***
We left Alex’s father and Solomon. Monsieur Armel had insisted that Alex leave the remainder of the packing to him, as he had only a few more days of freedom left.
“Where will you store everything?” I asked as our hands reached for each other’s.
“We’ll move the boxes to our apartment. It will be crowded, even with me gone, but the books will be safe there...” He seemed confident that his father would be able to manage.
The day was warm and the sky was delft blue. “Let’s go somewhere we’ve never been together before... If I have only a few more days with you, I want to see you next to as many different landscapes as I can...” He leaned over and kissed me.
This time his kiss was firmer, more passionate. When our lips parted, I could see he was savoring every moment between us.
Although I loathed how time was slipping away so quickly, Alex’s kiss felt like a magical box opening inside of me. I now felt beautiful and desirable. And it was as intoxicating as perfume.
***
We ventured toward the Luxembourg Gardens. We would save our money by forsaking the Métro, and instead walk hand in hand toward the park. On the streets, people clutched their belongings to theirchests. Packages wrapped in brown paper. Newspapers that bore the latest Nazi advancements. The looming threat of a German invasion felt like hovering storm clouds, even though all around us were the first signs of spring.
Like the rest of the Parisians, we distracted ourselves with what simple pleasures we could find. On the street, we found a man selling crêpes. Alex reached into his pocket and bought one for us to share.
Our fingers touched as we traded the crêpe between us.
The taste awakened our senses, warm and sweet against our tongues, and inspired us to forsake our shyness.
“Tell me,” he said. “Do you write every night?”
I smiled. I felt my eyes dancing as he asked me about the thing I loved to do most in the world.
“I have written every night since I was twelve. My mother was the one who gave me my first leather journal. And I’ve filled the pages of a dozen others ever since.”
“I’ve always loved to read,” he said, sneaking another glance at me. “Not just the classic novels, but the French philosophers, too.
“Voltaire, Montaigne, Rousseau... I grew up believing the French valued the rights of the individual. I’m not sure I have that same confidence now. Solomon tells us that, in the end, we will be considered Jewish before French.”
I lowered my eyes.
“I suppose I should read some Dumas now. It would provide a well-needed diversion.”
“The Count of Monte Cristowould be perfect... just in case we need to escape from prison,” I replied, trying to match his ability to use comic relief. I knew he was trying to return our conversation back to less gloomy waters. Alex could shift between darkness and light. It was a pattern with him. He could be grave one minutetalking about the war and flirtatious the next. I enjoyed the undulations in our conversation. He always kept me on my toes.
***
We were now at the entrance to the gardens. The grass was green, the palace in the center cut majestically against the sky.
Around us, apple blossoms lifted off of their branches floated in the wind like snow. Pigeons landed on the pebbled pavement and then took flight again as our shoes crunched on the sandy taupe-colored gravel. The walk from the Marais had been lengthy, and now we looked for a place to sit.
I pointed to a park bench under one of the many elm trees that lined the grounds. With his hands now free, Alex reached for my fingers and pulled me to where we could finally sit down.
He kissed me again. “Will you write in your journals about my kisses?” he said as he reached now to touch my hair.
“I will write about everything,” I said, closing my eyes. I lifted my lips toward his once again.
What I didn’t tell him was that when I sat down to write, it wouldn’t be only his kisses I would remember, but also the ache in my heart that he was leaving. It is a terrible thing to feel so powerless. I wanted to rewrite our destiny in my journal. I wanted to believe that I wouldn’t lose yet another person I loved.
41.
Marthe
March 1940
