My heart broke into a happy dance. I had landed the job as Madame Paulette’s sales assistant. Always good with my hands, I wrapped up the bras in beautiful layers of delicate, scented tissue paper. The ecstatic customer couldn’t wait to hand over a crisp hundred-dollar bill for the three bras.
From that day on, I worked from ten to six every day except Saturdays when Madame Paulette, who I learned was Jewish and from Paris, took a day off to observe Shabbat. Despite her diminutive size, she was an incredible, bigger than life woman who understood people, understood life, and understood the basic need women had to look and feel beautiful under their clothes. She taught me about how to examine the quality of lace, how to tell the difference between nylon and silk stockings, how to take a woman’s measurements, how to make an alluring window display, how to charm customers, and even how to handle gentlemen who were shopping for something sexy for their secret mistresses. “Life eez no fun without sex or wine,” she would preach. Twice a year, she would go to Paris and handpick items for the boutique. Every day, she gave me a French lesson so that one day I would be prepared to go to Paris. “Zee French are so difficiles,” she’d always complain in her charming accent.
The one thing I’d noticed while working at her store was the number of young women who stopped in on their lunch breaks or way home from work, allured by the beautiful display windows. Inside the shop, they lusted for the exquisite but exorbitant French lingerie that they, like me, couldn’t afford. I was convinced there was a market for gorgeous, sexy underwear at a reasonable price. When I shared this thought with Madame Paulette, she shooed me away with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Mon dieu! I can sell nothing but zee best!”
I’d been working for her for a little over two years and had just turned eighteen when over a bottle of Bordeaux, which we shared every Friday evening to welcome Shabbat, Madame Paulette broke the news that she wanted to retire and was going to sell the business. My heart sank. There was no guarantee that the store would remain a lingerie shop or if I was promised a job. “Would you like to buy it, ma chérie?” she asked. After the shock died down, I told her I would love to, but there was no way I could come up with the twenty-five thousand dollar down payment. Madame Paulette was as disappointed as I was but needed the money for her retirement.
A potential buyer was in the picture—Boris Borofsky. He was a tough Russian gangster—a freakish pink-eyed albino—who wanted to buy the business for his idle, bottle-blond trophy wife, Ina. The latter took a strong disliking to me, and I knew if the deal went through, I’d be out of a job. I wanted the business so badly. I had visions for it and dreams! But with my meager wages and the cost of living in Brooklyn, I hadn’t managed to save a penny.
Kevin, with his boyish good looks and winning personality, had gotten a job as the host of an underground “men’s club” that happened to be owned by the obnoxious Russian pursuing Madame Paulette’s business. He’d been able to save five thousand dollars and offered the cash to me.
“Kev, I can’t take your money,” I sobbed, touched by his offer. “Plus, I would need to come up with twenty thousand dollars more.”
“I have an idea,” he said.
I listened without interruption as he explained his plan… to rob the club. He hated the abusive Russian more than I did. He was a cheap, foul-mouthed womanizer without an ounce of humanity. Moreover, he was a gay-basher who had threatened Kevin with both his job and life. Because many of his business deals involved drugs and human trafficking, he kept hoards of loose cash in a safe in the basement. A single security guard made regular deposits after hours.
A deep shudder ran through me as I flashed back to that terrible night. A night I wish I could forget but couldn’t. The night of terror that scarred me forever, emotionally and physically. The vault... the alarm… the assault…the gun shots…the screaming…the pain… the blackness…the blood. My eyes grew watery.
“Madame, I did something terrible.” A tear trickled down my cheek. “I hope you can forgive me.” I recounted my crime with no detail spared. By the time I was done telling her the secret I’d hidden all these years, I was a blubbering mess.
She took my icy cold hands in her warm ones. “Ma pauvre petite, you are lucky to be alive.”
Her reaction stunned me. I thought for sure she would condemn me. She tenderly brushed away my tears and continued.
“Do you know, ma chérie, the Russian came to my store looking for you?”
My tear-soaked eyes widened. “He did?”
“Oui. I knew there was something terribly wrong because you did not come to work or call in for several days. En plus, he was missing teeth, and there was a thick bandage on each cheek.”