Page 38 of Daughters of Paris

‘Alright, but only one dance.’

She smiled at Kurt and let him lead her to the dance floor. He was quite a good dancer and laughed when Colette told him so.

‘Does that surprise you, Fräulein Nadon?’

‘A little,’ Colette admitted. ‘I imagined you would dance the way you march. So stiff and correct.’

He laughed again and stepped into the crush of bodies, taking her into a spin. For a while Colette was able to close her eyes and forget reality, understanding more clearly why Sophie craved this feeling so much. When the song ended, and flowed into another more plaintive piece, a cheer went up around the room, followed by a sentimental sigh.

‘She is singing about the Motherland,’ Kurt explained. ‘The words are very beautiful and it makes us feel sad in our hearts. I hope to get home leave but I don’t know if that will happen.’

‘Perhaps you should all go home,’ Colette said daringly. A thrill raced through her that she was openly telling a German soldier he should not be here. Wait until she told Sophie and Josette, then who would call her scared!

His face froze and then he laughed. ‘Very funny, Fräulein Nadon, but we both know that will not happen. But see, life is as it always was for you.’

He slipped his arms a little tighter around Colette. Her flesh crawled, but at the same time parts of her body responded to being held. His cologne was fresh and spicy and his frame was broad and strong. He might have made a good lover had they had met in other circumstances, but she would rather remain untouched for the rest of her life than do that. A dance was as far as she was prepared to go.

She was silent on the way home as they sat in the black sedan. The men talked in their own language and Sophie dutifully laughed when they did. Her eyes sparkled but Colette had seen behind the mask now. This gaiety was an act and knowing so made her feel a little better.

‘Will you come again?’ Josette asked. ‘It wasn’t too bad, was it?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Colette promised.

February 1941

Colette did return, of course. In secret, and no more than once a month, throughout the long, cold winter. She was drawn back to the Luciennes’ hotel where fuel was never in short supply and it was always warmer than at home. Back to the clubs where the sisters and men were happy to see her, and the dancing helped her pretend everything was normal. Sophie had been right about that. She kept firm to her resolve to dance with the men, but never to kiss a single German. She could bury her conscience while she danced, but it was in a shallow grave and one she feared could be unearthed at any time.

The detachment at the hotel left in February and was replaced by another. There would be no tennis with Franz after all and Colette was surprised at how sad she felt at familiar faces going.

Her monthly cramps had started and she approached the first evening in the company of the new guests with less excitement than usual. An hour later she gave the excuse of a headache and left, saying she would make her own way home from Montmartre.

She emerged from the Metro station into darkness. Streetlamps were extinguished as soon as dusk fell and the sliver of waning moon barely gave enough light to see by. Colette had to concentrate on putting one foot before the other so as not to slip on patches of ice.

She only noticed the presence of the man when he came along side her.

‘Fraülein, I beg a moment of your time?’

His breath hung in the frosty air, and he smiled at her. The hair at the back of Colette’s neck rose. If she had been among a crowd, she might have been brave enough to ignore him, however, as she was on her own, it seemed both rude and dangerous.

‘I would like to go for a drink but I must have got off the Metro at a wrong stop to the one I should.’

He waved a pamphlet in front of her. Colette recognised it as a guide to the city for soldiers who were stationed elsewhere and spending their leave there. She noticed with disgust that he had folded it open at a page listing the brothels that were exclusively reserved for German clients.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’

He looked her up and down then gestured to her with the pamphlet.

‘You areStrichmädchen? Yes?’

‘No!’ Colette’s cheeks blazed. He thought she was a prostitute.

‘You live close? Perhaps you would join me for a drink? I pay well.’

‘No, thank you. I have to get home before curfew,’ Colette said firmly.

She turned away and began to walk down the street. The man followed alongside her and caught her arm.

‘Why are you so cold? If you come for a drink, I could arrange a special dispensation for you. Isn’t Paris the city of love?’

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