Lost in Paris by Elizabeth Thompson (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

large handled bag and a beverage tray like she’s making an offering. I suppose she is.

“Come, my chickens,” she says. “It’s a big, big day. We must start with a good breakfast.”

As she prances to her desk and clears away the papers and folders littering the top, it takes every ounce of self-control for me not to yell at her to take her sugar-and-carb buffet and get out.

She’s an hour and a half late. Oh wait, my bad. She didn’t know the call time because she’s been pouting since we got back from London. She didn’t ask and I sure as hell didn’t offer the information.

I won’t be able to concentrate until I ask her the burning question. “A reporter from The Guardian called asking about a newly discovered Andres Armand manuscript. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

She frowns at me. “Hannah, what are you talking about? Of course I know about the manuscript, but I would be the last person to call the press. You know how I feel about people poking around our home, pilfering through Ivy’s and Andres’s belongings.”

Oh.

I never thought this link to our family would mean so much to my mother, but it does, and she’s hell-bent on protecting it. I’m inclined to believe her, but I had also let myself believe she was done with men before Martin Gaynor happened.

October 1939

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

Paris began mobilizing for war when Germany invaded Poland in September. Andres’s mood turned dark after he was rejected because of the deafness in his left ear when he tried to sign up to fight.

None of this makes sense to me because the fighting is so far away. It’s not even in Paris.

Andres is like an angry bull ready to charge at the slightest provocation. I tried to soothe him by assuring him his condition only made me love him more, but that didn’t lighten his mood.

I feel so alone.

Many of our American friends have returned to the States. If you look at the ones who are left in Paris, you’d never know they had a care. They still dance and drink and carry on as if nothing is wrong. Andres thinks such frivolousness is inappropriate. I can’t reconcile the urgency that is plaguing him with their untarnished merriment.

I try to assure him that his not being able to fight is a good thing, a blessing that will keep him here with me, but he doesn’t see it that way. He gets angry with me, saying that real men live to defend their country from such evil. That’s why he has formed a new set of acquaintances. A group of serious men who meet once a week in his apartment and talk of danger.

They don’t realize it, but I listen to them from the kitchen and I can hear every word they say.

There is talk of resistance, talk of Andres helping the war effort in unofficial ways, such as delivering packages and conveying messages. Today he asked if I would be willing to open our homes to people of the Jewish faith who might need help. It scares me, but of course I’m willing to help.

I think of Madame Dreyfus, who owns the boulangerie, and how she gave me a job in my time of need. I hope she’s okay. I can’t understand how anyone would hurt as gentle and giving a woman as she.

I ask Andres if he knows when that time might come. He doesn’t know. Nobody does. I wish I could calm him. I fear he will pace the floor until he receives word either way.

I will say enough prayers for both of us, that the troops will not move any closer to my beloved Paris. Still, I will visit Madame Dreyfus tomorrow and make sure she and her family are well and safe. I will let her know she can count on us.

All this talk of war reminds me of the international exposition Paris sponsored in 1937 at the Champ de Mars and the esplanade of the Palais de Chaillot.

When we happened upon the pavilions of the Soviet Union, with its hammer and sickle, and of Germany, with its swastika, Andres yelled at the Germans that they were not welcome. For a fraught moment, I feared he and a German soldier would come to blows. It took much cajoling and pleading on my part to get Andres to walk away, but he finally did after I made an appeal for my own safety.

Looking back on that day and knowing what I know now, the cold shadow Germany casts over this city makes me shiver.

God help us all.

Twenty-Five

February 2, 2019—10:00 a.m.

Paris, France

Marla stuck around to help, and she even came in with a last-minute request for a straggler to join the tour. I almost said no because we were at capacity, but she persisted. Apparently, the woman is only in town this week and was so captivated by the sound of the tour that Marla told her she would see what she could do. The softy that I am caved.

I can’t wait to find out where she heard about us. Perhaps the seeds Marla claims to have planted with travel writers really are paying off.

“What’s her name?” I ask. “I’ll add her to the roster.”

Marla puts on her readers and holds up the booking slip. “Her first name is Venus. Middle initial D. Last name is Milo.”

As Marla spells it, T, Emma, and I break into a chorus of laughter.

“Venus D. Milo?” I say, pen poised. “Are you kidding?”

Marla looks confused.

“Is that her real name, then?” Emma asks.

Marla frowns. “That’s what she said. Why should I doubt her?”

“Well, we are very happy to welcome Ms. Milo to the tour,” says Emma. “Marla, I’m so proud of you for doing such a bang-up job filling the seats.”

Marla beams with pride, and it annoys me because she’s been absent more than she’s been here recently. At least she showed today when we’re