Despite all this decadence, or maybe the decadence is a reaction to reality, there is fear here. I can taste it. I’ll also concede there are soldiers here—German ones on leave, I think, alongside our French. Actually, that should prove something. If war between France and Germany was a heartbeat away, as Father says, they wouldn’t dare visit. Their conflict is to the east, clearly, but Paris holds nothing but good food, wine, and culture for them.
Father isn’t alone in his concerns, I’ll be fair and admit that. A couple weeks ago, Schiap was snappish and cut off Martine for expressing her political anxieties. She doesn’t allow such talk in her salon and she punished Martine by reassigning her for a week to work shipping out of the basement—it was better than being fired. Penance paid, Martine is back in her studio, needle in hand.
So, yes, tensions exist. It may all come down to the passing of an age. Don’t you expect every age experiences the sour fear of letting go of the past before it can burst forth in a fully new present? Growing pains . . .
In the end, I suspect we are both right, dear sister. We are at the edge of a precipice. The difference is you believe we will fall, while I choose to believe we will soar.
Time will tell who is right.
I love you,
Caro
P.S. I know we talked about me visiting again this summer, but I don’t think I will. I’m not trying to punish anyone, but life is busy and coming home to fight with Father, or with you, is not enticing. Your world and mine feel too far away to bridge right now. If it were only the two of us, I believe you and I could make it, but Father and Mother will never allow me to carry an original thought through Parkley’s front door.
Please come here, Margo. I will welcome you with open arms, show you all around town, dress you beautifully—and we will have fun like we used to.
XXO
Twenty-One
3 July 1938
Dear Beatrice,
It’s my last day in Paris. Mother insisted I come for soaps and knits, but she sent me for Caro. It was so obvious it was insulting she didn’t just come out and say it.
She did say to tell Caro she worries.
“A sneeze makes Mother worry,” Caro retorted. “Your sneeze, that is.”
I glanced away, feeling weak and embarrassed that I couldn’t deny it. Mother grows apoplectic whenever I catch cold.
But after two days, after two minutes, I sensed the futility of this mission. Caro is never going to come home with me. I will take home a trunk of outrageously priced soaps, clothes, and linens—I don’t think Mother fathomed how scarce and dear such items are becoming—and I will leave my sister behind.
I will leave her behind because she doesn’t see the problem.
“You see demons everywhere. Herr Hitler and his Wehrmacht are not coming here. Austria was Germany’s before and now it is again. End of story.”
“There are German soldiers all over Paris,” I shouted back. I never shout.
“This isn’t England, Margo. It’s the cultural capital of the world and an easy train ride for all of Europe. They aren’t here to fight. There’s no war. Of course there are visitors in Paris.”
Visitors.
She continued, “Besides, if it ever came to it, the Germans do not touch the numbers of French soldiers. We’ve been building up the army for the past couple years. That, along with the Maginot Line, will keep Hitler from ever glancing to France.”
“We?” I retorted. “In a recent letter you said France was worn out and couldn’t handle another war. You’re switching stories, dear sister, and if Father were here, he’d say, ‘The lady doth protest too much.’”
She set her head at a sideways angle like she did when we were children and I had done something senseless that landed me in trouble. “Don’t let them do this to you, Margo.”
“Do what?” I felt cool, as if all the blood had dropped to my feet. There was never any pretending between us. I knew where she was headed—again.
She stated it anyway. “Make you afraid. Of everything.”
I’m so tired of being perceived as weak and afraid by everyone, including Caro—who more than anyone should know my strength. I saved her more times growing up than she can count, yet she looks at me now as if I’m a cowering simpleton swooning on a couch.
I’ve changed. I can’t deny that, but when I look around, the world has changed equally if not more so. As Caro told me months ago, should we not change with it? Perhaps my change isn’t one toward cowering fear, but toward a better understanding of the real dragons out there. Fear can be a rational and appropriate response.
I stiffened my spine and spat out words that tasted bitter and hard, but surprisingly good. “At least I’m seeing clearly. Look around, Caro, because the tension is palpable here. You can taste it. You can smell it. It covers every surface, oozes into every pore. The Germans are not here for vacation. They may say that, but their arrogance, their swagger—they know something you all don’t. They know they have won before they’ve begun to fight. They sneer as they toss their cigarette butts into the streets as if this is dirty ground and they will own it, and when they do, they will destroy it.”
I straightened my spine more, if that was even possible. “Your soldiers? They won’t outnumber the Germans. Their rearmament has been gaining speed for years, back when Hitler ceased paying reparations, and your President Lebrun and Prime Minister Daladier are hiding like the rest of them, not standing against him at all. And you and your friends? You do nothing. You talk about clothes, act urbane with your new politics, as if it’s all theoretical and carries no real consequences, then you race to drink, race to laugh, and race to find meaning when it’s all crumbling around you—and despite me coming to get you and bring you back where you are loved, you’ll stay in this cesspool and do it again tomorrow. Until your tomorrows run out.”
Caro and I stared at each other. The sound of my breathing and cars passing on the road outside filled the space between us. I counted breaths waiting for her to speak.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
“Our conceptions of love and home are very different, Margo. I wish, for once, you could understand that.”
She cloaked those final sentences in velveted steel and not in the anger I expected. She looked sad, forlorn. I’ve sensed that before and I’ve pushed her to share with me, but she won’t. I can’t reach whatever has hurt my sister. Perhaps that’s the problem. She can’t reach me either.
Instead of staying and hashing it out, she swiped at her eyes, grabbed her handbag, muttered something about the work, and left.
She hasn’t returned.
4 July 1938
Dear Beatrice,
Caro came in late last night. She crawled onto the bed I’m sharing with her and said one word: “Stay.”
I rolled over and hugged her. She knows I cannot and, for some reason, she will not come home with me. But one thing is certain: my dear sister sees far more than she lets on. She senses fully what is ahead, yet she won’t give in. There is something broken in her that has become defiant, that wasn’t there when we were kids. It scares me and I suspect I am to blame.