nicolet and get out on her own. His letters, though generous and kind, never quite said why she couldn’t come and live with him. Nevertheless, it obviously had something to do with a woman.

For years the fantasy of the ski lodge, and others like it, had lulled her to sleep. Now that Nöelle was older she tried to bring herself into the picture, to see herself sitting by that piano, walking on the snowy paths. It never quite worked. Somehow she didn’t belong with those laughing Americans. She tried imagining a beach in South America, his friends now sporting dark tans, wearing tennis whites, and drinking cocktails with fruit. Even in imagination she remained an outsider. Perhaps, like her mother, she was too much a Frenchwoman to sit on a piano bench with Bing Crosby.

The water was tepid when she pulled herself out. In her old flannel robe she padded into the tiny galley kitchen and found a chunk of ham and some bread and mineral water. Thus equipped she began the ordeal of the Greek verbs. The act of writing the strange characters in a neat, precise hand was, in itself, enjoyable, even if the future conditional and present imperative were still confusing. She worked past midnight, first writing out the translation, then writing and rewriting the tenses as they applied to various verbs until she was sure she could answer any question that might be put to the class.

There was also a reading assignment, an ethnographic description of the Sauk and Fox tribes of American Indians, a people who lived in closely woven lathe houses, in dense forests, steamy hot in the summer and cold in the winter, far away on the great Missouri River. For the entire evening she didn’t think once about Christmas, a trip to the Berlin cousins, or a tall man who slurped when he drank his coffee and whose coat flapped around his knees like the grey wings of a long, graceful bird.

***

In the faint blue light of dawn sleepy students met in a chilly classroom for the Greek study session. The rest of the morning was devoted to labeling boxes in a dingy basement. Nöelle covered her skirt and sweater with a cotton smock and diligently labeled and recorded box after cardboard box, full of bones and pieces of pots, for removal to the new Museum of Man in the spring. Madame Rellion, head of the record-keeping staff, and several secretaries came in and out during the morning, vocal in their appreciation of her help with the dirty job. The work didn’t pay much, but provided a feeling of independence; life wasn’t completely paid for by the parental stipend. Pitching in when they needed help with less glamorous parts of the archaeology programs might ensure that she retained her employment, especially now when the flood of refugees, many with advanced degrees, made for fierce competition for even the most menial jobs.

 Her plan was to obtain a place at the new Museum. Nearly finished, the museum complex dominated the site of the old Trocadéro Palace, its two broad wings lined with Grecian columns and set to house four museums. Only one, however, was important. If she could maintain even a small job at the new Museum de l’Homme, do well on her examinations, attend a couple of summer excavations, and write something useful, a place might be available on the staff as an expert on Ancient Religions or Egyptology.

There were few female lecturers, but soon there were sure to be more. It was a difficult dream, but not impossible. Diligence now, availability for any kind of work, would keep her name in the view of those in power and would be a recommendation later. She tried to be careful and professional, to demonstrate that she was someone who could be trusted with delicate work, someone who understood the importance of these fragile artifacts. In this spirit she packed and labeled boxes until past noon, then cleaned up as best she could at the sink in the ladies room of the office building they were using for storage. 

On the metro she prepared herself for the next, most difficult, part of the day.

The shades were drawn at 12 Rue Nicolet and the front steps had not been swept. Madame de Cassignac must have given her staff this Friday off, perhaps the whole weekend. Nöelle picked up a letter that had not made it through the mail slot and lay on the doormat like a white flag. She had to walk to the end of the block, past the doors of the other buildings, to get to the back of the row of houses.  At two in the afternoon the street was quiet. In a ground floor parlor a woman read a magazine the fire, perhaps waiting for the children to arrive home from school. On the left ,the neighbors had new curtains, pastel silk replacing the red damask that had hung there for as long as she could remember.

The back alley lay in the shadow of the buildings, a narrow street lined with rubbage bins. Small piles of cigarette butts lay near the doorsteps where maids had stepped out to smoke. Too bad no one was there now to give her an unvarnished account of happenings at number 12. The rear door was open, as she expected. Inside the kitchen was neat and still. No lights on the ground floor, no music, no voices. Upstairs someone had ordered all the curtains drawn and it was even darker than below. The first door at the end of the hall was tightly shut. Without knocking, she opened it, “Maman?”

The half-light muted the colors of the boudoir. Marcelline lay twisted in the sheets, the smell of sleep and tears lying heavy in the air. She should have come sooner. “What’s going on?” Nöelle said, resisting an overpowering urge to turn on the lights and open the curtains. That’s what they did in the movies -- threw open the long silk drapes and called for tea, said something clever, and plumped the pillows. “Come on, sit up. Tell me everything.”

Marcelline rolled away from her hand. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”

Nöelle did what she could. Cracked the window, lit the candles on the mantle to burn away the frowsy smell, and made a pot of strong coffee. She left a note on the kitchen table saying that all days off were cancelled.

A good daughter would have stayed. Instead she pressed black coffee on her mother and tried the pillow plumping trick. She sat on the end of the bed and chattered about school, leaving out the scholarly parts and concentrating on the antics of her friends. She described Max and Denise, who looked like twins but were lovers and she exaggerated the importance of her work at the Museum. Gave a quick account of Madame Rellion, prim and professional but widely believed to be having an affair with the museum director. Marcelline answered in monosyllables, but at least she answered. This was not the time to remind her mother that she’d be gone for the Christmas holidays or about Cette’s new house or her new husband.

Around three she turned on the lights, ran a bath, and hid the razors. While her mother was in the tub Nöelle found a cheerful program on the radio and let dance music leak into the sad, dim room. Downstairs she threw together an omelet and reheated the coffee. An hour later, Marcelline was temporarily engrossed in removing minute black hairs from the impeccable arch of her eyebrow, still not talking, but at least clothed and smelling expensive again.

Back on the Metro, now traveling toward the Sorbonne. This was her favorite part of the week. Days stretched out ahead with nothing required of her, no place she had to be, no lectures, no appointments, no work. The stairs out of the subway were steep and crowded with Parisians on their way home at the end of the day. Not far from the river and her own apartment lay the Rue Galante and he apartment where Lili’s family had lived since long before the Great War. Her father was a popular professor of political science, his father had been a well-known musician. The family lived together on two floors of a narrow old  building near the university. Sabbath began at sundown. Her arrival was precisely timed for the moment when darkness fell.

Clement and Albertine converged on the house at the same time. Both looked like younger versions of Lily, with the same wild hair the color of burnt sugar and the same delicate frame.

“On time as ever!” Clement pulled the door open for the girls.

Tiny Albertine, at six, was dwarfed by the long baguettes she carried, their ends pushing out from the white wrapping paper. “You didn’t come this week, Nöelle. You said you’d show me hieroglyphics.”

“I know, mon chou. I’m sorry. Maybe tomorrow.”

Albertine grinned. “I’m just teasing you.”

Clement yanked her long braid and in the ensuing scuffle the treasures from the bakery at the end of the block were almost lost. At fourteen, Clement was at the awkward stage when the simplest gesture often ended in disaster. Nöelle grabbed the baguettes before they hit the floor and together they tramped up through the dark of the stairwell waving gaily at the concierge. The old lady pretended to check her mail box and retired to her apartment grumbling about noisy beasts. This sent  them into more giggles. Upstairs the family gathered in the drawing room.  Madame Rostaing served wine and new cider in crystal glasses. No lights had yet been turned on and the last rays of the sun reflected from the river into the room through curtains of old Belgian lace. Madame, her head covered by a wisp of silk, lit the Shabbat candles. Her hands were graceful, white and delicate like Lili’s, as she made the ritual gestures over the flames, covered her eyes, and repeated the blessing.  Afterwards the family greeted each other and Nöelle with hugs and kisses, as if they had been parted for months.

Papa Rostaing always said that coming to the Sabbath was like greeting a beloved bride, and the weekly event did evoke the spirit of a wedding feast. Not the kind where everyone watched with cynicism and predicted the unhappiness the couple would soon be causing each other, but the rare occasions where everyone brought joy to the day, and a man and a woman looked at one another with faith and compassion. Usually the family attended evening services at the synagogue after the candles were lit. Nöelle spent the time before dinner practicing the violin, allowed, once a week, to use the instrument that had once belonged to Lili’s grandfather. Not an exceptional musician, she nevertheless found a certain satisfaction hearing the pure notes fall over the quiet  apartment.

She polished the violin, using a soft cloth to rub at nicks and scratches that attested to a long and productive life, and then tuned it against the grand piano in the drawing room. The formal notes of the minuet were not so different from the regular movements of the Greek verbs. Letting her mind wander during the familiar measures, she imagined, not court dances of the eighteenth century, but brown Egyptian girls barely clothed in white linen. High mud walls, a marble pond with floating lily’s and stalks of papyrus rising from the water. As the practice pieces grew more difficult, all thought vanished in the effort to maintain proper position, to coaxing a pure note from the temperamental strings, and keep the fingers, the bow, and the flying notes in some semblance of cooperation.

Before the family returned, she replaced the violin in its shabby case, loosening the strings of the bow and nudging it into its slot. A hand sewn label on the violent purple velvet lining read “Vittorio Bellarosa vivaio unico allievo dei M. Lautain cav rodoifo fredi di roma fece panno 1850 in Napala.” Her own instrument had been expensive, but never achieved the warmth or brightness of Grandpa Rostaing’s. It was a treat on Fridays both to sound better when playing and to play better in order to maximize the sound. She remembered old Monsieur Rostaing  as a tiny bent figure, always full of smiles, so fragile-looking that one was always shocked when he picked up the violin and jolted the room to life with a thunder of gypsy flourishes.

The last few minutes she spent supervising the last details of the meal, pouring water carefully into the goblets on the table, filling the sugar dish, and placing pats of butter in perfect triangles on tiny dishes next to each plate. It occurred to her that Monsieur Bardet might be with them when they came back from synagogue. If so, would he mention their meeting in the crémerie?

The family thought of Uncle Fleury as a wild child, although he seemed ancient to Nöelle. He was brave, but high-strung, probably a communist with leanings towards dangerous political associations. Whatever he was involved in, the Rostaings found it  far too risky to even be discussed in front  of the children. Lili loved her uncle with a passion and tenderness shared with her mother. Both of them talked of Fleury as if he were a prince from an old medieval tale. After meeting a few refugees at family dinners like this one and hearing Hitler’s hysterical speeches on the radio, Nöelle had been haunted by the violence taking place across the border. Then there was Guernica.

The reports last April had defied belief, even set against the previous horrors of the civil war in Spain. Photos and eyewitness accounts flooded the papers. Hitler’s Heinkel bombers dropped wave after wave of incendiary bombs on the tiny village located fifteen miles behind the battle lines. Even veterans of the Great war had never encountered this form of warfare, a new kind of bombing  that erased a non-combatant village from existence in a matter of hours. On market day in Guernica, peasants had gathered from miles around, the festival day shattered by a three-hour bombing spree. Families streamed from the marketplace in the center of the village and ran into the fields where they were gunned down by low flying planes making strafing runs across the newly planted fields. For days the piles of livid embers remained too hot to allow mourners to retrieve the burnt remains of the victims. No one could explain why so much firepower had been expended on one small village. The students talked of nothing else for a month, pouring over the photos of bodies stacked in the square. Ironically one gnarled oak tree had been left standing, a symbol of Basque freedom that marked the site of their traditional assembly.

Max thought he understood the reasoning behind the attack. “It’s an experiment,” he said. “The Nazis think of themselves as extremely scientific. They wanted to see what could be done in an afternoon’s work.”

“It’s not even their war,” the others objected.

“Exactly,” Max replied. “Ask yourself why he needs experiments in burning small villages.” Silence greeted this pronouncement.

Nöelle’s notebooks still bore traces of her obsession with the attack. In the margins she doodled stacks of cocoon-shapes, personal imprints of those photos of faceless bodies lining the blackened streets. It was reported that the old oak was sporting a green sprout and, after seeing Picasso’s painting at the World Exhibition last summer, leaf buds and bull’s horns began appearing beside the mummiform shapes in her notebooks. Guernica was the beginning of something new in the world and in her heart. Afterward it seemed important to act, to do something concrete, to throw one’s weight against an onrushing terror. As long as she had been aware of the political world, the actions of nations, and current events, it had seemed as if the Old World was hastening toward destruction, not by accident but with a great sense of purpose. Eruptions in local politics and revolving leadership made France seem a poor shelter in the storm. Throughout her adolescence, refugees had been streaming in from other countries, jamming the poorer quarters of Paris, crowding the schools, starting their own newspapers and sleeping under them in the streets.

Perhaps she saw them more than most. From earliest childhood she had dreamed of prison cells, of the muddy trenches where her father had survived. She was still haunted by images of the tumbrels taking their victims to the guillotine in 1789. The White Russian cook served cream puffs and stories of Bolshevik massacres. She had a clear vision of the Romanov children, shot and bayoneted in the basement of that house in Ekaterinburg. The sticky floor, the white cotton soaked in blood, the screams. Such things happened. They were immediate, not distant, not black and white accounts on printed pages with tintypes of the teenage princesses, not romantically imagined, but concrete images. Often she felt herself to be the ghost, her life the image, her days passing somewhere beyond the borders of hard reality.

Fighting back was a new idea and contacting Lili’s uncle was the first step. Surely, there were some small things could be done to help those who were suffering right now and, perhaps, having taken some action herself, the hauntings of the imagination might subside.

While ready to take action in the real world, Nöelle was not prepared  to face Maman Rostaing’s anger should she find out that one of her girls was involved in helping Fleury smuggle money into Nazi Germany. When the family straggled back into the apartment, Lili’s uncle was, indeed, among the guests. She was relieved when he winked at her, and allowed himself to be introduced again. The tiny spark of humor lit his dour face like a star emerging out of a night mist.

At a signal from Mama Rostaing, Nöelle turned on the electric lights, another action proscribed on the Sabbath and reserved as a special privilege for their Gentile guest. A maid and a part-time cook helped with the rest of the labor necessary to provide a perfect Friday-night meal, but the lighting of the chandelier in the drawing room had always been Nöelle’s special duty. The great flower, dripping crystal, sprang to life, casting gold over the dark furniture of the dining room, the linen and flowers, and sparking off of the heavy silver.

The moment was the same each week and always brought satisfaction. She was almost part of a family. Before dinner she received the children’s blessing with the others, Papa Rostaing’s hands resting for a moment on her head as he passed from child to child praying that they be filled with God’s radiance and peace. Mama Rostaing insisted that there be no sad talk at Sabbath dinner and so the children led the discussion. Uncle Fleury and the German refugee couple, the Hoffmans, seemed relieved to let the light conversation float over their heads, but Nöelle noticed them exchanging half smiles now and then. While part of her laughed with the family as they listened to Leon describe his attempts to find a secretary for his newly opened medical practice, another part floated over the scene observing her second family and trying to see them from the point of view of the penniless couple who had arrived in Paris only days ago. Their one small suitcase stood beside the front door now, all that remained of their worldly possessions.

It was a happy family scene. Perhaps like those the Hoffmans had left behind in Munich. All the children shared their mother’s warm hair and fair complexion. Albertine, Lili, and Clement were small-boned and graceful as their grandfather had been, but Leon carried the height and commanding presence of Mama Rostaing’s side of the family. He was eager to begin his practice and had opened a clinic in the old Jewish quarter where he was already treating refugees. Many evenings Mama invited a girl from synagogue to meet him, but so far he had shown no more than polite interest. From his description of the qualities he looked for in the woman who would take on the duties of nurse and secretary, Nöelle had the feeling that he was searching for more than an employee.

Lili followed Leon’s story with her imitations of community leaders, ending with a hilarious impression of her employer. Her pretty face contorted into an unmistakable version of the old lady, demonstrating her sugary expression as she battled her natural inclinations to brandish a whip over the inattentive children during practice for an upcoming pageant. This story brought a stern admonishment from Lili’s mother, but sent the young woman from Germany into a fit of giggles that threatened to choke her. The laughter goaded Lili to more exaggerated burlesques. Mama Rostaing shot her a black look of warning. Mme. Hoffman took a sip of wine, trying to calm herself, but gasped and giggled again, finally burying her face in her napkin as wine spurted from her nose. Big tears leaked from her dark eyes, and everyone else’s laughter died as she fought to regain her equilibrium. 

“I’m, I’m … dreadfully sorry,” she managed. “It’s just that …I know someone just like that at home….” She burst into renewed laughter, struggling to get her breath. “The woman at the post office, don’t you see it?” Her husband’s smiled and patted her back helplessly. Everyone held their breath as her tears of laughter turned to the other kind. “She’s living in our apartment now…playing my piano.” Her chair overturned with a crash and she ran from the room.

“Lili, will you never learn when to quit?” Papa Rostaing stopped, seeing that Lili was also close to tears. Monsieur. Hoffman moved to rise, but Mama gestured him back to his place.

“Lili pour some more wine for Madame Hoffman. I’ll take it to her.” She rose calmly from the table. “Albertine, why don’t you recite the speech you wrote for the school play. Leon may have some suggestions for you. I’m afraid a few of the rhymes are excessively…original.”

Mr. Hoffman bent his head and paid strict attention to cutting his meat and Uncle Fleury leaned in towards his youngest niece.

“I didn’t know you were a playwright, little cabbage.”

Albertine didn’t have to be asked twice. She scooted her chair back from the table and stood ramrod straight, arms akimbo. “I am the hero Roland, mighty savior of France, the fires of war I have fanned, whenever I’ve gotten the chance. Oh, I am the hero of France, and king of all I can see, my job is to water the plants, of freedom and security.”

Those remaining at the table did their best to stifle their laughter.

Fleury spoke first, putting his arm around the little girl. “I can see that Roland is quite a proud fellow.”

“Modest, too.” Leon said with a perfectly straight face. “Reminds me of Mareshal Petain.”

“Leon,” his father said warningly.

Nöelle spoke for the first time. “Why does he water the plants? You’d think he’d have a servant to do that.” 

Albertine grimaced. “It’s all I could think of to rhyme with ‘la chance.’”

“How about ‘dance’? Clement’s face was red with the effort not to laugh.

“Or, Rosencrantz?” offered Lili.

“Who’s Rosencrantz?” Albertine sat down again, stacking buttered carrots into neat piles on her plate.

“A very small character in Hamlet, by William Shakespeare, also a great playright, but unfortunately not French.” Fleury went on to explain to Albertine the ability of such a man to create memorable characters for even the bit players. He inclined his head toward the child, his saturnine features serious and respectful. By the time Mama Rostaing and their guest returned to the table the conversation had safely turned to the merits of Shakespeare versus Voltaire.

Lili remained subdued as the dessert was served. She met Nöelle’s gaze over the coffee, grimaced briefly, and returned to picking caramelized plums away from the yellow crust of her cake. Undeterred by his wife’s tears, Monsieur Hoffman ate his way steadily through the last course, happily accepting Mama’s offer of the last slice.

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

 Paris Nov. 1937

In the back room of a café near the University, intellectual giants met to discuss philosophy. A few students hung around the edges of the discussion and participated--if they had the courage. Emil Durkheim, Marcel Mauss, Jean Wahl, and Albert Kojeve had begun this “college of sociology” and, although they mostly spoke to each other, they considered themselves a school for hope in a chaotic world. When lecturing during the day, alone in front of a large crowd of students and guests, each of these men seemed distinguished and powerful. They plucked great ideas out of the air and wove them into patterns of an intimidating intellectual complexity. For Nöelle, who had pictured herself studying ancient inscriptions in a peaceful room surrounded by potsherds and note cards,  these lectures and the contortions of modern political thought were shattering.

On the other hand, lectures on Ethnology, Egyptology, and early Greek religion, were strangely comforting. Stelae and tomb paintings, archaeological digs on the dry plains of Turkey, lonely temples on the Greek islands, these were exactly the subjects that had always exerted a magical influence on her imagination. To be sitting at last in a lecture hall and listening to the great Boreux describe the excavations at Deir-el-Medineh was the reward she had longed for throughout a difficult girlhood. Identical black notebooks began to stack up on her desk at home, each filled with her lecture notes, recorded  in tiny, satisfyingly neat, black letters and rivaling Lili’s collection of journals, in quantity if not in originality. The margins were filled with pencil sketches of her impressions and the unconscious doodlings of an anxious mind.

By day and by night she dreamed of the dust of Luxor. The lives of artisan’s working long ago in that village on the Nile became as real as her own. The Pharaoh commanded that art be made and men, women, and children sketched, chiseled, and painted. They ate bread and olives and dried yogurt at lunchtime. They watched the green waters of the Nile curl and eddy and the shadows lengthen over the tombs across the river. Such visions brought an exquisite peace to the first year of study.

After eating by herself for weeks Nöelle had fallen into a group that met habitually in the afternoons at a café near the University. Max Durand and his girlfriend Denise were both apostles of political science, Paul Clere a philosophy student, Marie-Claude Gireaux and  Georges Borosovic  were students of ethnology. They came together in pairs or threes, drank a great deal of coffee and were never calm.

Nöelle had at first listened to their debates from afar, day by day, choosing a table closer to the hubbub. She soon found herself an unquestioned member of the group. Max declared that Egyptology was as dead as the pharaohs and teased her unmercifully, insisting that she attend a few philosophy lectures. “Don’t become a mummy, little scholar! What is that bird, that sticks its head in the ground?”

“An ostrich.” It was obvious what was coming.

“You stick your head in the dust, ancient dust, the worst kind.”

“I stick my head in a midden.” She was becoming familiar with the terms.

“Exactly. You need to be exposed to some modern ideas. Anyway, if you want to make a splash in these traditional disciplines you’ll have to flush them out with some current thought.”

Denise shook her head and shot Nöelle a sympathetic look. “I’m sure she appreciates your concern, but why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself.”

Borosovic, usually her ally, in this case agreed. “He’s right. You’ll be hopelessly out of date if you don’t stay on top of the ideas of your own time. It will change the way you see everything, the past, the present, even your sherds.”

“I don’t want to change the way I see everything. I’m just getting my feet under me for the archaeology material. I don’t understand philosophy. It’s just arguments about thinking—what a stupid thing to argue about. Besides, I’m piling up Greek in here,” she pointed to her temple, “ I can’t afford to push it out with useless ideas.”

Max pushed the coffee cups and ashtrays aside and leaned across the table, his amber eyes burning. “Listen, I’m serious, Nöelle. You have a chance to hear Marcel Mauss speak, you have to take it. How are you going to explain to your students someday that you were here at the same time as Mauss, but you didn’t attend his lectures? You have to come with us.”

And so she had. The six of them had crowded together in the lecture hall on the following afternoon, a hall far more crowded and tense than those where archaeology was discussed. The smell of wet wool and young bodies overwhelmed the dusty aromas of the meeting hall. Another stack of notebooks had begun on her desk, where she recorded the words of the sociologists and philosophers that her friends admired. These notebooks, were not neat, however, nor were they satisfying. The ideas came too thick and fast to record with precision. She could barely follow the leaps and contortions of the discussions, and was only able to capture a few of the thoughts and words that struck her as they flew past and to scrawl questions and arguments that occurred to her.

In attempting to sift some sense out from the discussion of Hegel and Durkheim, Kierkegaard and Compte,  Nöelle grasped one word, a beautiful word that leapt from the conversation into her head and stuck there. The word was “effervescence,” and when spoken by Mauss and the others it was infused with more than its straightforward sense, more even than its special sense in French. The word carried a halo, an aura created by the essential hopefulness professed by the outwardly grim and worldly philosophers. “Effervescence.” She held the word, carried it with her, turning it over in her mouth like a lemon drop, it’s sweetness never melting away. She wrote it in her notebooks, as a header before every lecture. On a Tuesday evening Max and Denise met her at a dark café to listen to the professors debate among themselves. The philosophers who seemed so large and powerful when speaking on a stage were reduced to mortal creatures in the smoky atmosphere of a public room. They shouted at one another, called each other names. No one person spoke for more than a  minute  before being interrupted by a colleague in a rush of spit and flying tobacco. Outside of the circle of great men sat a second circle of graduate students and favored apprentices, and beyond these, in the outer orbit, the younger students sat or stood, jostling for position and grinning quietly at one another when their elders became too overwrought.

Part of her understood their meaning, even without knowing more than the basics of political thought or philosophy that had been taught to everyone in secondary school. When Mauss spoke of in his slow thoughtful sentences, sitting forward, his light beard giving him an aura of age and wisdom, Nöelle was overcome by a sensation of belief, similar to that which she once had in church as the priest raised the communion cup over his head and consecrated the host   “There is a moment, we know it when it happens, when the alienated individual is transformed by a sacred interaction with others, and becomes part of something greater than himself. These are social energies, easily seen in other societies. I won’t say primitive, right my friend?” Mauss nodded toward Anatole Lewitsky, a young lecturer with a wide cheerful face. “But, let us say, societies not so bound by convention as our own. The highest expression of human endeavor comes from these rare moments of communication with other humans. We can’t achieve it on our own. Even the shaman’s journey is made sacred by the group that he serves, is it not, Lewitsky?”

The café was silent, in a rare moment of shared concentration. Nöelle could hear her own shallow breathing in the split second of silence before he continued. “This energy, that my uncle called ‘effervescence,’ is sorely lacking among us today. We all seek to be enlivened by that creativity that marks out genius, but it cannot happen without that sacred energy, rushing among us.”

Like the holy spirit, she thought, but knew better than to speak. She was probably the only one in the café, who ever went to church these days. “Who is his uncle?” she whispered to Paul.

“Durkheim. Don’t you know anything?” Paul rolled his eyes impatiently, and then they were both surprised to see their companion jumping up to speak.

Max, forgetting his place as a lowly student, blurted out an obvious question. “Isn’t that what happens when Hitler speaks and the crowds go wild? People say it is like an explosion of violence linking the crowd in some wild current…”

At the mention of Hitler, the café erupted into its own violent reaction. Nöelle could hear a few voices over the noise. Someone was yelling, “Exactly right. Anything holy can become unholy in the wrong hands.”

“And you are going to dictate who is holy and who is not? It’s always the same …” She couldn’t see above the heads of the crowd, now on their feet, a knots of damp wools and high pitched shouting.

Mauss was standing shaking his fist, “No, that is something altogether different. Don’t link these ideas with Hitler -- the sacred can only bring out the finest elements in the human soul!”

The moment of bliss evaporated. The old philosopher had, for a moment, conjured the very essence of which he had spoken, binding them all in the hope that a fine bold spirit could unite the forces of good in the world. She imagined some ancient priest fanning a holy flame, for a moment could almost imagine that flame outshining the fires of the barbarian camps across the border. But of course, those fascist fires kept burning while this group disintegrated into a quarrelsome bunch of old men in a smoky café. Close to tears, she grabbed her coat, and push her way through crowd, making for the door.

“Wait, wait, all of you!” A golden man had jumped up on a chair to be heard. He gestured toward Nöelle at the door. “You’re driving away your young disciples, my friends!  This is the reason we meet here. To feel, to believe in this idea of effervescence. We light each other on fire, and so we should, so we must. This is our college of the study of man, our café university. “ The noise faded to a mutter and there was some sheepish laughter. “Let us agree then, together we study in our own fields, and we meet here to keep the electricity flowing among us. Marcel will light up his students, and we will light a fire under ours in a small way. These are the youth,” he gestured again at Nöelle and the other young people crowded into the back of the room, “They will inherit this old Europe, and they need what every flint we can provide to light their own fires!”

He had even the waiters cheering. And then he was calling for champagne, “Who better than the French to understand effervescence!” She found herself with a foaming glass in her hand and the stranger beside her, one arm around her shoulder answering every toast with the refrain, “To effervescence!” 

He murmured into her ear. “You should have more patience. Professors talk a lot, but they are stronger than they seem.” 

“Are you a professor?” 

“I am now.” He laughed and waved his drink at Mauss.

“You don’t look like one.” He looked, as a matter of fact, like a giant from a Nazi poster, his  wiry gold curls combed back from a broad forehead, a craggy tanned face, and eyes of an unlikely blue.

“I know, I know. You’re thinking I look like an Aryan prince.” Reluctantly she moved away from his arm.

“Prince? That might be a bit strong,” flirting easily. It must be the champagne.

He bowed and pulled a sad face. “I’m desolated, Mademoiselle.” 

The champagne having, predictably, dried up as suddenly as it appeared, her group began to move toward the door. “I have to go.”

“Can I walk you somewhere?”

“I’m with  my friends.” Stupid. She should have said yes.

He took her coat and helped her into it. “Do you know any of them?” He inclined his head toward the knot of professors, now laughing good-naturedly at the bar. She shook her head.

“Then I’m forced to introduce myself. Borislav Habart”

“Let me guess, an ethnologist.”

“Good guess, you noticed we have a lot of them. But no, I’m afraid, just a humble artist. I work at the Museum of Man, with their collections and give the odd lecture now and then on various subjects in ancient art. And you?”

“A student. Egyptology … perhaps.”

Max beckoned from the door and she could see Denise nudging him to quit.

She backed away, “Thank you for the champagne.”

“So, you refuse to tell me your name? I knew I should have gotten a proper introduction!”

“Oh!” she was blushing now. “Nöelle. Nöelle de Cassignac.”

Surprisingly, no one teased her on the way home. They were too busy ribbing Max for asking the question that started the argument.  They made a noisy group descending the Metro stairs and an old woman shook her head at them as they surged around her. The harsh light of the subway train made the old look very old and the young very young. No one else seemed to have felt what she did listening to Professor Mauss. No one else seemed to feel the effects of that word. Incandescence. No, effervescence. The two words fused in her imagination into a bright cool light. She thought of the serene faces of the pharaoh on the walls of his holy city, and the narrow halos hovering over the heads of medieval saints.

Denise took her arm. “I’m glad you came with us. I hate being the only girl in this bunch,” she whispered. “Besides, I think we have you to thank for the champagne.”

She hoped to run into Boris Habart again, but, working among the boxes she did not. It soon became obvious, however, that everyone knew who he was. Agnes, one of the normally the quietest of the secretaries became animated when speaking of him.

“I heard he’s the son of a Russian countess, but he says he grew up in Hungary. Everybody says he was arrested by the Germans for being a communist and he spent time in prison before he came here, but I’ve never hear him say so.”

“But, how do you know him, Agnes?” The smallest of questions would keep her going on this topic indefinitely.

“Oh, he was always around the old museum. He’ll have an office in the new one too, no doubt.” Her voice lowered as she spoke of their supervisor, “Madame Rellion likes him very much. She says he’s quite brilliant and the director of the museum is having Habart do sketches for some of the exhibits.”

Gossip suggested that Madame Rellion was having an affair with Monsieur le Directeur, Moise Chambrel. Agnes’ demeanor, however, suggested that it was Habart who was of special interest.

“But I thought Madame and Chambrel …”

Agnes peered into the corridor before continuing. “Yes, yes, well she is often seen leaving with him, that’s a fact. But she adores Boris Habart. And who would not?  So charming, so handsome, so funny.” Her face turned pink at the thought.

Nöelle found this news disturbing. So, he was charming to everyone.

December, 1937

The day of departure for Berlin drew closer and, strangely she had not seen Boris Hobart again. She made pretexts to visit other parts of the museum premises and toured the new building, but never ran into him. He was often in her thoughts, although she was impatient with romantic fantasies when other’s wasted time on them. Perhaps it wasn’t the man so much as the way he made her feel. During those few moments of flirtation she hadn’t felt awkward or unusual. She had felt like an ordinary girl, pretty enough to flirt with the handsomest man in the room. Confident enough to need nothing from him. Would it be the same if they met again?  Maybe people just grew out of their awkward stages and one day feared nothing. At least nothing in the social milieu.

Also, there was no word from Fleury. She began to hope he had forgotten her. In December she entertained no longing for adventure. Longed in fact, only for a comforting and sybaritic vacation, surrounded by Cette’s new wealth and enjoying her happiness.

 Marcelline took the news well. No longer depressed, she had her own plans for the holidays. “Caroline Ford, the American girl, and a bunch of us are going up for a ski holiday. I was going to ask you if you wanted to come, but since you usually go to Cette…” 

Friday, early evening and the drawing room was already filling with friends. Slim men of indeterminate age sipped American cocktails from wide-rimmed glasses. Always fewer women than men. The women were sprinkled judiciously through the crowd like parsley on a platter of deviled eggs, just enough to make the presentation interesting, but not so many as to deflect attention from the main attraction. The clothes in the room must have made the fortune of several tailors, for every suit and cocktail dress was perfectly fitted. Every shoulder was broad, every waist slim. Nary a pucker or wrinkle marred their casual poses. Marcelline’s silky bob shone blue-black as she surveyed the room, her gaze coming to rest at last on Nöelle’s skirt and jacket.

“My dear, you can’t go to the cousins looking like that again. Now that they are practically royal, you’ll look a fool. I’ll tell you what. I had to send back a couple of evening dresses, perfectly hideous. So, I’ve a credit at the dressmakers. Tomorrow, you and I, we’ll go and put together a few outfits. I refuse to let you leave Paris looking like a German!” Laughing at her own wit, Marcelline wrinkled her brow. “You’ve quite developed a bosom this year. I think one of my evening gowns would fit you now.”

Poised to object, Nöelle realized that her mother was right. She didn’t want to embarrass Cette in front of her new family. At the wedding in July, her cousin and her aunt had pressed her to borrow from the collection of sundresses that hung in the dressing room they were using as a closet in the old schloss. Part castle, part villa and housing 75 guests from the old families of Europe, the ancient building echoed with the clatter of high heels and laughter. The dresses had been useful. Since the girls were of a similar build and shared the extremely fair skin and quick color that marked Papa’s side of the family, they had always been able to share clothes, although the borrowing went mostly one way. Even their features were similar, small at the nose, wide at the mouth, long at the eye. Somehow these coalesced into an angelic prettiness on Cette’s face and fell short of it in Nöelle’s, her mouth a little larger, her eyes a bit too long, her nose and chin just that much fiercer than her cousin’s. And of course, Nöelle had inherited Marcelline’s dark hair and the resulting black eyebrows. The dark slash of brow and grey eyes rather than blue made the greatest distinction between the two girls. Aunt Francesca used to call them Rose Red and Snow White after their favorite fairy tale.

This trip, as Uncle Fleury had noted, the cousins would be attending high level Wehrmacht social functions and mingling with top bureaucrats from the current regime. It would be impossible to look as good as Cette with her pale Nordic beauty, but at least she could represent the French flair, with a little help from mother. Fleury’s had eyes lit up, when he heard the description of the events the girls would be attending in Berlin over the holidays. The interest remained unspoken, but surely an alert guest might pick up tidbits useful to the opposition.

“C’est bon, Maman. That can be my Christmas present.” As much as she loved shopping, Marcelline was notorious for her poor selection of gifts.

“Excellent! I’ll pick you up tomorrow, early. Say 10:00. I’ll bring some of my gowns for you to try. Tell the maid on your way out to bring some down from last year. Now, excuse me mon ange, I have to go stir things up.”

Ten was early by Marcelline’s standards and would leave time to work on the Greek vocabulary. She watched her mother’s thread her way among the crowd, erect and elegant, the her watered-silk cocktail dress lying smoothly across her hips, her legs still slim, her neck as smooth and graceful as ever. It wouldn’t hurt to learn a thing or two from the woman. Nöelle unconsciously smoothed the wrinkles from her own suit,  well-cut, but rumpled from a day of rushing from place to place on the metro, dusty in the back from perching on a window bay in the crowded lecture hall. The high-necked black sweater had seen better days, was a hand-me-down long ago from Cette or Marcelline. Her shoes were practical, she wore no jewelry or scarf, except the wool one wrinkled into a ball in her coat pocket. No little accent sparkled on her lapel. Marcelline pointed out time and again that such details, correctly employed, made all the difference. The cut, the accent, the fragrance – these marked a Frenchwoman. It wouldn’t hurt to try a little harder to be a woman of the world when she crossed the border. If she was going to Germany, she would go as a chic Frenchwoman.  A better, bolder version of herself.

Despite the sunshine, Saturday shoppers wore furs to ward off the sharp wind sweeping across the Place Vendomé. The broad square was the center of fashionable commerce and home to designers famed all over the world. Exclusive boutiques lined streets surrounding the square. Chanel, Guerlain, Worth, Lanvin, all originated here. Marcelline’s favorite boutique,  La Belle Planète ,boasted an address just off the glittering Rue de la Paix. Simple and moderne, all mirror and glass. A slim mannequin modeled a trendy suit in ice blue wool, the skirt fitted at the top and belling slightly at mid-calf, the jacket boxy, splattered with lozenge-shapes in bronze and green, and trimmed in Japanese braid. It was impossible to imagine wearing such a thing on the train, much less on the metro. It  didn’t bode well for the day.

The struggle lasted from eleven until two o’clock. Marcelline insisted on the latest cuts and silhouettes and on unusual colors and wanted to order all new undergarments. She lost on the first count but made some headway on the other two. Noelle insisted on simple cuts and practical fabrics. She won on both counts. Madame Lisette, the storeowner, tiny, ancient, and voluble, made peace between them, while, at the same time measuring, fitting, calling for fabric samples, flourishing trays of buttons, and  waiting on other customers. Seamtresses, assistants and models flew back and forth from the fitting room to the backstock to the showroom, rainbow lengths of wool, silk, gauze, and taffeta piled in their arms. “Garnet? Trimmed in navy? Or perhaps trimmed in black satin? Or better yet trimmed in a Chinese floral binding. What have you got against russet?  Much more fashionable than garnet this year. Not ice-blue? Why ever not? It’s stunning, you’ll be noticed where ever you go in such a color. Then sea green perhaps? Too bright! Mais non! Perhaps the same, but duller, a stormy sea green, a velvet collar? No, no, no, those buttons are too military; they’ll looking cheap, believe me once they are on, you’ll hate them -- mother-of-pearl, dyed to match, or these, carved bone from Africa? Or these, metal again, but with a lovely floral motif, very ancien regime…” The words and opinions flew over her head like a flock of starlings.

 Finally, in a moment of silence, alone in the dressing room, Nöelle burst into tears. There was something about making decision after rapid-fire decision that drained her of energy. Again, the simplest, most basic skills needed in daily interaction eluded her. The time when those practical skills could mean life or death drew nearer each day. On top of everything else, she had yet to hear back from Fleury concerning his plans for her. Quite possibly he’d found her unsuitable; still the least he could do was tell her. A note would’ve done the trick. Another 10 days and she’d be gone. Some relief came with the thought that she might not have to go through with it, but more powerful was a feeling of loss. A strong part of her had stood up to say “yes” to something she believed in. She had been willing to take a risk to help others. By doing so, she knew, she was also helping herself. She could not become the person she wanted to be without making some contribution when the world was such a mess.

She wiped her tears on the fitting smock and surveyed herself in the long dressing room mirror. She looked strong. Her hair lay in a modest roll at the nape of her neck. Jaw clenched. The underwear, definitely a bit dingy. She patted her face with powder from her almost-bare compact, trying to rub away the remains of tears. Back in her own clothes, Nöelle hoped the ordeal was over, at least for the day. Another fitting would take place next week.

In the outer part of the shop, things had settled down. Ladies drifted away for leisurely lunches. Madame’s voice could be heard in the back blending with her mother’s demanding one. Something about seam bindings. Nöelle wandered over to the shop window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the glow from the Place Vendomé. The buildings there had been designed in the 1600’s as a beautiful façade behind which government and educational buildings were to be built. The full plan had never been carried out, but the honey-colored stone buildings retained the elegance and serenity planned by that long-ago city architect. She didn’t spend much time in this part of town, but the mansard roofs, the ornate pilasters, and the shops in the lower level arcades still seemed to her the most elegant spot in Paris. Maybe not the heart of Paris, but certainly its top hat. She longed to escape and walk there now, running her fingers along the bas reliefs at the base of the Napoleon’s column. She and her father used to do that, while waiting for her mother to finish shopping. They had craned their necks like tourists to see the gold-plated statue of Napoleon in Ceasar’s toga that crowned the metal tower. She had played in its long shadow and Papa had guided her fingers along the figures in relief at the base and told her stories about the Corisican general’s defeat of Prussian troops and how they melted down German cannons to make the column.

The window of the showroom faced the wrong way, however, and barely a glimpse of the square could be seen from its broad windows. Instead she looked at the evening gowns and winter suits on display and tried to ignore her own reflection. “Mademoiselle Nöelle! I am so happy to run into you.” Madame Hoffman, from the Sabbath dinner at Lili’s some weeks ago. “I was waving at you from the window,” she went on,  “but you seemed deep in thought, so…I came in.” The young woman looked around nervously. “It’s such an elegant shop, I hated to, but…”

“Madame Hoffman, how lovely to see you. It’s my mother’s favorite boutique. We’re getting some travelling clothes.”

“Yes, I know. Lili told me you’d be here. I was running late, but I’m glad I didn’t miss you.”

Nöelle frowned. Lili told the woman about this date with her mother? “Miss me?”

Madame Hoffman seemed nervous, her handbag clasped tightly in one hand, a huge umbrella in the other, despite the blue sky outside. “Yes. I have Lili’s umbrella. Her umbrella.”

“What?” Nöelle was confused.

“Yes, she left it at our house last week, perhaps you’d return it to her for me?” The Hoffman girl’s eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Well, I guess so. I mean, of course I can. But you were just there yesterday for dinner.” And Lili never used an umbrella.

“Mademoiselle, take the umbrella.” She’d lowered her voice and her gloved hand was shaking as she pushed it into Nöelle’s hand.

Nöelle obeyed, still frowning.

“It’s sure to be sleeting in Berlin. You’ll need to borrow it.”

“Yes, the weather’s always nasty this time of year in Berlin,” she spoke without thinking, still thrown off by the unexpected encounter. The tips of Madame Hoffman’s gloves had been carefully darned and her coat carried the little wool balls of a garment too often worn.

“Very nasty in Berlin, right now. Quite.” The young woman squeezed Nöelle’s arm hard enough to leave a bruise. “So don’t lose your umbrella. I hope you aren’t as absent minded as your friend, eh?”

What was she trying to say? Was the girl trying to warn her against making a trip into Germany?

“Mademoiselle,” her small gloved fingers were hurting now, digging into the flesh of her arm and shaking it. Her face still bore a tense smile. Voice falling to a whisper, she added, “Monsieur Bardet, Uncle Fleury, he told me you’d be needing an umbrella.”

Nöelle’s face went scarlet. From her calves to her neck a prickling tide of panic washed over her. How could she be so stupid? Thank God they were in France now, and not downtown Berlin, where someone might already have noticed the peculiar exchange.

A shop assistant emerged from behind the velvet drape. “Can I help you Madame?”  Her brown eyes became pellet-like as she took in the Hoffman girl’s coat and home-knitted beret.

“Yes.” Nöelle turned toward the glass cases that housed accessories. “This is my friend …”she searched frantically for her companion’s first name, “Anna Hoffman. It’s her birthday and I wanted to buy her a pair of gloves.”

Now it was Madame Hoffman, who turned red. “I couldn’t…”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve been looking forward to it all day. One needs something to get through all those fittings, not to mention a few arguments with my Maman,” she smiled at the salesgirl and rolled her eyes. A typical daughterly rebellion. “And it was so nice of you to save me a trip and come all this way to return my umbrella. You know how these days before a trip are, just packed, and with school…”

The clerk laid out several of the cheapest cotton gloves they carried, in greys and fawns.

 “No. Nothing like this.” Nöelle said. “Something in calfskin, maybe fur lined?”

Anna Hoffman had reluctantly pulled her gloves off to reveal pink, work worn hands. Forgetting her embarrassment, she turned a pair of hand stitched gloves over, rubbing her fingers across the soft kid. “Cashmere,” she breathed, looking at the lining.

“Yes, thank you. A pair of these. In black, I think.”

“Parfait.” The sales girl said, looking at her curiously. “I’ll put them on your mother’s account.”

Her companion drew a sharp breath, but Nöelle was ahead of her.

“Of course not. I have cash, if you please. And I’d like a nice box and gift wrap. Be sure you use plenty of ribbon.”  Nöelle was hoping the transaction could be completed before her mother finished with her fitting, but if not, then so be it. Moments later the girl returned with a lavishly beribboned box and placed it into the establishment’s distinctive white shopping bag, striped with emerald green. Such a bag informed the world that a purchase had just been made at La Belle Planète. The young women hugged each other at the door, exchanging the kiss on both cheeks. Both exclaimed their thanks and Nöelle whispered, “Sorry I was so dense. This is the last thing I was expecting.”

“It always is! Get used to that. And, a word of advice—remember everyone you meet. Everyone, everywhere, even in the background, especially in the background. Memorize the faces and try to associate every face with a place, more important, even, than names. Names come and go, but a face and where you saw it, that can save your life. Good luck.” Another quick squeeze and the door chimed after her. The German woman vanished into the lunchtime crowd.

The day no longer seemed normal, but the umbrella did. A little heavy, but, then it was a big umbrella. Black and utilitarian. Not too new, not too old. Perfect. At least she hoped so.

Chapter Three

At the station Lili and Papa Rostaing helped Nöelle with her bags. While Papa went to park his beloved Hispano-Suiza, the two girls managed tickets and porters. Although Lili didn’t ask about the money or the hiding place, her face was flushed with suppressed excitement.

When the time for leave-taking came Lili kissed Nöelle hard on the cheek, whispering “Bon chance.” Papa Rostaing pressed pocket money into her gloved hand as if she were his own.

“Tell us everything when you come back. It will be good to hear about the way things are in Berlin from someone we know so well.” They smiled and waved.

Her new shoes slipped on the metal steps of the train. Two middle-aged business men passed her and stared as she made her way toward the sleeping compartment, marking the effect of her new clothes. At every second the damned umbrella seemed to have a life of its own and wanted to jump out of her hand. At the first compartment had been blessedly empty. Nevertheless, simple acts such as sitting became part of a ridiculously convoluted process — trying to figure out what she’d normally be thinking and doing. Perhaps the key was not to think, at least not up front. To calculate in the back of her mind, and just walk forward. Finally, she had shoved the umbrella and her satchel into the luggage rack, and taken her seat, painfully aware of every gesture, removing her coat, smoothing her new skirt as she sat, and digging through her purse for passport and tickets. Each movement came under an inner scrutiny: yes, surely this was the usual procedure.

Drops of rain slunk along the window as if hurrying home. Everywhere he grimmest parts of human occupation plagued the rail lines. Broken village parts, factories that hadn’t been modernized since before the war, laundry-flagged tenements, and heaps of refuse, rushed by in the dark. Nöelle had purposely avoided the express which arrived in Berlin at an ungodly hour and made sleeping impossible. At this time of year it was better to travel at night. The rain and the sinking darkness reinforced the illusion that one could step away from everyday life, carried away to another reality. To Cette and her new husband. Once the job was done, that gay round of parties would be a well-deserved break from the semester.

Nöelle pulled out her book, a memoir written in German. As children she and Cette had shared a nursery and a nanny. German nannies, like the English, were supposed to be the best, skilled at instilling discipline in rambunctious French toddlers. Long ago in Lorraine, when her parents had been young and in love, when Papa and his brother had come each night to tuck in their baby girls, Una had ensured that both girls spoke decent German, learned to wipe their noses with a clean handkerchief, and never tracked mud indoors. In her childhood, so close to the Alsace, many people had spoken both languages. Usually a few hours with a moderately difficult book was enough to bring back those fluent conjugations along with memories of rye toast and warm milk. The book, however, was as depressing as the back lots of train yards.

Written by a German cavalry colonel about his days as a member of the Freikorps, it described life in those hired armies during the battle for control of Germany after the war. Max had lent her the book, insisting that she couldn’t understand what Germany had become without knowing about those shattered years when a headless monster turned its aggression on itself in epic battles for local power. Like everyone, Nöelle was familiar with images of wheelbarrows full of devalued German marks during the twenties, but had never heard details of those first years of “peace.”

The quiet first class compartment faded, absorbed into the strange and nightmarish world of street barricades, Bolsheviks, machine guns, and bombs. A revolution at home had forced Germany to pull out of the war and in the ensuing battle for power, battalions of newly released veterans, battle-hardened and broke, took to the streets. For the Bolsheviks Germany was the next likely spot for revolution, and their opponents feared the same outcome. It was this fear that prompted the formation the private armies known as the Freikorps.

The term “shot while trying to escape” became standard. Only the intervention of the allies brought the fighting to an end. Nöelle turned the pages slowly, wading through the long German words and unfamiliar constructions, impelled forward by the colonel’s bitter descriptions of intra-city warfare. Chin on hand, she gazed unseeing at the rain-spattered window. France had been through some wild years, certainly, one ineffective minister after another, scandals, riots, but nothing like this. In Berlin and Hamburg, children her age had gone to sleep in their cribs to the sound of machine guns and explosions. Members of the Freikorps had pulled citizens off the street to murder them in alleys and courtyards, while Bolsheviks did the same to those whose coats looked too new.

When the steward came through asking when she preferred to eat, she chose the first sitting, more than ready to escape from her thoughts and her book. Ordinarily eating with strangers brought no pleasure, but there was something enjoyable about shooting through the darkness, encased in yellow light, sipping from stemmed glassware, and exchanging pleasantries with people you’d never see again. All the barnacles of life slid away and left her wearing, for a few hours, some inner and perhaps truer self.

That left the problem of the umbrella -- what to do with it during dinner. It seemed wrong to leave it, and yet one could not bring one’s umbrella to the dining car. In the end she left it in the compartment and dinner passed uneventfully. Two schoolgirls shared her table. They were impressed by her fashionable new suit and her studies in Egyptology. Both were getting off at Lille, and so had to hurry through their meal, leaving some time for Nöelle to sit alone with the cheese and wine before retiring.

Back in the sleeper her new roommate was sitting cosily in a blue bathrobe rubbing ointment onto her feet. The little Belgian began to talk and didn’t stop, despite Nöelle’s monosyllabic answers and pointed involvement in her book. The chatter didn’t cease until Nöelle was able to make an excuse and turn out the reading light, able at last to devote herself completely to her worries. The umbrella lay at the end of the fold-down bed, throbbing all night like a giant stubbed toe, the kind sported by cartoon characters at the cinema. The gentle sway of the carriage was not relaxing; instead it became a lullaby of dread. Here and there city lights flashed by in the darkness and she began to watch for them in the space between the shade and the window. Various scenarios that might take place at the border rattled through her mind, making sleep impossible. Near two o’clock, Nöelle shifted quietly to turn on the reading light, pulling out her book and shielding the glare with a pillow. The other woman spoke immediately, full of motherly concern.

“Can’t sleep, dear? Perhaps you aren’t used to traveling? I can never fall asleep properly in these compartments, not that I usually sleep anyway . . .” and on and on.

The remainder of the night was spent in enforced quietude, sleepless, straining toward relaxation, but unable subdue the kicking and turning that her body demanded. When she dared to move, the weight of the umbrella on the blankets served as constant reminder of the coming ordeal.

The German border crossing was scheduled for 6:00 a.m. Once this had meant merely brief halt, a cursory inspection of passports carried out in the dining car or sleeping compartment or where ever one happened to be. Things had changed since the Nazis came to power. Now, perhaps the passengers would have to leave the train. Luggage might be examined.

If she had to get off, what would she do with the umbrella? She could leave it in the car and not take it to the inspection. But, perhaps someone would go through the compartments and check items left behind. She could try some kind of trick, like leaving it in a different compartment, an empty one if possible, perhaps in second class. Then at least they couldn’t definitely link the umbrella to her. But then she’d have to explain to the Belgian why she was getting up at such an ungodly hour rambling through the train, and after the inspection she’d have to go and find it again. Definitely conspicuous. And, what if she lost the umbrella or picked up the wrong one, unable to identify it again. Better to stay in the sleeping car, and leave the umbrella there. Better to be natural. Unless, of course, it was raining. Perhaps they might not have to leave the car at all. Would anyone think to look at an umbrella? How had they managed to get the money in there anyway? It must be rolled up inside the thick wooden handle.

When sleep finally crawled into the bunk to lie with her in the darkness, she dreamed of answering a knock on the door of the compartment, clutching the Belgian’s blue robe at her throat, reeking of foot ointment, to greet a shadowy inspector. The dream ended badly, and she was left with image of the umbrella, bright red and blinking like a Christmas light.

At 5:00 the steward came by, his polite tap merging for one confusing moment with her dream. “Border crossing in twenty minutes. Please have your papers ready, ladies.” Nöelle jumped from the bunk and cracked open the door.

“Will we have to get off? Or do they check our papers here?” She tried not to seem nervous, just slightly irritated.

“No, Mam’selle, if everything is in order you may remain in your compartment.”

The Belgian peered around her shoulder, “What time do we reach Berlin?”

“On schedule, Madame, for 9:17. Breakfast is served at 7:00 or at 8:00. What is your preference, ladies?”

Nöelle waited for the other woman’s choice.

“Oh, I’ll go at 8:00 I think,” her companion’s voice was high and tired. “I didn’t sleep a wink so I believe I’ll keep trying. Shall we eat together, my dear?” 

“I’m starving. I’m afraid I can’t wait. Seven o’clock for me.”

The steward marked a box on his notepad. “Very good, ladies.”

Instinct decreed that she should meet the inspection fully clothed. She felt vulnerable in her old wool robe. It might be better, however, to greet the officers in her dressing gown. Perhaps it would discourage them from disturbing her further. The Belgian sat on her bunk staring, as if following Nöelle’s thoughts. The woman’s dark, watery eyes had become unbearably irritating.

“Now I’m awake, I don’t know whether to get dressed or not,” said Nöelle.

The woman nodded, as if knowing that was the problem. “It’s merely a formality, child. Germans are so polite you know. A decent person has nothing to fear.”

Nöelle nodded, pulled the robe more tightly around her, and moved to the window. “Do you mind?” she said, indicating the shade.

They must be nearing the station. The train was slowing. The iron webbing of rails wove through the train yard in a crazy dull network, frosted with a sprinkling of fresh snow. As the train came to a halt, uniformed guards crossed the station platform. Any moment now. No need to check again, the papers were in their place in the zipped compartment of her purse. Nöelle smoothed the blanket on the bed and laid out her suit, all the while avoiding letting her gaze linger for a second on the black umbrella.

The woman’s silence was almost as oppressive as her chatter had been, and it was almost a relief when she spoke again. “The whole business takes much longer when you leave the country. They aren’t interested in people like us. Just smugglers or undesirables.” Then suspicion crossed her dry little brow. “You aren’t a Jew, are you? Is that the problem?”

Nöelle shook her head, feeling vaguely guilty at the denial. If a cock crowed three times, she’d burst into tears. “No, but my best friend is, and I guess I was thinking how she’d be feeling.”

“Well, Jews are usually very bright, at least the ones in France and Belgium. I’m sure she’s far too sharp to be vacationing in Germany right now.” The woman smiled cheerfully.

Nöelle took another glance out the window, only to be greeted by the sight of two armed guards in black uniforms escorting an elderly gentleman into the stationhouse.

“Oh my, they’ve taken someone away, haven’t they? I wonder what he’s done.” The Belgian pressed her face to the window.

The man was struggling, trying to pull his arms away from the grip of his captors. It didn’t seem like he was trying to escape, just an old man in a shabby suit, trying to maintain his dignity. The soldiers lifted him off his feet, dragging him along. The toes of his shoes scraped the pavement.

A sharp rap at the door. This time she let the Belgian answer. Having nothing to fear, the woman slid the door all the way open, offered a cheerful greeting in her whispery voice, and stepped aside.

 “Papers?” A plump man with a round red face, a grey overcoat, and the typical homburg. The uniformed guard next to him was alert and very young.

The Belgian proffered her papers first, encased in an expensive leather wallet. The fat man looked them over carefully. “Reason for your visit?”

“I’m visiting my son in Berlin.”

The man made no answer. He examined each piece of paper, running his finger over the words as if they were difficult to read. “Very good.” He shut the wallet with a snap.

“What is the problem with the man you took away?” The woman’s colorless mouth pursed in disapproval, but her eyes were bright.

“Nothing to concern you, Madame.” His attention turned to Nöelle. As she handed over her papers, his eyes narrowed, sensing. . .something. He fingered her luggage claim ticket and scanned the room. “Your case, mademoiselle?” She handed him the worn leather overnight case and backed further into the room.

“It’s not locked.” She pretended to stifle a yawn.

The fat man glanced through her meager toiletries, measuring the case and its contents against the expensive suit lying across the bed next to the umbrella. He moved forward. Nöelle snatched her book from the bunk and held it against her chest.

He paused, smiling. “And what does a French girl read during her visit to the Reich?” He held out his hand.

The Belgian watched the exchanged with interest. Silently Nöelle handed it over the slim volume and watched his expression change to pleasure. “Ah, the Freikorps. You are an admirer?”

“Most enlightening. I had no idea,” she answered, honestly.

“I tend to forget that we have many friends in France.” He nodded politely and returned the book. “Enjoy your visit, ladies.”

And then it was over.

By ten she was comfortably ensconced in the von Sternau limousine.

“Nice suit, Nöelle. Your maman must have picked it out, right?” Cette sat against the corner of seat, one foot tucked under her, smoking. “Do you think I look different? I think I do. I feel different. Like my whole life was just practice for being Freddy’s wife.”

Cette did look different. Her pale hair had been cut and set into perfect waves. Hatless, as always, she wore a chic black suit, a vivid scarf twisted elegantly around her neck, a sable jacket on her shoulders.

“Is your mother coming for Christmas?” The girls had always spent holidays together in Vienna with Francesca’s family, in Lorraine at their fathers’ family home, or skiing in Switzerland.“She and Henkel are already here. They have an apartment in the city this year.” Nowadays Cette’s mother and her second husband spent most of the year in Berne.

Year after year as soon as the two girls exchanged hugsm they slid easily into old habits, picking up conversations abandoned months before as if no time had passed. Today, however, some indefinite barrier lay between them. Being in a new city perhaps, or perhaps it was Germany itself. Or marriage. Something new lay veiled in Cette’s eyes.

Nöelle tried to think of a uncomplicated question. “Do you see your father?”

“He comes through now and then.” Cette shrugged. Like his brother, Cette’s father worked in the textile industry, but rather than producing fabrics for apparel, he created intricate designs for outrageously expensive drapery fabrics. Unlike Nöelle’s father, who had gone into business for himself some time ago, Uncle Claude, earned only a moderate salary, one that Francesca had long ago found unsatisfactory. Cette stubbed out her cigarette in the pocket ashtray. “Papa and Freddy don’t get along that well, especially lately,” she lowered her voice, although a thick window separated them from the chauffeur. “Papa hates the National Democrats.”

“The Nazis?”

“Don’t call them that. Are you crazy? The only people who use that term are enemies of the state. That kind of talk could ruin Freddy. He’s getting a promotion to the Abwehr, any day now. Working in military intelligence, we’ve to be squeaky clean.” Cette stubbed out her cigarette and shot her a hard look. “Listen, you’re going to have to be careful. Don’t just say the first thing that comes into your head.”

“Me? You’re the one that says the first thing that comes into your head,” said Nöelle.

“Yes, well, I’ve grown up.”

Outside a hard sunlight carved deep shadows into the formal architecture of the city. The wide boulevards were as busy as ever. At first Nöelle could see nothing different from her last visit nine years before. Although only ten at the time, she clearly remembered what fun she and Cette had together, thrilled to be traveling alone with their fathers. They had visited museums, gone swimming in the nearby lakes, seen operas and plays. Berlin had seemed the pinnacle of modernity then. Late at night the two girls had ordered ice cream from room service at the Hotel Prinz Albrecht and played board games, while their fathers visited the cabarets in the Kurfurstendamm.

The big car passed through the city center, where new buildings were going up in many of the old neighborhoods. The Prinz Albrecht was no longer a hotel, but an office building hung with a gigantic red flag sporting Hitler’s crooked cross. Many men wore uniforms, some in the traditional grey-green but most in Nazi brown and a few in black. On street corners men and boys shook small cardboard boxes, asking for change from the passers by. Almost everyone stopped to slip in a few coins.

Cette noticed her attention. “It’s the Winter Drive. They collect for the poor, on street corners and door to door, in the movie theaters, the symphony, everywhere.”

“So many people stop and give. In Paris they’d just walked on by.”

Cette looked at her and smiled. “Hitler wants everyone to give. And the boys can be very aggressive.”

Suddenly her demeanor softened and she slid across the seat and slid her arm through Nöelle’s. “I’m glad you’re here. I love being married and the new house is fabulous, but it hasn’t seemed like home without you.” 

The new house in the Grunewald district was everything Cette’s letters had promised. Set in a wide park, adorned with creamy pillars and carved moldings, graced with three palatial bathrooms in the upstairs alone, Cette had nevertheless infused the villa with a cheerful homelike atmosphere. Antique Turkey carpets lay scattered across the gleaming floors like jewels, pale warm colors glowed on the walls, and long windows let the wintry light into every room. Upstairs her cousin proudly threw open the doors to Nöelle’s room. “You are the first one to stay here – I’ve saved it for you,” Cette lowered her voice. “Freddy’s mama was livid when she came in August and I wouldn’t let her have it! I told her I’d decorated the one at the back of the house especially for her -- and I had! It’s all red and gold, disgustingly Victorian. But this is for you…” 

The airy bedroom combined modern and traditional furnishings as only Cette could. Pale walls in robin’s egg blue and a ceiling washed in shimmering rose set off gilt- framed modern paintings. A sleek armchair waited near the French doors, complete with footstool, table, lamp, and a pile of hand-picked books. Hothouse roses bloomed on the bedside table, a tiny gold-leafed desk occupied an alcove of its own and the old sleigh bed was piled high with pillows and draped with a quilted throw in pale orchid velvet. “You have your own bathroom, right through there and you’re only one door down from my room – oops, “our” room. A desk so you can study and a dressing table– don’t argue, you’ll need a dressing table because we’re invited to simply everything and I’m determined to show off my brilliant Parisian cousine. Is it my fault if my cousin shocks the party bigwigs, just a teensy bit?”

“It’s beautiful. I love it,” she squeezed Cette’s hand. The months of separation melted away in the thoughtfulness of the welcome.

“It was Freddy’s idea. He wants you to come whenever you can get away. He thinks I need cheering up.” The girls looked at each other. “He’s gone so much these days, with all the talk of war.” Cette held her finger to her lips just as the hall door clicked open and a thickset maid entered, arms piled with pink towels. “Vera, this is my cousin Fraulein de Cassignac.” The nodded politely, before disappearing into the bathroom.

“You’ll like Vera, she’s quite efficient. She can even help you with your hair for parties.” The young woman reappeared. “Vera once shook hands with the Fuhrer, isn’t that right?”

Instantly Vera’s cheeks turned bright pink. “I did Gnadige Frau.” 

Cette smiled encouragingly, “Tell her about it. I’m sure my cousin will be extremely interested.”

“I was in the Bund Deutscher Mädel, that’s our girls club, and I was chosen to present mein Fuhrer with flowers at the Harvest Festival. I was fifteen.”

“What was he like, Fraulein?” said Nöelle, without looking at Cette.

“Very kind. He smiled at me, and he has the most beautiful eyes!”

“Blue?” asked Nöelle innocently.

“No, they’re brown. And warm, very warm.” Vera smiled at the memory.

“Well, cousin you can see for yourself on Saturday. There’s no doubt he’ll be at the reception at the Goebbel’s new house. That will be all Vera.”

“Yes ma’am.” Vera left clicking the door shut quietly after her.

“So, you see how it is. The whole staff is like that. And they are always at your beck and call, anything you need, liebchen, they’ll be right there at your service, night and day. You’ll have to get used to it.”

As if to emphasize her words, the footman arrived with the luggage. The rest of the afternoon sped by with a tour of the house, lunch in the breakfast nook,  and a walk on the grounds with Geisha, Cette’s  old beagle and Freddy’s two glossy black sheepdogs. Their conversation during the day dwelt mainly on the holiday parties they’d be attending, the dresses Cette had ordered, Nöelle’s new clothes, and Freddy’s promotion. Not until they were outside watching the dogs race through the wet leaves was there an opportunity for a private talk.

“My God, those are beautiful dogs.” Nöelle shrugged deeper into her jacket and knotted a scarf beneath her chin. The sun from the morning was long gone; now an icy wind whipped the tree branches across a bleached sky. The dogs chased each other, immune to the cold. The big dogs dashed across the yellow grass with the older one trotting sedately behind them. As they reached some predetermined distance from the girls the two Belgians whipped into a hairpin turn and tore back the way they’d come. As they neared the girls they split, turning again and, with their big pink tongues lolling happily, nipped and growled at their heels as if urging them out of this lazy stroll. Laughing, Cette flapped her hands at them, sending the pair screaming off into the dusk again. Unperturbed by her lean black companions, Geisha ducked out of their way, content to bury her nose in every pile of leaves.

“They are, aren’t they? They’re Groenendael’s, Belgian sheepdogs. Freddy’s family has kept the breed forever. In the war they were trained to find injured soldiers for the Red Cross. I know they look scary, but they’re sweet as can be.”

“After my traveling companion, I hate anything Belgian, but I may have to make an exception for those two. What does he call them?” The pair raced back again, dark and fast like shadows of wolves, their long silky hair shining in the pearly light.

“Valeur and Chanson.”

“French names?” Nöelle stuffed her hands deep into her pockets.

“It’s a tradition. But they answer to German, when they need to.”

Silence. “How’s Lili?”

“She’s well.” Said Nöelle. “Studying chemistry.” 

Cette shook her head. “What a pair, you two. It’s all I can do to balance the household accounts at the end of the month. Why does she want to study chemistry for heaven’s sakes. Another Madame Curie?”

“Lili has a secret ambition to name the last element on the periodic table. So, she has to hurry, because there maybe no more.”

Cette laughed, and the wind whipped the sound away, a silver strand like the gold ones flying around her head. “That shouldn’t be too hard. Aren’t they making new elements all the time? Shaving off a molecule here and there?”

“No, no. Lili wants to name the last naturally occurring element. That’s altogether different. She wants to give it some beautiful romantic name, like Eternium.”

Cette grinned. “And you? Did you ever see that man again? The one that bought you champagne?” 

Nöelle shook her head. “Why do you need cheering up, Cette?  You still seem to be crazy about Freddy.” 

Cette grimaced. “Oh, we’re good together alright. There’s no problem there.” Nöelle waited. She’d learned long ago that there was no rushing Cette. “It’s a hard time here.”

“Harder for some than for others.”

Cette lowered her voice, as if afraid of being overheard, even out in the wide white afternoon. “The old military families, most of them aren’t enamored of the new regime. There’s some kind of war coming, it’s no secret among the Wehrmacht. I mean, everyone’s happy about Germany stepping into her place among the nations again, feeling proud again. No one has a problem with taking back what belongs to us, what we lost under the Versaille Treaty. But . . . war? I just have a bad feeling about it, that’s all.”

“Most people have a bad feeling about war, Cette.”

“Not true. Apparently in 1914 all of Germany went war-mad. Flag, parades. Now every thing is quiet. Just waiting. In private we talk about it, will the British and the French let Hitler have what he wants, or will they intervene. I try to imagine what it will be like, waiting at home for Freddy, being the enemy wife, rolling bandages with all the dirndl girls and knowing he’s out there killing Frenchmen. It’s not how I want to live.”

The dead grass crunched under their feet. “It may not come to that.”

The last war had nearly destroyed France, cutting down a generation of boys and fertilizing the fields with blood. Public feeling remained vehemently against the idea of war, despite Germany’s encroachment and blatant disregard of prohibitions on rearmament. Nöelle, like most of her generation, had grown up in classrooms where the teachers were Pacifist to the bone. War, to her loomed like a nebulous nightmare creature, unknown and yet familiar. She tried to imagine being Cette, in love and just starting out,livng in a foreign country. Then she attempted to imagine her own life in France if war came. Of course it would be fought on French soil again.

Everyone they knew had planned their lives on the certainty of a lasting peace. War was impossible. In the end diplomacy must win out. This talk was all posturing, the big shots jostling for power. She couldn’t believe otherwise. The refugees, the little people, got shuffled about in the process of working things out and she could try to help with that, in her own small ways. Still, surely all-out war would be averted. Nöelle said as much, leaving out, of course the part about helping refugees from the Reich. “No one wants war. Wait and see, Cette. Things will settle down. Life will go on -- you’ll have babies. In a couple of years we’ll look back on all these fears and we’ll laugh.”

“You haven’t seen how it is here. Wait until you’ve been out a bit. The way Vera was today about Hitler--they are all like that. Wait ‘til you see the Goebbels house. Swastikas on the napkins. And look at the newspapers. The Beobachter is . . . just pornography. All maids in puffed sleeves being ravished by evil Jews. And you can’t say anything. I mean seriously, you can’t say anything. I was at a friend’s house the other day, and she literally stuffed her sweater under the door before she could talk to me.”

“Who’s this?”

“Suzanne. Her husband is a professor of music -- music! They fired half the professors at the academy where he teaches, naturally -- they were Jewish. Now, if her husband doesn’t sign a loyalty oath, he’s next. And then I won’t be able to see her.”

“Well, they can’t stop you from seeing a friend. What are they going to do, arrest you?”

“Yes, Nöelle! Someone reports you. They start an inquiry and there’s always someone like Vera to provide evidence. Then, you’re whisked away to a conzentration lager.”

Nöelle, nodded. “I’ve heard about that.”

“The Gestapo hates the army and the old families are especially at risk. Everyone knows Freddy’s father was a social democrat.”

“Surely no one cares which political party your father belongs to.”

Cette turned on her heel, putting the wind at their back. She whistled and the dogs wheeled around again and raced after them. “Belonged to. Past tense. That party is dead, and most of the people who lead it are too. Or they ran and now they are waiting tables In Paris. Brown Shirts burst into their houses in the middle of the night. The next day its reported -- like the Reichstag fire – oh yes, those criminals were planning an insurrection and our dear Fuhrer saved us by moving quickly. Too bad the men were shot while trying to escape,” Cette hissed, “ – out their bedroom windows.”

The girls were quiet on their way back across the grounds. Nöelle tucked her hand into Cette’s pocket. Finally she said, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be careful.”

“I know you. You’ll get mad. A little Gallic temper is alright, they expect that from you degenerates from the Third Republic. But don’t talk to me about it, don’t say anything in the house, or in the car, or…

“Ça va. I understand. Better than you think.”

Then it was tea in front of the fire in the library, and fabric samples for the curtains in the breakfast room. Freddy burst in, cap under his arm, brushing sleet from his long coat. There were kisses and laughter, and Nöelle produced the special old brandy he loved. Just the three of them at dinner, at the long gleaming table. Later, Cole Porter on the phonograph.

The next morning sitting cross-legged on her bed, Nöelle reviewed her plans. On her first examination of the umbrella back in her apartment after the meeting at the dress shop, a tiny slip of paper had fluttered out from the folds of the umbrella. It held directions scrawled in impossibly small letters like in Fleury’s spidery hand. She had committed the information to memory, and then, feeling foolish, burned the tiny piece of paper. Now she found it surprisingly difficult not to write it all down again, just to be able to look at it. Wait for the first stormy, find an excuse to shop at Wertheim’s, the elegant department store downtown. Once one of the premier department stores in all of Europe, it had recently been “Aryanized.” The Jewish owners who had pioneered the concept of the glamorous multi-storied shopping wonderland had recently been forced to sell their businesses at a deep discount to loyal Party businessmen. She was to wait alone at the display of linens and tableware, wearing a cloche hat with a white rose on it. Another shopper, wearing a red muffler, would happen by, stop to examine the display of goods, and set down an umbrella down beside hers. Nöelle would simply have to pick up the other umbrella to complete the exchange.

Simple. Unless the weather turned clear and sunny. Still, other than that unlikely eventuality, the plan seems clear and simple. Foolproof. In fact this step was much less nerve wracking than getting the money into the country. The only problem would be getting away from Cette’s sharp eyes, but even this should be easy with Christmas shopping as an excuse. Cette had a full social schedule and wouldn’t expect Nöelle to keep her company on every outing.

She peeked out the window only to find sunshine, so the meeting wouldn’t be today. Unfortunately, that meant lunch with Aunt Francesca. Freddy was already leaving, dashing off a last cup of coffee and planting a lingering kiss on his pretty wife, when Nöelle arrived in the breakfast room. His cheeks flushed pink and with his pale close cut hair, he looked more like a schoolboy than a professional soldier. Cette, not in the least embarrassed grinned and waved him off, settling her silk wrapper closer around her throat. 

“This is like old times.” Grapefruit, rye toast, and white cheese had, indeed been their typical nursery breakfast. 

Cette planned their morning, concluding, as expected with lunch with her Mother. “At least I talked her out of coming here – we’d never get rid of her. Instead we’re meeting her at the Neva Grill, my favorite. We can pretend we’re Russian princesses, flirt with the White’s and drive Mama crazy!”

As they sped from shop to shop, Nöelle took the opportunity to hint that she’d need some alone time to pick up a few presents to bring home for the Rostaings. “Maman, naturally, wouldn’t want anything from Berlin – whatever I might find she could pick up in Paris at a cheaper price, being both better made and more fashionable.” Both girls had always adored their fathers and both had come into frequent conflict with their mothers. Neither of the de Cassignac brothers had been able to apply their charm toward finding a compatible wife, selecting instead two beautiful and ambitious brides with whom neither had a thing in common.

“You can have the car most days. If I have to go somewhere, the driver can just drop me off first and then take you downtown.” Cette promised. “I wouldn’t go to Wertheim’s though.” She lowered her voice, “It’s kind of gone downhill lately.”

Cette immediately ordered vodka cocktails at the Neva, as armor while waiting for Francesca. When she finally arrived, Nöelle was shocked to see how much her Aunt had aged since the summer before. Although her hair was still immaculately waved and icy blonde, Francesca’s face bore deep lines of discontent at each cheek, and her maquillage only emphasized the blue shadows beneath her eyes. They feasted on caviar, tiny pickled onions, and a lovely magenta borscht, followed by blini with more caviar, stuffed chicken breasts, and, finally, miniature apple pastries drenched with Ukrainian honey. Waiters in white tunics and tall boots revived them with scalding tea, rolling the gigantic silver samovar to their table.

As Cette had planned, the opulent lunch took the sting out of Francesca’s habitual acid commentary. The teal suit with it’s embroidered jacket found favor in her Aunt’s eyes, but Nöelle’s hair was too long and old-fashioned, her bag out- -of-date, her gloves smudged, and her studies “ridiculous.” While Nöelle responded patiently, Cette sat back smiling and ordering more food, obviously happy to be out of the line of fire.

Back at the house, the girls retired to their respective rooms for naps, skipped dinner, and later sat on the floor of the library, watching the fire and playing pinochle while waiting for Freddy’s return. 

The next day brought sleet.

Uli Meyer hated his new home. Mostly because it smelled. It wasn’t so bad sharing close quarters with his mother and two sisters; he’d always felt alone in their rambling old house in the suburbs anyway. And he didn’t mind living in town either, though his sisters missed their old school and their friends from “before.”  But the block of dilapidated flats reeked, and Uli had an extremely sensitive nose. He could, in fact, isolate exactly the blend of aromas that made his new life unbearable. Old onions, old grease, hair oil, urine, dust, and a strong top note of mildew. These five factors insured that he spend as much time as possible out and about.

His new school didn’t want him there and that fit in perfectly with his own feelings on the matter. The boys at gymnasium called him Jew-dog and mischling, and the teachers were just as bad. That made life simple – he just didn’t go. Mutti didn’t have time to notice how he spent his day. She’d moved their tailoring business from their old shop into this flat after the Nazis had closed it down for being run by a Jewish man. This time, Mutti registered it in her name, and since she was fully German, so far it was still open. The girls, Leah and Olga, had left school to help out. In the off hours, while sewing as fast as they could, the three women gave lessons in tailoring and cutting to Jewish lawyers and doctors hoping to emigrate and needing new skills like these. Skills that were in short supply in Latin America.

Their father was gone. Picked up two months ago for an expired driving license, he been held briefly at Gestapo Headquarters then sent to a camp. With any luck he’d be released soon. He ought to be, Mutti had spent enough in bribes over the last few weeks. Until then, Uli was on his own. Free to play kick-the-can in the street with his new friends. Or hang around the newspaper offices trying to sell cigarettes to the reporters. Or, like today, free to run errands for old Professor Grieg, in the flat beneath theirs.  Grieg knew Uli wasn’t going to school. And Uli knew that the old man was involved in some kind of illegal activity, something the Gestapo wouldn’t like. 

He could get a lot of money for turning the old guy in, maybe enough to bring his father home. But if Uli had learned one thing in school, it was not to snitch. Nothing good ever came from snitching. Besides, Grieg paid him to run little errands for him pretty often, and a little income here and there was probably better than a lump sum one time. Kind of like the goose and the golden egg. It wasn’t his favorite story; better he like the one about the princess who sewed shirts out of thistles for her 13 brother to save them from a curse. She sewed until her hands turned red and bled. The golden egg thing made sense though.

Today he had been given a bright red muffler, a huge umbrella, and enough money to take the tram down to Werthiem’s. Of course, it wasn’t really Werthiem’s anymore. Not even the richest Jewish business could escape “Aryanization.”  He was supposed to look for a girl with an umbrella and a hat with a white rose on it. The stupid part was that he had to go to the houseware and linen section to do it.  He was going to have to switch his umbrella with hers and apparently the girl didn’t know what she was doing and he’d probably have to help her out. 

Uli whistled as he swung onto the moving tram and then ignored the dressing down from the driver. He hopped off again a few blocks from his destination and ducked into an alley. Usually he could jump off without paying.

At Wertheim’s the salesgirls gave him dirty looks and he was pretty sure they could smell the tenement on him. His clothes didn’t look that bad, lots of kids looked worse. Especially the Jewish kids who hadn’t had new clothes in years.  Of course no Jewish kids could come into a store like this. He could because he didn’t have to wear the star, since Mutti was Aryan and since he’d been baptized Catholic a long time ago. School was out for the day, so no one should pay any attention to him.

He asked a pretty girl who smelled like jasmine where the linens were. She had a nice face, red and white like Olga’s, and after she pointed she whispered to him not to touch anything. “They get pretty mad if stuff gets on the fabric.”

At four o’clock exactly, he wandered up to a shelf with a pile of tablecloths piled on it. They were pretty nice, lots of red and white, lots of holly berries and lots of swastikas on the little ones for card parties. The embroidery wasn’t as good as what his sister could do, but it was alright. Sure enough there was a girl in a cloche hat standing there.  Her hat covered almost all her hair but he thought it was black like his. Uli sidled around to the other side and sure enough she had a white rose pinned on. It actually didn’t look very good, kind of droopy, like she hadn’t got the pins in right. The girl didn’t even notice him. She was deep in conversation with an older woman in a rusty black hat like his mother wore to funerals.

He looked for the girl’s umbrella, and there it was, leaning up against the counter just like it was supposed to be. And then his heart started beating like a jackhammer.  There were two umbrellas there. One was just like his, except his had a rip in it, and the other one was navy blue instead of black. It had a bamboo handle instead of a wooden one. The bad feeling was confirmed when he spotted the shiny scarf knotted at the neck of the old lady’s coat.  It was almost red. Kind of rust colored, but pretty close to red.

Uli cleared his throat. Then he shuffled his feet, trying to get the girl’s attention. She didn’t look away from the old woman. The girl’s skin was white, as white as the girls in the fairy tales his mother used to read to him and she looked happy. She probably thought her job was just about over and she’d done everything perfectly. Grieg was an idiot to decide on a red scarf as the signal. It was Christmas in Nazi Germany and everyone had a red scarf. He could see at least three more in the store right now. Uli let out an expletive. One of the words that would’ve earned him a whipping from his father, back when he had one.

That got their attention. Both women looked at him, shocked.  Then they went back to ignoring him, shaking gloved hands and getting ready to leave. They were in luck – the old lady picked up her own umbrella and began to walk away. He stepped forward, ready to tug at the girl’s sleeve and show her his own umbrella, which was practically as tall as he was.

The girl frowned and looked down where her umbrella still lay leaning against the counter. Then she started after the old lady.

“Gnadige Frau! Excuse me, but I think you have my umbrella!”

The old woman looked confusedly at her hand. “No, Fraulein, this is mine. Yours has a wooden handle and mine is bamboo.” 

The girl set her chin. She looked like she could be very stubborn. “No, no. I quite sure that one is mine.” Now she was starting to grab at the other woman’s hand, pushing her own black one forward. The old lady was getting mad. Berliner’s were famous for not taking any crap off anybody.

He was going to have to do something. He’d learned early on on his little “errands” never, never to draw attention to one’s self. It was better if no one remembered you. This, however, was an emergency. 

What a stupid girl. “Hey lady, that old one is right. You have your umbrella and she has hers.”

Now the girl looked scared and kind of sick, like she’d eaten too many blinis. The mad look faded from the old woman’s face and she smiled and waved at the girl before moving on toward the elevators.

“I’m sure that was my umbrella,” the girl said weakly.

“Well, I’m damn sure it isn’t,” Uli snapped, half under his breath.

“Lady, I’m looking for a Christmas present for my mutti. Maybe you could show which ones are the best kind of napkins. She has a lot of card parties, so I think she wants some of those tiny ones.”

A clerk came towards them chirping, “I can help you with that...”

This time the girl came to her senses. “Oh I have to help him, if he brings home the wrong kind we’ll both be in big trouble from our sister. Then we are going upstairs for that famous Wertheim’s tea, aren’t little brother.”

The clerk backed off, which was a good thing since he felt like biting something.

“Does Mutti like Swaztikas or pinecones?” the girl whispered.

“Stars are pretty popular at our house this year.” She wasn’t so bad after all. “Yellow ones, with six points.”

The girl giggled, and some pink came back into her cheeks. “I think they are fresh out of those.”

They bent their heads together over the stacks of cellophane wrapped linens. She picked out a tablecloth for a card party and two set of napkins. They were embroidered with little mountain villages and with tiny villagers gathered around a big pine tree with a red bow on the top.

“Nice.” Then Uli whispered again, trying to make her laugh. “On the other side of that tree they’re kicking the shit of some old Jew.”

Instead of laughing the girl just looked at him sadly. “You’re pretty cute you know.”

“Yeah, well buy that junk and let’s get out of here. We’ve already broken about every rule in the book.”

“What book?” She was smiling again.

“The ‘Doing a Little Errand for a Close Friend Whose in Deep Shit’ book.”

After they paid the girl suggested that they go upstairs and eat. That was really stupid, but there was no way to be inconspicuous now and she was still clutching her own umbrella. Besides he was starving. 

She picked the escalator like he was a kid or something, but it was pretty interesting. Then she ordered three kinds of sandwiches and two kinds of cake.They didn’t really talk at all, she just made careful jokes about the other people in the restaurant. When he couldn’t eat any more she stuffed the linens under her arm and quickly scooped the leftovers into the white box they’d come in.

He took the box and the new umbrella and she took the one with hole in it. They went back down the escalator and out into the wind and sleet. They walked a couple of blocks without speaking.

“Okay, we can split up now,” he said. “Despite you being an dumbhead, I’m sure no one noticed the switch. I think we are actually okay.” He stepped off the curb and out of the way as a couple of Brownshirts came swaggering down the street.

“Why don’t you take my card, in case you need to get out, or come to France or something.”

“Mein Gott, you are a fool. You could get us both killed that way.”  He shook his head and wished he had long pants so he looked a little older as he ran off down the stree. He turned around once to look and like a dolt she was still standing there, looking after him. He raised his cap to her like Pappi used to do after Synagogue and then he made for the corner, twirling her umbrella like Charlie Chaplin.

Chapter Four

Berlin, Dec. 1937

In the grand salon of the Carlton Palace Hotel, mirrored walls multiplied the New Year’s revelers into an army of well-fed couples foxtrotting into eternity. Although at home she avoided scenes such as these, tonight Noelle found herself fascinated by the crowd.  From the moment that Cette dropped her sable wrap at the coat-check room, the three of them were immersed in a glittering whirl.  It didn’t look like a peacetime gathering and suddenly the rumors of war seemed more real. Some men sported traditional uniforms of grey-blue like Freddy or the grey-green of the regular army, but most wore brown N.S.A. uniforms. Here and there an SS officer punctuated the crowd in their pristine black. Middle-aged men beamed and strutted. Young men were, if anything, even more pleased with themselves. Many had been in dire economic straits not so long ago, and allegiance to Hitler’s agenda offered a direct path to success.

The ladies were less at ease, as if uncomfortable in their formal gowns. To a Parisian eye most came off as hopelessly gaudy, dresses festooned with ribbons, silk flowers, or lace.  If uniforms were de rigueur for the men, milk-maid braids were the female equivalent. Woman after woman whirled past on the dance floor wearing some version of the braided coronet popularized by Magda Goebbels.  Nearly all were blonde.  Noelle had to stifle a laugh at the odd juxtaposition of Rhine maiden plaits and modern formal dress.

Seeing her laughter, Cette managed to frown, smile, roll her eyes, and shake her head, all in a split second before composing her features to greet a flirtatious crowd of Freddy’s fellow officers.  Insisting on her right as a married woman to forgo maidenly pastels, Cette had chosen a blood red Schiaperelli design of deceptive simplicity.  A tiny ruffle ran between her breasts, drawing the eye as it flared down and across her hips to end in a draped slit at her heels. Both men and women followed her progress across the room with hungry eyes.

Since the Fuhrer frowned on rouge and lipstick, Cette had spent ages applying and then rubbing off various colors of lipstick until her lips retained just the right amount of a pink stain, then repeated the process on her cheeks.  She had, however, declared that Noelle should represent Parisian elegance in every way, and insisted on applying a perfect maquillage on her unwilling victim.  Brilliant claret on her lips, silver cream on the eyelids, a hint of expensive mascara and Noelle looked at once older and sweeter.  Her dress, one of Marcelline’s discards, was a relatively subdued confection of storm-colored organza spangled with bronze and silver.  Sure enough, just as Cette had predicted, in addition to their Valkyrie braids, most of the women had bowed to party doctrine and eschewed make up.  Noelle was at first embarrassed by her vivid lips, but after a few minutes spent circling beneath the enormous, blood red hakenkreuz flags and party bunting she lifted her chin and decided to wear her lipstick as a mark of patriotism, like the tiny tricoleur tucked in the lapel of French embassy officials.

There was something ominous about the number of men in uniform, although Noelle had to admit that her brother-in-law looked dashing in his uniform.  Over six feet, he towered over Cette and the majority of the crowd, his red gold curls tamed for the moment.  In a few days Noelle had come to respect him. His courtly manners, his dedication to the men under his command, and the surface gaiety that hid a deeply philosophical nature – these were traits of a dying social class.  Once, the old nobility had dominated the officer ranks in the army and navy.  Decimated by the war and the troubled times that followed, few were left now to carry on the old traditions of public service, and Hitler both admired and despised those old aristocrats that did serve the Reich. 

Now, as he swept her cousin onto the dance floor, it was easy to see his father’s patrician features beneath the surface.  On Christmas Eve Noelle had met Freddy’s father again, for the first time since the rush of wedding activities back in the summer.  They joined him at a small Lutheran chapel near his apartment downtown.  The worries and the social whirl of the trip subsided during the candlelight ceremony, where for once the Nazi paraphanalia was missing. Even familiar hymns sounded strange sung in another tongue.  Later, they ate a midnight supper in the elder von Sternau’s apartment, served only by his aging manservant, the rest of the staff having been let off for the holiday.  That evening, watching him with his father, Noelle had seen another side of Freddy. 

Tall and courtly, Reinhard von Sternau still mourned the loss of his wife five years ago.  Now and then he showed a flicker of Freddy’s charm. More than once his narrow, deeply lined face flashed into laughter under Cette’s relentless teasing.  Like many of the old aristocratic families, von Sternau distained Hitler’s Third Reich, but unlike many, he had never supported the chancellor, never believed that such a man could lead Germany back to greatness.  Early on he had read Mein Kampf, and found the hatred expressed there incompatible with the belief system of his Lutheran upbringing.  Now, he was dissuaded from vocal opposition to the regime only by concern for Freddy’s career. 

The von Sternaus, father and son, shared a certain rectitude, an ironic shorthand in conversation, a thoughtfulness that went deeper than good manners, displayed equally toward servant, family, and guest.  Freddy wore his new Abwehr uniform easily; his father wore his dinner jacket with equal aplomb.  Reinhard’s shelves were filled with books on the peoples of the Caucaus and on his desk lay scattered the proofs of his latest book, translating the folk tales of those mountain tribes.  Noelle came away from the evening with a better understanding of Cette’s new family, seeing an appeal deeper that ran than Freddy’s notorious charm, recognizing the pull of a life grounded in civic duty, intellectual rigor, and family afftection. It was easy to see why Cette wanted to be a part of it.

While her cousin danced, first with Freddy and then with his companions, Noelle faded towards the wall.  In a smaller room off the salon, waiters piled platters of cold shrimp and salmon onto white-clad tables. The older women sat gossiping on gilded chairs on one side of the room and on the other the middle aged men gathered to talk politics until one by one they were commandeered by impatient wives.  It was impossible to escape the dancing for long, and soon Freddy found her and led her back on to the dance floor. 

“It’s kind of an old fashioned band,” she remarked, watching the crowd over his shoulder.

“Well,” Freddy said carefully, “The Fuhrer prefers these more dignified dances, and we don’t hear much of …the more …degenerate types of music anymore.”

Noelle laughed. “Like swing? Jazz? Big bands?”

He nodded. “Exactly. Of course most young people have a secret stash.”

“Nightclubs?”

He smiled. “A few are left.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“No. Dangerous. Really, quite unadvisable.  Don’t let Cette talk you into it.”

Noelle rolled her eyes. “You use that word a lot.  But I haven’t seen anything remotely dangerous.” Even her assignation had gone off without a hitch. She was feeling invincible.

Freddy’s fingers tightened around her waist. “And I hope you won’t.  I don’t want to fish you out of a Gestapo cell.” He smiled again. “Troublesome relatives look bad on my monthly reports.”

“What is the Gestapo anyway? I don’t quite understand how they fit into the military hierarchy.”

“The word is a contraction of Geheime Staatspolizei. Just a national police force in the beginning, but in the last couple of years they’ve become independent of judicial oversight — in order to preserve the state against sabotage, spies, treason, that kind of thing.  Basically they answer only to the Fuhrer.”

Noelle found herself lowering her voice, like everyone seemed to do when this subject came up. “And that’s why everyone’s so afraid of them? Because they have carte blanche?”

This time he looked directly into her eyes for the first time since their dance began. “And they run the concentration camps. When people disappear, that’s where you look.” Freddy raised his voice again. “Protective custody, an excellent tool for maintaining the peace and quiet you  have observed, cousine. 

The music moved seamlessly into three quarter time. “Good thing I remember how to waltz.”

“Do you think Cette seems happy?” His face relaxed into a tenderness that Noelle was happy to see.

Noelle hesitated. “Well, she seems happy with you.”

“I’m not sure what she’ll do with herself, if I’m called away.”

“Maybe that won’t happen.”

“I think it will, and sooner rather than later.  I was hoping that . . . you could talk her into taking some courses. German literature or something.” 

“Cette? Studying Goethe?” she laughed, despite herself.

He wasn’t laughing.  “It won’t be easy for her, here.  

“She could come and stay with me in Paris.” 

He looked at her, but it was difficult to tell what he might be thinking. “Possibly. Possibly.” 

And then one of his friends cut in, and she was drawn away on a current of Strauss.  The increasing energy of the music left little time for small talk.  The faces, uniforms, and gowns became a fluid wash of color.  For a moment she remembered an evening at home when she was small. Her father had arrived bearing bolts of patterned silk from Burma.  He’d shaken them out for her mother with the grand gesture of an experienced salesman, so that the cardboard bolt clattered across the floor with a muted pom, pom, pom, and the fabric billowed and sank across his arms.  The strange panorama of the ballroom swirled around her as she spun across the floor, rising and sinking with the pressing beat of the waltz, just as the exotic fabric had once loosed itself to rise on the air and settle across the parlor carpet. 

As if by agreement she and Cette excused themselves from the next dance and met near the enormous silver punch bowl.  “Well, what do you think of the cream of German society?”

“Most impressive.” They grinned at one another. 

“I wish you could see Magda Goebbels, but supposedly they are taking in the New Year at Hitler’s private retreat in Austria.”

“I’d like to be a fly on the wall there.” 

“Wouldn’t we all.”

“There are a few people here you’ve probably heard of.  Let’s see…”  Cette proceeded to point out a pale little man in round spectacles, “that’s Himmler, looks like a nobody, but a bad man to cross. And there,” she gestured with a loose glove, “next to the doorway, that’s Baldr von Sirach’s wife, Henriette.  Her father is the Fuhrer’s favorite photographer and the chancellor pretty much arranged that marriage for them.  They say our Fuhrer loves to play matchmaker, though doesn’t believe in marriage for himself.”

“Too busy saving the volk,” said Noelle.

“I’ll tell you some more about that little group, but not right now. That reminds me…there’s a tea next week, out at Goebbels new mansion on the Bogensee.  We’ll definitely go and you can see everyone.” Someone caught Cette’s eye. “Oh my goodness, look who’s here.”

They slid through the crowd, Cette waving blithely at those who tried to detain her. “Here, Noelle, this is the most fascinating person here tonight.  Meet my friend Frau Bella.”

Cette gave a quick squeeze to a plump woman swathed in pink velvet, her mouth boldly painted into a dark cupid’s bow. Bella appeared to be a fearless character. 

“What are you doing here?” Cette hissed after the introductions.

“Oh, I still get all kinds of invitations,” the woman replied airily.

“You’re crazy, mon vieux.  You should be touring Argentina right now.”

“I’m staying a bit longer, just to see what I can see.”  The woman’s small hazel eyes crinkled pleasantly.  “I’m a Jew,” she said to Noelle, in an exaggerated whisper. “A Jew, a conservative, and a gossip columnist – what could be more fantastic?  I may write a book someday.”

Cette leaned in, “I hear it’s getting harder and harder to get out.”

“I still have plenty of contacts, if it comes to that.  Anyway, I sent my daughter to the States.  I can afford to see how things go.  Have you seen the Goebbels recently?  Magda’s pregnant again, if you can believe it.  Goebbels has been seen taking long drives with that little actress, Lida Baarova, you know, and ..,” she lowered her voice at last. “I just heard this: Baarova’s husband waited for them at the gate of their house, and took a horsewhip to Goebbels, the little demon.” Bella shook her head in despair, “If only I could write about it. But you can’t keep people from talking. Magda’s furious, of course. Wonderful, eh?”

“Shut up, Frau Bella.  You’ll be horsewhipped next.” Cette had turned pink with delight.

“I know, I know, perhaps I’ve had a teensy bit too much to drink.  I wasn’t going to stay anyway – the Dodd’s are leaving, I’m sure you heard.  The American Embassy will be a grim place without them. Anyway, on my way to a party where Martha’s supposed to show, are you going?”

“I know, its so sad. I’d love to know what’s behind that transfer. Hush, now. Tell me later, Bella dear.  Go on, you better scoot.”

Cette grabbed Noelle’s arm and the two of them circled the room towards the food.

“Whose Baarova?” Noelle was learning how and when to speak under her breath.

“The most exquisite little actress. Hungarian I think.  Herr Dr. Goebbels is said to be quite infatuated with her.  Actresses are very popular in high places. Even Hitler likes to dine with La Tschechowa. He used to invite Martha Dodd to dinner too.  Maybe I’ll get a turn someday. A tete a tete with the Fuhrer could do wonders for Freddy’s prospects.”

A fit of the giggles overcame Noelle again.  It was the relief of having her mission done, and the strangeness of the evening and now gossiping about Herr Hitler’s dinner companions.

“Actresses and Americans. Both notorious for wearing lots of make up, no?”

Cette was giggling too.  “Certainment, but so cunningly!” She pulled Noelle into a doorway. “They say that Dr. Goebbels asked Magda recently, when did she begin wearing that frightful lipstick—and she said, ‘Since always, my love.’ My mother says it’s never a good sign when a husband begins to notice his wife’s little tricks. This is the woman’s fourth pregnancy in nearly as many years.”

It was strange, how people in Germany gossiped about the party dignitaries. In France people talked about matinee stars or American movie idols, a kidnapped heiress or the latest shocking revue in Montparnasse.  No one cared what Daladier did in his spare time, except perhaps Madame Daladier.  Here, where political discussion was outlawed, political gossip remained lively and no one was exempt. 

As the evening wound down, Cette gleaned more scraps of gossip, but managed to introduce Noelle to only one party official.  Making their way back from the powder room, they spied an immense officer in a cloud-blue uniform standing by Freddy, one arm draped around his neck. He wore an unusual uniform garlanded with gold braid and encrusted with ribbons and medals.

“That’s Hermann Goring. So you will get to meet someone important after all! For God’s sake, Noelle, be serious now. Make a good impression.” Responding to some joke of Freddy’s, Goring threw back his head, laughing aloud.  Then, he was clicking his heels and bowing extravagantly over Cette’s hand, beaming and offering congratulations on Freddy’s promotion. Noelle had expected a ridiculous balloon-like figure with tiny feet in black shiny boots, for Hitler’s general was invariably depicted this way in newspaper cartoons at home.  In actuality, despite his weight, Goering was more frightening than ridiculous. A small hawkish head sat on broad shoulders as if placed precariously there by a careless workman. The man’s weight made him massive, but not in the least jolly and it was easy to see beneath his ruined face the chiseled profile of the brave young fighter pilot he had once been.  Hooded eyes of an electric blue shone out of his dangerously flushed face. Perhaps because of the jowls and the vanishing neck, he reminded her of one of the stern old Assyrian gods in the museum at home. Their hard, flat eyes always gave her a chill, because of the eerie turquoise inlay. Goering’s uniform was of nearly the same shade of blue as her own gown, and yards of gold braid made last year’s spangles seem dim by comparison. She bit her tongue to prevent herself from making a flip comment on the similarities in their choice of color.

“Frederick, my boy. Good to see you doing so well.  And your lovely wife.” Despite his girth Goering bent smoothly over Cette’s hand. “Well, if he had to marry a foreigner, I am glad he found such a pretty one. I can’t wait to see the pair of you surrounded by a dozen tow-headed children.  What a picture that will make, the Wehrmacht officer, the French wife now dedicated to the Reich, and a crowd of pink cheeked youngsters in their Hitler Youth uniforms.” Goering laughed in delight. Noelle could see this explicit vision of the future sweep across her cousin’s face before the perfect diplomatic mask fell back into place. Only Frederick and Noelle noticed how the pitch of Cette’s laugh had changed, becoming high and jagged, like a broken Wedgewood bell that was no longer able to make its customary low chime.

Freddy slipped an arm around his wife’s waist, “We’re still on our honeymoon, sir.  Not quite ready for a dozen babies!” 

“The good German life will put some meat on your bones, my child, and then we’ll see.” Goering’s snapping blue eye swept on to Noelle, just as Freddy made the introduction.

“Another Parisian in our midst, this is Noelle de Cassignac, Cette’s cousin.”

“Most happy to make your acquaintance, Fraulein.  How do you find Berlin this winter?”

“Lovely, as always.” Noelle wasn’t sure how to address him and made do with what she hoped was a stunning smile.  “So very clean, and it’s quite heartwarming to see the young people out in all weather collecting for needy families of your servicemen.”

Here she obviously hit the right note, for Goering dark lips broke into a genuine smile. “I’m very glad that you noticed the dedication of our Fuhrer’s youth corps. There is nothing like it in the world today.  Children of all ages pitching in without being asked, only the good of the Fatherland and enthusiasm for our leader in their hearts. Most gratifying.  Most  gratifying. You have an intelligent eye, dear girl.”

The conversation moved on to talk of the weather and then Goering was moving on, gently prodded by his aides to continue his progress across the room in the general direction of the buffet. 

“He’s like a character out of a novel.” Noelle said.

“But which one?” Cette raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.

Instinctively dropping her voice, she said, “Now that, I can’t say. Something chilling.”

New Year’s day brought a dim gloom that didn’t bode well for the year to come.  Like an over-wetted watercolor the clouds hung low and cold, washed almost navy and dripping an icy sludge on the city streets.  Cette moved about the house turning on electric lamps and insisting that more logs be piled upon the fires she lit on every hearth.  Still, morning and afternoon remained so dark that it seemed almost as if day had never dawned, as if three of them moved dimly through some illogically extended night, numbed by too much silk and too many chandeliers, and too much champagne. The heavy woolens sat on Noelle uncomfortably after the  breezy garments of the night before, and her faced looked heavy and worn without the scarlet glimmer of Cette’s lip rouge.

Even Freddy was cranky and no one offered to walk the restless dogs, who whined and circled fretfully throughout the afternoon.  When they settled at last before the fire, the two sheepdogs heaved long sighs, like patient mothers shaking their head at the antics of ill behaved youngsters who have been on leave from school for too long a holiday.  Freddy flipped his book open and shut and sorted carelessly through a briefcase full of papers he’d brought from work.