had helped him cobble together a makeshift facility in an old painter’s shed next to the Krema. Not fine workmanship but it would make the whole business of silencing the Rabbits much simpler.
“I will have Binz secure that block and then call Appell,” said Suhren. “You will personally see to it that each Rabbit is caught.”
It was about time.
“Are you giving me permission to—”
“Do what you need to, Doctor. Just make sure no trace of them is found.”
1944–1945
On August 25, Roger phoned me up at The Hay and said the Free French and American troops were at the outskirts of Paris.
We were back in business.
It was a Saturday, so traffic was light as I drove into the city with the gas pedal to the floor, screeching by cars on the Taconic Parkway, until I saw blue flashing lights in my rearview mirror. Once I told the baby-faced officer the circumstances, he turned on his flashing lights and escorted me to the consulate.
In Roger’s office, we grabbed information from every source we could. We read telegrams and cables and listened to the radio all at once. When our troops made it to the Arc de Triomphe, we were overcome with joy and on the phone with Bordeaux and London. The U.S. troops, accompanied by General De Gaulle and the Free French army, marched into Paris from the south, along the Champs-Elysées in jeeps and on foot. Hordes of Parisians surged into the streets shouting, “Vive la France!” People streamed out of their homes, frantic with the joy of liberation, even while German snipers and tanks still fired here and there. Soon the Germans waved white flags of surrender from behind their bunkers, restaurateurs brought their last few bottles of champagne out of the cellars, and Paris went mad with happiness.
Later that day we watched from Roger’s office as Lily Pons, the Metropolitan Opera star, sang “La Marseillaise” to thirty thousand people gathered below us on Rockefeller Plaza to celebrate the victory.
We all agreed it was just a matter of time before Hitler capitulated and Berlin fell. The Allies would liberate all of the concentration camps. I sent telegrams and letters to possible repatriation centers across France inquiring about Paul. How would he get back to Paris?
—
THOUGH FRANCE HAD BEEN LIBERATED, the war dragged on. I sat at the dining room table up at The Hay the following April, still in my pajamas, writing a press release for orphans in freed France: These common things are most urgently needed in France TODAY: Rice. Sweetened cocoa. Powdered whole milk. Dried fruits. Tea and coffee for older children are next in importance….
How long had it been since I’d had that first letter from Paul? None of my inquiries had borne fruit. One last snowstorm had hit Bethlehem, but even winter was tired of winter, and quiet flakes covered the crusty snow in the yard like white flannel. Terrible snowball snow, Father would have called it.
Serge threw the mail he’d picked up from the post office onto the half-moon table near the front door with a thump and went about shoveling the front walk.
I made tea in the kitchen as the afternoon grew dark. On my way back to the dining room, I flipped through the mail stack. I found the usual envelopes. A flyer for Mother’s annual spring Bethlehem Horse Show, held on Ferriday Field behind our house to benefit the library. The monthly Elmwood Farm milk bill. An invitation to a handbell concert at the grange.
One envelope stopped me in my tracks. It was ecru just like the others he had sent, addressed in Paul’s handwriting—somewhat less crisp and strong, but unmistakably his. The return address read, Hôtel Lutetia, 45, boulevard Raspail.
My hands shook as I ripped the side of the envelope and read the letter’s contents.
I grabbed my boots from the kitchen, threw Mother’s coat on over my pajamas, and ran across the front yard to Merrill Brothers General Store, cracking through the top crusty layer of snow with each step. I bounded up the stairs and found Mother standing near a wall of shelves with Mr. Merrill, a clear bottle of witch hazel in her hand. They separated, startled.
Mr. Merrill smiled when I entered, a porcupine of keys at his waist.
“Caroline. How’ve you been—”
“Not now, Mr. Merrill,” I said, grabbing the doorjamb as I tried to catch my breath. Though generally a concise man, handsome Mr. Merrill would discuss the pros and cons of the paper grocery bag ad infinitum if