The Paris Library(100)
“The war’s not over,” Mr. Pryce-Jones warned.
“But it’s the beginning of the end,” the Countess said.
“I’ll drink to that,” M. de Nerciat said.
“You’ll drink to anything, old chap!”
On the scraggly lawn, staff and subscribers laughed and kissed and cried. The band—made up of six subscribers—swayed between “Stars and Stripes Forever” and “La Marseillaise.” Paul and I danced all night long. It was as if I’d held my breath for months and could exhale. I’d lived in the present, almost fearing the future. But the fight to survive was over, and Paul and I could start making plans. I let myself dream about a home and children.
* * *
DESPITE CITYWIDE FESTIVITIES, Margaret was glum. Her Leutnant had been arrested, and she didn’t know where he’d been taken. Worse, after a four-year absence, her husband had returned. Life with Lawrence stretched before her like a desolate country road. To take her mind from things, I invited her for a stroll in the Tuileries. Among the trees, in the dappled light, I watched her pick at her pearls. I wanted to console her, but didn’t know what to say.
There was a ruckus coming from the other side of the fence, the pounding of a drum and Parisians shouting. Perhaps a parade to celebrate the Liberation, or even victory! Hoping it would cheer her, I coaxed Margaret through the gate.
On either side of the rue de Rivoli, hundreds of men, women, and children clapped as a man thumping a bass drum passed. Next, an old man in a ragged suit dangled a plucked chicken, waving it in the air. Beneath the cadence of the beats, I thought I heard a wail.
“It can’t be.” Margaret pointed to the old man.
As he moved closer, I saw it wasn’t a chicken but a naked baby that he held. At the sight of the sobbing infant, I felt myself go dumb with shock.
“The Krauts left a souvenir,” he cried, swinging the babe by its legs.
“Bastard, bastard,” chanted the crowd. “Son of a whore!”
Behind him, two men dragged a woman through the street. She was naked. And she was bald. Her feet were bloodied from being scraped along the cobblestones, her body white with fright. A dark patch of pubic hair stood vivid against her skin. She tried to break away, to reach her child, but the jailers jerked her back.
“Tramp!” a man in the crowd shouted. “Where’s your lover now?”
I’d never seen a bared woman, and now felt naked and violated myself. I stepped forward to help her, but Margaret grabbed my arm.
“There’s nothing we can do,” she said.
She was right. This wasn’t a parade, it was a mob. There was no stopping them. People were savages; I’d had years of proof. “Bastard, bastard,” they chanted. “Son of a whore!” Tears rolled down my cheeks. Completely surrounded, Margaret and I tried to move on, through the sea of bony elbows and scornful finger-pointing.
“The Germans never would have permitted this,” a middle-aged woman tsked.
“Do you see who’s holding the young woman, there on the right?” another said. “Last week, he was serving beer and saucisses to the Fritz.”
“Who cares about him!” a man said. “That slut broke the rules.”
“You don’t choose who you love,” Margaret whispered.
“It isn’t about love,” he replied. “Only whores do what she did.”
Margaret was shaking. Was she shocked by the condemnation of the crowd, or did she see herself in the young mother? I tucked her torso tight against mine and guided her home.
The day was not done. Four blocks away, on a makeshift scaffold in the middle of the square, a city official wearing a blue, white, and red sash stood behind a woman and gripped her nape. Dressed in what appeared to be her Sunday best, she stared ahead while a barber shaved her head. Zip, zip, zip, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if he’d shaved dozens of women. As the clippers glided over her scalp, sandy tresses fell onto her shoulders. Le barbier tossed them to the ground like garbage. On the side of the stage, surrounded by men in uniform, five Fran?aises watched what would become of them as the crowd jeered. There’d been no trial, only this unseemly sentence. Seeing the women, dry-eyed and dignified, I wiped away my tears.
CHAPTER 42
The Barbershop Quartet
ON PATROL, PAUL and his colleagues Ronan and Philippe happened upon Margaret, returning home from the market, a bunch of sickly carrots in her wicker basket. “How lovely to see you,” she said to Paul. The men exchanged glances, That’s her, the slut with the Fritz. Well, where is he now? The pearls around Margaret’s neck reminded Paul of all he’d been unable to offer Odile. Margaret’s white silk dress and hat reminded Ronan and Philippe that it had been years since they’d bought their wives new outfits. Impulsively, Paul took Margaret’s elbow and tugged her along. Philippe grabbed her other arm.
“My goodness, Paul! Where are we going? Stop! My carrots fell out!”
Margaret laughed, believing them still carried away by the joy of the Liberation, when total strangers kissed and danced. This laughter twisted Paul’s gut, making him angrier than he’d ever been. She sensed no danger, which made the men even more incensed. How dare she laugh at us? They were dangerous, damn it. The fact that they hadn’t fought for the army didn’t make them cowards. They’d spent the war patrolling the city, and knew every dodgy, deserted centimeter.