“At Amiens with the Brits. I was a cavalry officer, but then someone found out I speak English, so now I help coordinate actions between the Allied forces.”
“Important work,” I said.
“I amuse the Tommies, at any rate. And since you won’t tell me your name, I shall amuse them tomorrow by saying that I met Marthe Chenal.”
“The opera singer?”
“A good guess, no? Wasn’t that you singing the ‘Marseillaise’ so beautifully? At least I thought so when I heard you singing on the street.”
“Well, I am a singer,” I confessed. “Or at least I was some time ago.”
“If you were, you’d be a star.”
“Oh, I am.”
The stranger chuckled. “Well, you are dazzling. What did a humble banker like me do to deserve your company?”
“I used to be a lot humbler than you. Poorer than a peasant.” How easy it was to tell the truth to a stranger. “Born on the wrong side of the blanket. Had to support my mother and brother from the time I turned eleven by entertaining those who could pay.”
His footsteps came to a halt and I could almost hear him worrying that he’d fallen into the clutches of a prostitute. “Entertaining them?”
“I had a talent for singing and dancing.” I squeezed his arm playfully, tugging him along. “I became a star—weren’t you listening?”
He grinned, exhaling a relieved breath. “It’s unkind to taunt a soldier who returns to duty in the morning . . .”
“Ruminating on the mystery of me will give you something to live for.”
He laughed at that, long and hard. We both did. Thus, it was with real regret that when we crossed the street, I stopped under the arcade near the doors to the St. James. “This is my hotel . . .”
He nodded, then took my uninjured hand to kiss. “Adieu, Marthe. Be well.”
“Adieu, Captain. May fortune protect you.”
He tipped his cap. Snapped his coat straight. Turned to walk away.
Then something occurred to me. “Captain!”
He turned back, hands in his pockets.
“Would you care to come inside?” I asked, gratified by the color on his cheeks that was revealed by the light of the hotel lobby. His flush meant that he wasn’t the sort of man who ordinarily went into hotels with women he’d just met, but his nod meant he was willing to make an exception for me . . .
I felt almost guilty for giving him false hopes. Inside the lobby, I took a card from the abandoned concierge’s desk and began writing. “You said you’re going back to Amiens in the morning. I have a nephew in the trenches fighting near there. His parents have crossed an ocean to see him, but their messages aren’t getting through. If there’s anything you can do to get word to him, I’d be very grateful.”
“Grateful enough to exchange names?”
I smiled. “At least that grateful, if not more. You can tell me yours, anyway.”
He gave a little bow. “Captain Maxime Furlaud, at your service, madame.”
NINETEEN
MARTHE
Chavaniac-Lafayette
December 1941
What a difference a name makes. It was surprisingly easy to transform a sickly little Jewish girl named Gabriella Kohn into Gabriella Beaufort. Just a few pieces of paper. Now I give a reassuring wink to the apple-cheeked girl as she spoons a carrot into her mouth, sitting with the other girls in the dining hall.
The baroness has adorned the tables with red and white cloths and baskets filled with winter flowers. It’s important, she says, to give our Lafayette kids as much of a sense of normalcy as we can. I don’t know how normal it is to eat thin cabbage soup with withered carrots, then file in orderly fashion back to bed and sleep seventeen hours a day—doctor’s orders—but I can’t deny the good effect the treatment is having on Gabriella. When she got here she was a mouse of a thing—terrified to meet anyone’s eyes—and I don’t blame her after the stern warning given by her father: If anyone finds out you’re Jewish, everyone you love might be arrested and killed.
That’s enough to scare the wits out of anybody, but after two months at the preventorium, Gabriella has gained four pounds, her curly hair is taking on a healthy gloss, and her lesions are gone. And I’m feeling entirely justified about what I did to get her admitted, even though it’s been hard to keep from Anna.
We’re supposed to have lunch together, but when I see her in the corridor, she has a pear and says, “I’ve got too much work, unless you want to eat with me at my desk . . .”