October 25th, 1943
Dear Dandelion,
Something happened today; something extraordinary.
I woke up as I always have, and I went to the basement. And though the sun rises later and later every day, this morning the sky was a particularly eerie shade of cobalt, both electric and foreboding.
When I turned on the light in the basement, it flickered several times before staying. I turned on the gas ovens. I grabbed my apron from the hook on the wall. I pulled it over my head, and I was just about to tie the back when I heard a sound like a muffled voice — it was coming from the hidden room.
I wheeled the shelves away that concealed the door, and pressed my ear right up to it.
Yes, I heard two voices — two men's voices — but the tone was so tinny and dry, I knew right away that it must be the radio.
I cursed myself for being so careless, convinced that I must have left the thing on myself the night before.
But because the door is not meant to be seen, because it is meant to be flush with the wall, there is no door handle on the outside.
I reached for the metal spatula that I usually use to pry the door open, but then I paused.
Someone was in the bakery upstairs. I know because I heard the little bell above the door.
"Bonjour?" I called out.
"Delphine!" Madame Bijou called back. "Come here, girl!"
I set the spatula aside, curious because Bijou hardly ever came to the bakery, and never so early in the morning.
I hurried upstairs.
She was flustered. She was out of breath. She held a suitcase in her hand, and I thought for a moment that it was the very same suitcase you had purchased all those years ago, the one we had used to transport the Enigma machine to Le Chiot.
I stared and stared at the thing, but I could not be completely sure. It was no longer brand new; the edges were well worn with use.
"What is that?" I said. "Are you going somewhere?"
"Non," she said, glancing out the window. "Non. It's not for me."
"Oh," I said.
I hesitated before adding, "Is it for me?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead she leaned toward the window, first pulling up the blinds, then looking anxiously down the street.
I waited for her reply and my heart pounded. After all, I had silently wondered when I'd be the next to disappear; just as Mae had disappeared; just as all the others had disappeared, all the ones who must have slept in my bed before me.
Finally, she left the window and hurried behind the counter. She set the suitcase down and out of sight.
"Non," she said. "I'm expecting a special package today. I can't be sure when, but someone will come and…"
Just then a woman pushed open the bakery door. The bell above the door chimed over the sound of the her panting.
She looked from me to Bijou. Her mouth hung open, like she was at a loss for words. She also carried a suitcase, but hers was larger and bulkier, and so she held it with two hands. She set it down, making a great effort to be gentle.
She wore tattered gloves and a tattered coat with a large green triangle sewn into the breast. I knew what it meant.
Gypsy.
But that's not all it means, Cosima. Any patch like that — it doesn't matter what shape it is — any patch like that sewn into your coat, and it can only mean one thing…
"Ehm…" she stuttered.
"How can we help you?" Bijou said.
"I… I buy choux à la crème…" she said.
"I'm sorry," I said. "We are sold out of crème fraîche until Thursday."
I said the words automatically — though, clearly, this woman was not here to pick up the logbook.
"Then two dozen…" the woman said.
"Yes, we understand," Bijou said, stepping out from behind the counter.
She carried the smaller suitcase to the door and set it down.
"Delphine, take this woman's bag! Now!"
When I reached for the bag's handle, the woman grabbed my hand. Our eyes met. Black dust had settled into the wrinkles of her tanned skin, but the whites of her eyes were incredibly clear.
"Please, be gentle," she whispered.
"D'accord," I said.
But when I picked up the suitcase, it was so heavy, and the weight was so awkwardly distributed, that I thought for a moment that I must be lifting a suitcase full of rocks.
The woman slipped a fistfull of bills into Bijou's pocket, and Bijou slipped the smaller suitcase into the woman's dirty hands.
"Go now!" Bijou said. "Go and don't look back!"
The woman nodded her head and was out the door before I had even gotten to the stairwell.
I turned to watch her go, and I wish I hadn't, Cosima. I really wish I hadn't.
She scurried down the street, you see, her head down and her chin tucked into her coat. She scurried along, staying in the shadows of the storefronts, just as a rat stays in the shadows of the gutter, her silhouette blending in with the dark gray morning.
And then I heard it.
I heard the gunshot.
I heard it before I ever heard the whistle or the siren.
I saw the smoke; it rose up from the hole in the back of her coat. It rose up and blended in with the dark gray morning.
She staggered, but did not stop. No, she cut diagonally across the street but she did not stop and she did not look back, not once.
Another gunshot. Another hole in her back. Another puff of smoke.
She fell forward on the pavement, landing on her knees first, and then onto her face. The suitcase fell at her side.
Bijou, who had also been watching the grisly scene, backed away from the window.
And that's when we heard the whistles.
"Move!" Bijou said. "You must hide it! Now! Under the stairs!"
I picked up the suitcase. And through some unknown reserve of strength, I hefted it down the stairs to the basement. I pried open that door. I shoved the suitcase in, not even noticing that the radio was no longer on.
No, there was no time to notice a thing like that.
At that moment, all I could hear was the screech of tires in the street, and whistles and men's voices.
I shoved the suitcase into the room, closed the door and slammed the shelves back into place, knocking over a jar of strawberry preserves in the process.
I caught it, thank goodness, before it could shatter on the floor.
Then I ran to the basement window, and standing on my tippy toes, I looked out.
I saw your suitcase in the road — or what was left of it. It had been busted open, perhaps under the wheels of the car, and now a man in a black trench coat sorted through the contents, throwing the clothing and books into the street.
Another man stood over the woman's body. He leaned over, grabbed her by the shoulder, and rolled her onto her back. Once he saw her face, he left her where she lay, her body twisted at the torso.
From where I was, I could not see her face, but I could see her short breaths, rising up, white at first, then fading into the dark gray morning.
Upstairs, I heard the front door slam open.
"That's it, Bijou!" a man shouted. "You've gone too far this time!"
"Officer Dupin," Bijou said. "It's always a pleasure."
"Where's the girl?"
"What girl?"
"The little Gypsy girl!"
"I don't know what you are rambling on about, but we don't serve Gypsies here."
"Then you won't mind if we search the premises?"
"Be my guest," Bijou said.
And they did search the premises, Cosima. They searched the entire building. There were three of them, Officer Dupin, and two others, all in long black trench coats and matching hats.
You may remember Officer Dupin, the one who asked for your identification all those years ago. He's Gestapo now.
His men searched the first floor, opening every cupboard and drawer, then opening the register.
"We'll have to take this for evidence," Dupin said, pocketing the cash in the register.
"How convenient," Bijou said. "Be sure to return it when your investigation has concluded."
"Oh, I'm sure we will."
Then they moved to the basement, running their arms over entire shelves in slow, deliberate sweeps, knocking the contents onto the floor in a crescendo of crashes.
But they did not find the secret door.
In fact, the longer I watched them, the more I suspected that they had no idea. They didn't actually believe the there was a little girl in our bakery at all. No, no. The smile on Dupin's face made it clear, he was doing all of this out of spite.
Finally, they checked the rooms upstairs, and when an officer opened my wardrobe, I felt a sudden panic. The pistol was in my coat pocket — and it was a German model!
I held my breath as the officer ran his hand between the only garments I owned; two dresses, a pair of pants, a blouse, and the coat.
But then he closed the door, and I took a breath. Just barely.
Next he ran his hand over my nightstand and picked up Laurent's lighter. He flicked the top — flick, flick, flick — but no flame came out. He shook the thing close to his ear, shrugged his shoulders, and set it back down on the nightstand.
Just then Dupin stepped into the room.
"What are these rooms for, Bijou?" he said. "Are you running a brothel here?"
"They're guest rooms," Bijou said, her voice flat. "For family."
"For family?"
"I have a big family," she said.
Dupin turned to me. I thought for a moment he'd recognize me, but no, he didn't even make eye contact.
"Show me your identification, girl."
I glanced at Bijou. She nodded her head.
I took out the envelope which she had given me, the one that contained all the papers with my new name. I handed it to Dupin, but he had no intention of looking at it himself. He flicked his chin toward one of the other men.
That man — the one who had searched my room — he snatched the envelope from my hand and dumped the contents onto the bed; a passport, a birth certificate, a school diploma, and two death certificates, each one bearing a name that I didn't recognize, each one representing a parent that I had never known.
Dupin sniffed his nose casually, then turned away.
"Alright," he said. "You're clear today, but we're watching you, Bijou."
"I should hope so," Bijou said. "That's your job, after all… to protect us."
"Something like that," Dupin said before walking out the door.
We followed them down the stairs and to the front door.
Once outside, they returned to the middle of the street, where several more Gestapo were gathered around the woman's body. I caught glimpse of her, still twisted in the street. I saw no white breaths rising up — I saw nothing but a dark gray heap that blended into the dark gray morning.
"Go clean up the basement," Bijou said. "We still have to bake bread today."
"And the suitcase?"
"Yes," she said, her lip trembling. "The suitcase..."
"What's in it?"
"Anyway, we can't check on it now. It's too dangerous. She will have to wait…"
"She?"
Perhaps you are more clever than me, Cosima. Perhaps by this point in my story you have already discerned the contents of the suitcase, but I had no idea until that very moment — the suitcase we had tried so hard to hide, and the Gypsy girl the Gestapo had tried so hard to find, they were one and the same.
I felt sick to my stomach, my hands trembling at the memory of the weight; at the awkward tilt and roll of the thing as I had hauled it down the stairs and shoved it behind the false door. I felt sick remembering my promise to the woman with the green patch on her coat. I felt sick.
"She?" I repeated.
"Go clean up the basement," Bijou repeated. "And whatever you do, don't open that door until I tell you."
I did as she said, though the task took much longer than it should have, because I stopped every few minutes.
I stopped every few minutes, standing upright with the mop in my hands, standing absolutely still so that I could listen. And do you know what I heard?
I heard the muffled sounds of a child's sobs; sobs so quiet that they might not have been real at all; sobs so distant they might have been the echo of all the sobs of every child who has ever cried alone in a small, dark place.
But Bijou told me not to open the door and so I didn't. I baked the bread as I have always done. I set it out as I have always done. I served the customers as I have always done.
The housewife came, complaining about the scene in the street. The SS Officer came, too, with his eyepatch and toothy grin, shaking his head at the Gestapo. "Amateurs," he called them. "Leaving the body in the street like that, just like a stray dog. Don't they know it's bad for community morale? No, you're supposed to get rid of the body as fast as possible...Amateurs."
I felt sick.
I handed his croissant off as fast as possible before retreating into the stairwell, taking a waste basket with me.
And not a minute too soon, Cosima, because as soon as I got out of sight of the customers, I vomited up what little bit of food I had eaten that morning.
Madame Bijou chastised me.
"Pull yourself together," she said. "This is not the time for weakness!"
"Oui," I said. "I'm fine. I'm fine."
I wiped my tears and returned to work.
And somehow I survived — until I locked the front door and Bijou lowered the blinds over the windows — I survived.
Together we went down to the basement. Together we pulled the shelf aside. Together we pried the door open. Together we reached for the suitcase, but my hands were faster and nimbler than hers, and so she relented, sitting heavily on the chair as I unzipped the bag.
I will never forget the sound.
And when the suitcase was laid open, a young girl uncurled herself from it — slowly, painfully — her joints cracking and her face slick with dirt, snot and tears.
She was young, maybe four or five years old. Her hair was dark, her skin was dark, and her eyes — which were enormous for her small face — they were copper like old coins. Everything about her was brown, save for the whites of her eyes, which were as clear as her mother's.
"Bonjour," Bijou said with a forced sweetness.
The girl regarded us, still standing in the center of the suitcase. She blinked once, twice, then rubbed at her eyes with her fists balled up, and when she brought her hands away, she seemed disappointed that we had not disappeared.
"What's your name?" Bijou said.
The girl blinked again.
"Wie heißen Sie?" I said, surprised at the softness of my own voice.
"Aishe," she said, the last syllable so soft it was barely more than a whispered shhhhhhh.
"Guten Abend, Aishe," I said. "You must be hungry."
She nodded her head.
I brought her a plate of bread and a glass of milk, which she devoured, never taking an eye off of Bijou or myself.
"She will have to sleep here," Bijou said.
"Here? In this room? But there's no bed."
"Well, we can't let her go upstairs, can we? Not with Dupin lurking about. She will have to stay here for a few days, until we can pass her on."
"Pass her on? Pass her on to where? To who?"
"I have contacts in Sweden. There are refugee camps there… orphanages."
"Sweden? How can she travel to Sweden alone? She's just a baby."
We both looked at the girl again. She watched us with wide eyes, not unlike a cat.
"She won't be alone," Bijou said, but I could see doubt in her eyes. "There will be other children."
"Other children? And who is chaperoning these children? Is that what the money is for? The money that woman gave you?"
"Look!" Bijou said, standing up. "This is not up for discussion!"
The girl flinched. I flinched, too.
Bijou took a deep breath and lowered her voice.
"This is the way it has always been done," she said. "We don't have any other choice. Just keep her out of sight while I make the arrangements."
"And how long will that take?"
"Just do as I say," Bijou said.
And that, Cosima, is the story of how this girl, Aishe, came to be curled up in a makeshift bed of blankets on the floor behind me. She fell asleep hours ago, and, thankfully, I have not heard her cry since.
I dare not disobey Bijou, but I also can't bare the idea of locking Aishe in this room alone tonight.
No, when I finish my letter here, I will go upstairs, gather my own pillow and blanket from my own bed and return to this room to sleep by her side.
I'm not worried that it will be cold, cramped or uncomfortable. I'm not worried about losing a goodnight's sleep. Non. In fact, I think I'm actually looking forward to it,
I'm looking forward to not sleeping alone.
Still waiting, still loyal, still yours,
Delphine