Chapter 1
Nathalie, Paris, August 1942
I unfolded the thin brown tissue paper, spreading it out across the fabric, smoothing it with my hand to ensure the pattern piece lay flat on the silk, before pinning it in place, just as Papa had shown me. ThéoduleLeroux was one of the most sought-after tailors in Paris. His list of customers was a glossary of the most important, rich, and famous people who sought not just the skills Papa offered, but the prestige that came with wearing one of his pieces.
I eyed the red silk spread out on the workbench. It had once been a long, flowing evening gown I had worn to a party several years ago– before the Germans came. There was definitely no cause to celebrate these days and, as with many of my other dresses, I was preparing to repurpose the garment into several small items suitable for a young child. I would donate the repurposed clothes to those in need. Two years on from when Paris fell, times were difficult. The ordinary Frenchwoman couldn’t afford to buy new clothes, and more and more housewives were turning their hand to making their own garments or repurposing their existing ones. My dressmaking skills had been called upon numerous times as word spread that Théodule Leroux’s daughter, Nathalie, was happy to help and to advise on any alterations.
I loved the freedom that dress designing gave me. It was an antidote to the lack of physical freedom imposed by the war. One day, I hoped to open my own fashion house, where my many paper designs would be brought to life in silks, velvets, cottons, organza.
I hummed to myself as I spread another pattern piece over the silk. Here in the cutting room of Papa’s shop, I could pretend the war raging in Europe and the German occupation of my beloved city weren’t happening. Here I could indulge myself in dreams of fashion shows and lavish parties– Paris, London, Milan, and even America, where the stars of Hollywood would clamour to wear my gowns.
The scissors made a satisfying crunch against the wooden workbench as they sliced through the fabric. Papa’s instructions to let the scissors do the work filtered through my mind as I followed the edge of the paper pattern and glided the blade up the long side seam.
‘Bonjour, Nathalie.’
I looked up as Papa came into the room. He smiled and kissed me twice on each cheek. ‘I didn’t see you at breakfast this morning.’
‘I wanted to come here early and finish cutting out these pieces.’
‘Très bien.Very good.’ Papa picked up the drawing I had done of what I intended the children’s dresses to look like. ‘You have made good use of the fabric.’ I couldn’t help the small swell of pride that rose in my heart at his praise.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Edgar, my brother, appeared in the doorway. ‘We should open the shop,’ he added, turning to Papa.
Papa checked his pocket watch. ‘Indeed, we should.’ He headed through to the shop, the keys jangling in his hand as he went.
I began gathering up the pattern pieces. During the day, I worked for Papa, repairing shirts, fastening buttons, and hand finishing some of the more delicate and expensive items the Germans were so fond of. Much as I hated the thought of assisting the officers, many of our regular French clientele had disappeared.
Edgar came into the room and began to help me to clear the workbench.
‘Where have you been this morning?’ I asked in a whisper.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he replied, trying to look innocent but failing.
‘When I came down here this morning, you weren’t in your room,’ I said. ‘I take it you sneaked back just in time for breakfast?’
I had long suspected my brother had connections with the French Resistance and was possibly even an active member. As a child, he had suffered from TB and this instantly ruled him out of joining the French army. So far, he had been allowed to stay in Paris and work in the family tailoring business, mostly because of connections Papa had with people in authority. What that meant in real terms was Théodule Leroux had associates who were officially collaborating with the Germans under the rule of Pétain.
‘I met some friends,’ said Edgar.
‘Why don’t you just admit to me your friends are part of the Resistance,’ I whispered, leaning over the workbench to him.
‘Why would I admit that for you to repeat it to your boyfriend?’ He gave a raise of his eyebrows.
‘You think Alphonse can’t be trusted? I don’t know whether to be offended,’ I said, surprised at the suggestion. I had been friends with Alphonse since we were at school together, although at twenty-three, he was two years older than me and we had slipped into becoming boyfriend and girlfriend just before the war broke out. Yes, Alphonse was a police officer, but I didn’t feel he was sympathetic towards the German regime, not enough to betray any secrets, anyway.
‘You shouldn’t be offended but you shouldn’t be blind either,’ said Edgar, folding a piece of fabric and dropping it onto the pile along with the others.
‘Are you suggesting Alphonse is involved?’ I frowned, finding it hard to take the accusation seriously.
‘I have not heard his name mentioned. Not yet anyway,’ replied Edgar. ‘But you cannot be too careful. You cannot deny the police help the Germans.’
‘But they have to help.’
‘Do they?’ Edgar held my gaze. ‘There are two ways of helping. One benefits the Germans and the other benefits Paris. They could use their position to pass on information to help fight against the regime, but they choose not to.’
The sound of Papa calling from the shop brought the conversation to a halt. ‘You could get yourself arrested for talking like that,’ I warned.
Edgar stood in front of the doorway. ‘I need to tell you something.’
