A Last Letter from Paris

Sandrine climbed the steps wearily, heaving one foot after the other. The church of Sacre Coeur loomed over her disdainfully. The few vegetables she gleaned from the Halle St-Pierre would provide a meagre meal; a couple of blackening potatoes, wilted greens, a soft onion likely to stink by tomorrow. Since the Germans arrived food was scarce. Perhaps Metzger, the butcher near the synagogue, had a small piece of dried fish. She did her best to provide for her mother, frail, immobile in their cramped apartment.

The streets were empty. In the park, foliage in variegated shades drooped in the sun. Neglected roses dropped fading petals, weeds grew across the unkempt beds. A playground entertained a solitary small boy, sitting vacant and unmoving on a swing.

Motors once swarmed on the Boulevard, like ants on a mission. Today, just three cars crawled past, then a grey army lorry bouncing on the cobbles. When the Germans arrived, people overloaded their Citroens and Peugeots and went south. The rich escaped to the Riviera. The poor hoped that relatives in distant towns would take them in.

Once lively districts were desolated. Jewish families fled, a second time for those who had already escaped Vienna or Prague. Max had followed, to the countryside, with other young men, to join the Resistance. He worked for the Communists and would have been a target for the Gestapo.

Last year Sandrine and Max exchanged betrothal rings. If the Germans had not come they would have been married. Sandrine stayed for her mother, hoping that an ailing woman and her dowdy daughter would pass unnoticed. She put away her Star of David pendant.

Every month, Max sent her a postcard with a picturesque view of a village and a bland message, poste restante to La Poste in the Rue du Louvre: ‘The weather here is pleasantly warm but there may be thunderstorms.’ Hinting that all was well, perhaps. They had agreed false names. She was ‘Mademoiselle Bouchot’, he became ‘Monsieur Boulanger’.

Reaching the post office, Sandrine loitered to see if the Police or worse, the Gestapo, were lurking. One morning the clerk checked the pigeonhole for her letter but on returning to the counter stared over her shoulder, suggesting she might come tomorrow. As she turned away, a man in a grey overcoat was leaning against a pillar.

Sandrine used to earn a living as a dressmaker but the fashion houses had closed and gone south to follow their clientele. She found menial work, mending, altering and remaking. It brought a few francs and enabled them to eat. One day her skills were suddenly in demand but her hands trembling as she sewed. The Germans had decreed that Jews must wear a yellow Star of David.

Weeks later an explosion rattled the windows of their apartment, breaking the eerie peace of the occupied city. The curfew kept them indoors, they could only speculate on the cause. Next morning huddles of people, concern etched on their faces, gravitated towards a street just off the boulevard. Hebrew prayers were quietly whispered.

Sandrine joined them, moving in a processional towards the synagogue. They were stopped by a police line before they could reach the blackened, still smoking entrance, the window bearing the Star of David smashed. Two rabbis in black coats rocked on their heels murmuring interminable prayers.

The crowd grew, perturbing the Police who ordered everyone away on pain of arrest. Sandrine walked back slowly. She did not leave the apartment for many days, the grey October skies portentous. When she had to make a foray to find food, the streets were empty even before the curfew. Reaching La Poste, guarded by a policeman, she walked past the entrance. The yellow star sewn on her coat marked her. She hurried on, looking down to hide her fear.

Reaching the Rue de Rivoli she hid in a doorway, trying to calm her beating heart. She failed to recognise this place with its unreal atmosphere. Boutiques were thronged with people gazing at elaborate shop windows. Smiling couples held each other as they crossed the road. Waiters bustled outside the cafes, balancing drinks for the boisterous young men and women.

She drew her coat together, covering her yellow star. The men wore grey uniforms, some with black trimmings. They joked with each other in their guttural tongue. They spoke in broken French to smiling young women, well dressed, with too much make up. Sandrine had run out of lipstick a year ago. She turned and hurried away.

She wanted to write to Max, warning him that Paris was dangerous. But he probably knew that already. She needed to say ‘farewell’ rather than ‘au revoir’. A few days later, foraging for eggs, she surreptitiously dropped it in the box at the little post office on Rue Duc.

Returning to the apartment, she was confronted by a commotion in the alley. Horrified, she saw her mother carried out on a chair by two policemen who manoeuvred her into the back of a lorry. Sandrine rushed forward to protest. A policeman stopped her.

‘Are you Sandrine Drucker?’ She nodded, perplexed that he knew her name. She could say nothing except to condemn herself.

‘Then you must come with us. Please pack a few things in a small suitcase, for both of you. Now. S’il vous plait.’ She obeyed, unable to comprehend, chaos crashing in her head. Just one thought came through. She hoped that Max would get her letter.