who glared in return ‘—painted the doorknobs red. The whole road looks like the Avenue des Champs-Élysées with the knobs glinting red on one side and silver on the other.’
‘What?’ I was surprised the police hadn’t scraped it off yet with the noon hour approaching. ‘The police haven’t taken care of it?’
She scoffed. ‘They’re private buildings, mademoiselle. The owners have to give their consent, and I’m sure they’ll take their time.’ Her face got very stiff before she whispered into the other lady’s ear about whose side she thought I was on. ‘Man, woman, does it matter?’
The parade started. Shouts of standing at attention and walking with pride rolled down the street. And the Milice marched, holding their new flags side-by-side with the Vichy flag, rifles, and wearing berets. People looked on, stunned, quiet.
‘I think she’s a friend of the regime,’ the other said before they both fell away into the crowd, and I closed my eyes briefly, with the sun on my face, thinking of other days.
The year the French Army left for the Maginot Line the entire city turned out to see them off, blowing kisses. Republic flags rolled out of windows and flapped delicately over our heads. Veterans from the 1914 war, dressed in their military best, stood at attention.
I opened my eyes to see a Milice flag unfolding out a window above me, and the Milice marched on, and the crowd stayed quiet. A small contingent of German Wehrmacht trailed up the rear, stiffer than the Milice, watching, monitoring.
*
Days turned into weeks and soon enough spring had come, warming up the pavements and turning the trees green. I stood outside Papa’s wine bar, a grape-stained apron wrapped around my waist, listening to a fight break out in the street, two men arguing, followed by fists on flesh, one punching the other, calling his brother a traitor.
Flower carts had rolled in, and people roused from their homes into the squares. A girl rushed past, yelling for her sister to hurry up before the flowers were gone, and the two men got off each other, each feeling their jaws where they’d been punched.
I stepped away from the wall, watching a little closer. People grabbed flowers from baskets, wrapping them quickly in brown paper, something to conceal.
I stopped the same girl on her way back from a flower cart, a bundle in her arms. ‘What’s going on?’
‘The Catchfly,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s doing it.’ She peeled back the brown paper—French catchfly—an armful of the flowering weeds, bursting with red and pink petals. ‘It started a few hours ago; everyone’s throwing catchfly at the walls that have been painted. This morning’s Le Combat calls for it—every mark the Catchfly has made throughout the city.’
My hand flew to my mouth, gaping with a smile, shuffling into the street, not caring a lick if anyone saw me, watching people throw catchfly at the wall, on the Morris Column where I’d written RAF days ago, and to every swipe of paint I’d left, remembering.
The Vichy police ran out of the train station, sweeping the catchfly into piles, yelling at us all to get away, get back! But the square had already swelled with people, and the flower carts were as bare as any food cart in the city.
Charlotte walked out of her boutique with a cling of her bell, and watched me in the street, her curly hair tucked behind her ears. A woman tried to sell her a single stem she’d pulled from her bushel. Charlotte glanced at her once before folding her arms and looking at me, her stare turning into a glare.
We’d made a practice of avoiding each other since our fight, and I was surprised to see her outside, looking at me like she had something to say. I walked up to her, only to be stopped by the postmaster.
‘Adèle Ambeh!’ He flapped a letter in my face, barking my name. He set his heavy bag of parcels on the ground. ‘That’s you, no?’ He pushed the letter at me, postmarked from Paris. ‘Every week a letter comes. I’ve got enough mail to deliver without walking all the way to the train station for weekly special deliveries.’ He stormed off, heaving his bag up over his shoulder.
I gasped, trying to hide my concern in front of Charlotte. Gérard’s writing. I ignored the nervous little tick in my stomach, and then got a bit sick looking at the heart-shaped doodle next to my name. Every week a letter? Charlotte leaned her