The Paris Secret Read online

  Valerie couldn’t remember now where the book had come from – was it from her mother? Had it been taken with them on the day that Amélie and she had fled the streets of Paris when she was a little girl? How had she not known that all this time?

  He smiled, touched her shoulder again, just an awkward pat really. ‘She would have liked you, I think,’ he said, before he shuffled away, leaving Valerie rooted to the spot, trying not to cry.

  Freddy always said that if you looked hard enough for a story, you found one. Every time Dupont was out of the apartment, she looked. Looked for letters, for photographs, for anything that would tell her about what had happened to her mother, about who she was.

  As the dawn coloured the sky a soft damson, she got dressed and went downstairs to start the day, measuring out several heaped spoons of the rich black coffee for the cafetière. She fetched two mugs from the cabinet, ready in wait.

  She could hear him beginning to stir upstairs – the way one knee cracked when it straightened and the loud popping of old joints had become familiar sounds, greeting the start and the end of each day like bookends.

  The cat was at the door, and she opened it to let him in. He took his position on top of Dupont’s desk, settling in for the day.

  She allowed herself a grin when, not long after, Dupont came down, greeting her with a nod, then took up his own position at the helm in the stuffed armchair.

  It was a Saturday, which was always a busy day in the shop. Word had got out that there was a new bookseller at the Gribouiller in the few weeks that Valerie had been working there, and some of the customers who had vowed never to return, with shaking fists at Dupont, had begun to slink back in. Perhaps they sensed that she was less likely to offer a running commentary on their purchases, such as he was doing right now, to one poor soul who had come in to buy a copy of Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. She was a young woman with a long curtain of hair, parted precisely in the middle, and she was turning pink at Dupont’s words. ‘Mon Dieu, save me from the moors and Heathcliff,’ he lamented, shaking his head and putting the book aside on the table. ‘Why not try Jane Eyre rather? If you insist on reading the Brontës. Or The Tenant of Wildfell Hall… very under-appreciated, that – and quite as good really.’

  The girl’s blushes were increasing and Valerie came past to save the day, picking up the book and taking the girl by her wrist to her own desk to complete the sale, throwing a comment over her shoulder at Dupont: ‘Monsieur, Heathcliff will not be denied – you can prescribe vegetables all you want, but the heart won’t be fooled by potatoes for chocolate.’ She winked at the girl, who left the shop clutching her book to her chest.

  ‘Pah,’ was all Dupont said. Later, though, she could have sworn she heard him laughing.

  Later that day, when he left the store to take the weekly earnings to the bank, her eye fell on his desk, and she bit her lip. He became like a bear with a thorn in its paw if she even dared to empty the ashtrays on it. It was covered in books, crumpled bits of paper and memories. He locked one of the drawers every evening, putting the little brass key into the pocket of his cardigan. It was possible that some of the answers she was looking for were hidden there.

  The trouble was, if she was caught looking in that desk, it could bring everything to an end sooner than she would like. And she didn’t want that, not now. Still, she knew that he would be gone for at least an hour: it was the perfect opportunity.

  As soon as she saw that he was safely down the street, with his distinctive shuffle and a cigarette clutched between his teeth, she raced to the desk, steering clear of the cat’s accusing eyes as he watched her carefully rifle through the scattered papers and paperbacks littering the surface. There was nothing there. She tried the drawer, which was locked. But then she spotted his cardigan hanging on the hook by the door, and found that she was in luck – the key was inside, meaning he hadn’t yet opened the drawer since the night before. She went back to the desk and opened it, surprised to find that the drawer was much neater than she would have thought, though completely full of papers and letters. Her heart started to beat fast when she saw that there were dozens of photographs, too. She picked up a few and took a seat in the armchair, holding up one that made her catch her breath. It was of her mother, and it was in colour, slightly faded by time, but still remarkably preserved. It was the first time she had seen the colour of her mother’s hair, a silvery pale blonde, and her eyes, which were darker than Dupont’s, almost navy, but startlingly blue in her heart-shaped face. The eyes looked sad somehow, though she was smiling. Her face was so similar to Valerie’s.

  She touched it with a frown, tears smarting her eyes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said a voice behind her, and Valerie dropped the stack of photographs and letters in fright.

  She looked up to find Madame Joubert staring at her, hands on her hips, imposing in the pale afternoon light. Valerie swallowed, and quickly bent to pick up the letters and photographs, shoving them quickly back into the drawer. Her hands shook as she faced the older woman.

  ‘I…’ She hesitated; how much had Madame Joubert seen? There was no way she could pretend that she hadn’t been snooping. The evidence was obvious. What would happen if she told Dupont?

  She bit her lip, and attempted a lie, which sounded flat even to her own ears. ‘I wanted to tackle his desk, clean it up while he was gone – it’s such a mess.’

  At Madame Joubert’s darkening frown she could see that she wasn’t going to fall for that – she had seen her with the photographs and the letters. Valerie swallowed. ‘And h-his drawer was open,’ she lied. ‘And I got curious, I’m sorry. I was curious about him and Mireille – and what happened during the war,’ she said truthfully.

  To her surprise, Madame Joubert’s face softened, and she came forward. The photograph Valerie had been looking at earlier had fallen behind the chair and Madame Joubert bent to pick it up. When she straightened, she put a hand on her heart. She stared at it, blowing out her cheeks, making an ‘o’ of her red lips, her eyes pooling with sudden tears. ‘I’d forgotten about this – back then it was quite something to have a colour photograph, you know, during the war.’

  Valerie blinked. ‘This was taken during the war?’

  Madame Joubert nodded. ‘They took it,’ she said, and her lips grew thin, pursed, as she curled them in distaste. ‘The Nazi officer who shot the hole in that wall – they wanted it for their magazine.’ She said the last with disdain.

  Valerie frowned, and Madame Joubert’s face turned dark, pinched. ‘Only the Nazis could afford to print things in colour then.’

  Chapter Twelve

  1940

  Mireille waited for Clotilde at the back door, hating that this was what they had been reduced to. She was tired, with dark shadows beneath her eyes. Since the Germans had taken over most of the shop, all she heard was their deep, staccato voices in her ears all day, each word like a hammer on her nerves, and she couldn’t bear it any longer; she longed for peace. Peace also from the tightly wound spring that was her father, who looked as if he were ready to snap at any moment and throttle Valter Kroeling with his bare hands. Throttle him for having those dangerous, watery blue eyes that trailed his daughter everywhere she went, like a bad scent.

  ‘Can I help you with something, old man?’ Kroeling had asked the previous afternoon, noting how Dupont’s face turned red as he watched him stare at his daughter, as though she were prey.

  ‘Yes, you can help me greatly by going to he—’

  ‘Papa!’ interjected Mireille, her voice shrill with the warning, and her father stopped, reluctantly, his lips making a loose ‘pfff’ sound, like a tyre with a slow puncture. Mireille’s jaw clenched as Kroeling’s eyes glinted in triumph. The last time he’d spoken against Kroeling the Nazi had threatened to shoot her father, and she’d had to watch as he struck him with surprising force, knocking him off his feet. Seeing her father lying on the ground, a small trickle of blood leaving his lips, glaring up at th
e Nazi, Mireille had had to run to him and beg him not to say another word. Since then, he had had to keep his temper. His life depended on it.

  As it was, Mireille could deal with Kroeling’s stares, the way his eyes followed her everywhere, the way she had to wait until his back was turned before she went to the toilet in case he followed her in, but she couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to her father as a result.

  Mireille leant against the door now. She was nineteen years old, but at that moment she felt closer to forty. She prayed, even though she had long since stopped beseeching the heavens for help, for something to befall Valter Kroeling – a bullet, a knife, or at the very least for him to be taken somewhere else – but he was always there whenever she turned, with his moustachioed smile, and his sharp pointed teeth ready to draw her blood, like a parasite sucking the life right out of her.

  Which was why, when Clotilde came up the street, her stride strong, her shoulders straight despite the star she was now forced to pin on her clothing while the other women her age wore whatever they liked, her eyes fierce, Mireille knew something had changed. Something, she hoped, for the better.

  ‘Not here,’ said Clotilde under her breath. ‘Let’s go to the park.’

  She nodded. They walked quickly along the Seine till they entered the park. The weather had grown cool; there was the scent of rain and something else in the air, like possibility.

  When she looked at Clotilde, she saw that for the first time in weeks her red hair seemed to shine and bounce again, and that she had her customary lipstick on. As they walked further into the park, the sound of leaves crunching beneath their feet, she found out why.

  ‘I’ve joined the resistance,’ she whispered, linking her arm through Mireille’s.

  Mireille’s blue eyes widened. ‘Clotilde!’

  ‘Shhh.’

  ‘Clotilde, really?’ She was breathless, partly with nerves, partly with excitement. For the first time in days she felt something inside her shift, like a crack of light in a darkened room.

  ‘Yes. There are a few of us. We are painting signs, messages.’ Her lipsticked mouth twitched with something close to amusement.

  ‘Signs and messages? Of what?’

  ‘That Paris will never be theirs. That we are here – and we are growing stronger every day.’

  ‘But what does that do – how does that help?’ asked Mireille.

  ‘It helps to show the people of Paris that they are not alone. It shows the Germans that they haven’t conquered us all, not yet.’

  They had been walking for some time when Clotilde pointed to a huge graffitied wall, dripping with black, oozing paint. It said, ‘Resist.’

  Mireille turned to her friend, her eyes shining.

  By the time they’d left the park, she had already decided to join.

  The trouble was, later that night, she thought of what joining would really mean. To her. To them. To her father most of all. Was it worth risking her life for a few graffitied signs? Especially if that meant that she left her papa alone with the Nazis? Alone with Valter Kroeling? She shuddered at the thought. How long before he got himself killed if she were gone? As it was, he was barely hanging on by a thread. It had become apparent that the safest way to keep him from going to jail was for him to spend as much time away from the bookshop as possible, and even that was like trying to stop the tide. There was nothing they could do. Even if they wanted to close the shop now they couldn’t – they needed the money, and besides there was nowhere for them to go, and the thought of leaving their apartment to the Nazis – to Valter Kroeling in particular – was nauseating.

  Despite the risks – despite the fact that it made no sense to risk so much for so little – in the end it was the way she’d felt that day in the park, her eyes shining, the gentle summer breeze stirring her hair, that feeling that at last here was something that made life feel worthwhile again, that made up her mind to join.

  She left with Clotilde in the middle of the night, dressed in black, and together with a few of the girls she’d gone to school with, they painted signs of resistance on the city’s walls. She came home just before dawn, her heart racing, yet her spirits high. It made dealing with Valter Kroeling more bearable, somehow. When she found black paint beneath her fingers, despite all her scrubbing, she clenched them together like a secret badge of honour.

  ‘Just be careful,’ whispered her papa on the second night, when she slipped back inside with the dawn. She clutched her heart in fright as his greying head appeared at the stairs. ‘Clotilde… well, she’s never been able to do anything by halves, you know that.’

  ‘It will be fine, Papa. She won’t do anything to get us caught.’

  It was true: it was a well-oiled operation. Clotilde knew the schedules of all the German officers stationed in their arrondissement, knew when they were taking a break, where they liked to hide in wait. She was like a cat, prowling the city late at night.

  Mireille didn’t ask how he knew where they’d been. She knew that he had his own spies.

  He looked at her now, shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. I heard that they’re starting to punish the ones they find – are a few painted messages worth your life?’

  She felt her body go cold at his words. He sighed. ‘I’m doing everything I can’ – his voice broke slightly, the sound tearing at her heart – ‘just to hold it together with them here in the day – and now you’re doing this at night?’ The disappointment in his eyes was too much to bear. She knew he was right. But still, he just didn’t understand.

  ‘I have to do something, Papa. Or I’ll go mad.’

  His face softened slightly. ‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ was all he said. Which was worse than if he had shouted. He didn’t forbid her to go. Perhaps it would have been better if he had. All she felt as a result was torn.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mireille hated to admit it, but her father was right. Clotilde had become reckless. Even she could see that now. Now that her friend had graduated in recent weeks from scribbling messages of resistance on the walls of the city late at night to delivering messages, secret correspondence from the network of the higher ranks of the resistance, who’d heard about her. Messages that helped spread the word about attacks planned on the officers, helping captured soldiers escape, forging documents. If these were found, she would be killed. There was no doubt about it.

  Mireille worried about her, because she’d started taking too many chances. Before, there had always been someone keeping watch. Someone stationed who would warn them, help them stay out of sight before they were caught. At first Clotilde was out one or two nights a week, when Mireille joined her, but now it was all night, all day. How long would it be before she was captured?

  ‘This is more than just scribbles on walls now,’ Clotilde had explained one night when the rain battered the rooftops, muffling her voice, as Mireille stood on the stairs after midnight, waiting for her friend to come home. An echo of the warning she’d received from her father a few weeks before.

  Clotilde’s dark eyes were alight when she entered the shop, and they shone when they saw Mireille waiting. There was no Star of David pinned to her lapel any more. If the Nazis saw that, she’d be sent to prison for sure.

  ‘Clotilde, I’m worried. It’s too much. You need to scale back. Please.’

  Her friend shook her dark red curls. Squared her broad shoulders. ‘More people are joining now. There’s this man… de Gaulle, he sends secret radio broadcasts. That’s what I was doing tonight. Just listening. Listening to all that they have planned – how we are going to get our country back from the inside out. We’re so close now, Mireille. We will get rid of them, if we work together. First, though, we’ve got to fight this fear that they’ve made us feel – they’re making us think we are weaker than we are, with these stupid curfews… because they know that’s when we will strike back, and we will,’ she said, slamming a sizeable fist into her palm. ‘You’ll see. Trust me.’

 
Mireille nodded. She wanted to, more than anything. Every day the Nazis took away small parts of everyone’s dignities, imposing curfews, rations and rules – rules that now meant that her best friend was no longer ‘acceptable’. It was unthinkable; she was the bravest person she knew.

  Mireille woke up the next morning tired, her stomach grumbling from hunger. It was a new state of affairs. The rations that the Nazis had put them on meant that some days there just wasn’t enough to go around between her, her father and Clotilde – who as a Jew got even less. Combined with the stress of having the Nazis constantly inside the shop, her hunger meant that she was now always stressed, always on edge, and it showed.

  The army doctor, Mattaus Fredericks, returned to the Gribouiller six weeks after he’d first ordered his medical dictionary from the shop. As time had passed he’d found that the book he’d ordered wasn’t quite as necessary any more – he’d had to learn medical French fast these past few months. Pain only spoke one language, after all. Still, when the young Mademoiselle Mireille from the bookstore called to tell him his book was there, he decided to come and get it anyway, mostly so that he could see her face again. There wasn’t much to brighten his days at the hospital, and he looked forward to seeing the pretty young bookseller more than he’d like to admit.

  When he walked inside, his eyes fell on her sitting behind a large desk, where she was shuffling piles of paperwork. He cleared his throat to get her attention. She looked up with a pained frown and he was shocked to see the change in her from their first meeting. Her large blue eyes had lost their sparkle, and the silvery sheen was less prominent in her shoulder-length blonde hair. Her skin was almost grey. She was still beautiful, but looked ever so slightly washed out, like a watercolour painting.