Aubrielle's Call (19 page)

John’s inspection touched upon every adult face, in particular those who lingered near a shadowed doorway or street corner. Today would be a perfect day to search for the Nazi spy, but John had other business to attend.

He waved at a passing taxi, and it pulled to the curb. His search for Karl would have to wait.

CHAPTER 27

Inside the main entrance of the
cimetière du
Père-Lachaise
, an assistant at the visitors’ pavilion gave Aubrielle a map and pointed out the best route to her father’s burial site.

Dark clouds covered the sky as Aubrielle climbed the cobblestone path between grand mausoleums and granite headstones. Papa's modest grave would be along the far side of the cemetery.

As they approached the newer section, the cobblestone walkway gave way to a worn dirt trail. The scent of freshly turned soil overrode the cold smell of molded stone.

Aubrielle held tight to Mae's hand. Her frayed emotions careened from heartbroken loss and guilt-ridden relief to the unreasonable anger of betrayal. She prayed her face did not portray every aspect of her shattered heart.

John and Henri followed behind the women, respectfully silent.

A horse-drawn wagon with a plain wooden casket in its open bed blocked the trail at the top of the rise. A short distance away, several mourners stood at an open grave.

One of the women who had come to Aubrielle’s home for her father waited at the edge of the path. She had introduced herself yesterday as Rachel, one of the volunteers who care for the dead.

A black scarf covered Rachel’s gray hair, and her back crooked with age. She welcomed the small group as they approached and withdrew a three-inch wide black ribbon from her bag. “This is for you, dear child, for the
Keriah
—the tearing.” She pinned the long cloth to Aubrielle’s coat. “May you have a long life and find your father’s memory a blessing.”

Rachel’s clear gray eyes regarded Mae. “Are you family to the departed as well?”

Mae shook her head. “Aubrielle is Lou’s daughter.” She gestured to John and Henri. “We were Lou’s friends.”

Rachel gave them each a black ribbon. “The graveside service is brief.” She took Aubrielle’s hand in her icy fingers. “Our cantor has offered to read the eulogy if you feel it would be too difficult.”

Aubrielle held a handkerchief to her nose. “Thank you, but Papa would want me to speak for him.”

“I’m sure he would.” Rachel led the group to a short row of folding chairs. “After the cantor leads us in prayer, it will be your turn to stand and speak.”

“Thank you.” Aubrielle held Mae’s hand as they sat.

I’m strong enough to do this for Papa.

At Rachel’s signal, the men who waited beside the wagon lifted Lou Cohen’s coffin and walked very slowly toward his grave.

Rachel folded her ancient frame into the chair beside Aubrielle. Her attention remained on the slow procession as she spoke, “I understand from Rabbi David that you do not share your father’s faith.” Her voice was soft. The tone warm and friendly.

“That’s true,” Aubrielle replied. “I was raised in the Catholic faith by my mother.”

“Then allow me to explain a few of our burial traditions.” Rachel trailed her small, wrinkled finger down Aubrielle’s black ribbon. “We rip this, or our clothing, to expresses our grief. It represents the tearing of the family and the separation in life from your loved one. As you rend the cloth, you may recite this passage from the Book of Job.

“God has given. God has taken away. Blessed be the name of God.”

Aubrielle tore her ribbon, and her gaze met Mae’s. Together they recited the passage.

Behind her, John and Henri spoke the words as well.

The pallbearers placed the casket on ropes drawn across the grave then moved back to stand with the other mourners.

One of the older men came forward and faced the casket. He bowed his head and recited Psalm 23—a prayer Aubrielle knew by heart.

“The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want.”

Aubrielle bowed her head and listened to the cantor’s deep melodic voice recite the familiar words of comfort.

I could have said this prayer with you, Papa.
Tears scalded her eyes.
I’m sorry, I didn’t know.

When the cantor finished, he asked for a silent prayer. After several moments, he raised his head and stepped back with the gathered mourners.

“You may tell your father’s story now,” Rachel said.

Aubrielle removed two tear-stained sheets of paper from her clutch and stood. Her stare stayed on the plain wood coffin as she struggled to maintain her composure.
I love you, Papa.

“You can do this, Brie,” Mae whispered.

Aubrielle held the handkerchief to her nose then cleared her throat and read from her notes. “Louis Cohen was born to Joseph and Evelyn Cohen on the first of June,1890. His parents raised Lou, their only child, in Paris.

“In 1915, Lou joined the French Army to fight Germany in Belgium and Northern France.” She wiped a tear and looked up from her paper, addressing the small group across the open grave. “Papa told me once that getting shot in the leg was the best thing to happen to him because he met my mother. He always said she was the most beautiful nurse he’d ever seen.” Aubrielle covered her mouth with the handkerchief as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Oh, Papa!

Mae rose and stood beside Aubrielle. “Do you want me to finish?”

“No.” Aubrielle shook her head and gave Mae an unsteady smile. “I can do this.” Her throat tightened, and she swallowed twice before she could continue. She blinked her eyes clear and looked to her notes.

“After the war, Lou and Marguerite returned to Paris and wed. The next year, Marguerite gave birth to their only child, a daughter they named Aubrielle.” She squeezed her eyes to clear them of tears and struggled for breath.

“Lou followed his father’s trade of millinery and owned a shop where he made fashionable headwear for both men and women. Like his father, Lou became ill from the solvents they used to shape the hats.”

A beam of sunlight escaped from a break in the clouds and shone across the city. Aubrielle raised her head and swallowed, her attention drawn to the beautiful ray of light as she continued to speak.

“Papa loved his family. He was devoted to mama and me and provided for our every need.” She drew a trembling breath and sniffed even as a soft smile touched her lips. “He purchased a small horse for mother and me. Against his better judgment, he’d said. Mama named the pony Éclair. Papa hated that.” She chuckled as memories of her parents pretend arguments over Éclair’s name played through her mind. Her voice softened, no longer speaking to the mourners, only to herself and her father. “Then Mama asked you to build a cart so she could sell flowers in the park on the days when you worked long hours. And of course, you did.

“You could never argue with her, not really. I remember you laughed when Mama told us that a hat might keep a man’s head warm, but flowers would warm a woman’s heart.” A tear streamed across Aubrielle’ s smiling lips, but she refused to give in to her tears. “So you gave her the flowers her heart desired.”

Aubrielle blinked and cleared her throat. She shuffled the pages to read the second sheet. “After his wife passed in a car accident three years ago, Lou’s illness grew worse.” She looked over her shoulder at Mae. “I could never have cared for him without the help of my mother’s devoted friend, Mae Moroney. You’ve been both the angel God sent from heaven, and the ground that’s kept me standing. I know my parents are together now, and they smile down with thanks for you, Mae. They loved you, almost as much as I do.”

Mae nodded, holding her handkerchief to her face with both hands. Her chest shook with the force of her emotion.

Aubrielle crumpled the papers in her hand. “Papa’s long illness ended yesterday and I will miss him in my heart forever.” She stumbled to her seat beside Mae and embraced her friend.

The pallbearers came forward and lowered the casket into the grave.

Rachel leaned close and whispered in Aubrielle’s ear. “The cantor will recite the
Eil Malei Rachamim.
You’ll need to stand. When he has finished, you may sprinkle earth onto the casket.” She indicated the shovels in the freshly dug soil.

Aubrielle nodded at Rachel then whispered to Mae, “We need to stand.” Her eyes and sinuses burned, but the tears had dried. She helped Mae to her feet and held her arm.

The cantor chanted in Hebrew. When he finished, the five people who stood beside him, as well as the pallbearers and Rachel, formed two lines that led away from the grave toward the path.

Aubrielle dug the shovel into the pile of dirt and sprinkled a spadeful onto the coffin. The sound of dirt on wood echoed in her soul. She pressed her lips and handed the shovel to Mae.

Mae shoveled dirt onto the casket and followed Aubrielle.

As they walked between the congregation lines, each person offered condolences to Aubrielle and wished her a long life.

She stopped at the end of the path to look back. Several of the volunteers shoveled dirt to finish filling the grave.

This doesn’t seem real.

She half expected Papa to be home when she returned. With
Tante
Mae at her side, she foolishly felt anxious that Papa would be there alone.

And yet, I know better.

John and Henri spoke together as they approached the women.

When they reached Aubrielle and Mae, Henri stepped forward. “I’m not going back to your home. John may have already told you, but I’ve moved from his apartment and have a new employer near Montmartre.”

“Is that so?” Aubrielle glanced at John, then smiled at Henri. “Congratulations.”

Henri took her hand, leaned forward, and kissed her cheeks. “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to attend your candle lighting tonight.”

“I understand. Come by whenever you can.”

Henri touched his hat, then hurried down the cobblestone path toward the cemetery’s north entrance.

“I’m glad for him,” Aubrielle said.

“Aye,” Mae agreed. “I wish the lad well.”

“Will you return home with us, Mr. Larson?” Aubrielle glanced at John.

“Yes. I intended to see you back home.”

“Fine, then let’s be off.” Aubrielle turned away from Mae’s wide-eyed stare, putting her back to both John and Mae. She retraced their way along the cobblestone path leaving John to escort Mae.

What is wrong with me?

She clenched her teeth. An angry tirade burned on the tip of her tongue.

John sat beside the cabbie and directed him to Aubrielle’s home.

Mae reached over and touched Aubrielle’s hand. “Are you sure you’re all right, dear?”

Aubrielle balled her fists. A burst of rage, so strong it brought tears blurred her vision. “Yes.” She shook her head. “No.” Anger punctuated her words, “I’m grieved, angry, and perfectly fine.”

“I could come in and make some tea,” Mae offered.

“No.” Aubrielle dabbed at her eyes. “I need some time.” Her gaze touched John’s as he looked over the back of the seat. She turned away, firmed her lips and stared from the window.

The cab stopped in front of the closed millinery and the busy
boulangerie
.

Aubrielle exited the cab and hurried between the buildings toward her backyard. She could have easily gone with Mae into the bakery and received condolences from Antoine and Paul. But she couldn’t have been cordial. Not today.

Not right now.

She rounded the side fence into the
ruelle
and let herself through the back gate.
She had every intention of running up the steps, going into her house and locking the door behind her. Anything to get away from everyone and sort out her careening emotions. Instead, she turned into the converted garage, unlatched Éclair’s stall and wrapped her arms around the old pony.

Éclair huffed into her hair, then leaned into her as he lowered his head to her pocket.

“No treats
mon cher cheval—
not today.
”
She sniffed and rested her head against Éclair’s solid neck.

“Mind if I join you?”

The soft tone of John’s voice sent a thrill through her stomach in spite of her anger and misgivings about him. What did she know of John Larson?

Had he spoken to Papa behind my back?

How else could she account for the things her father had said? She rolled her head against Éclair’s neck and looked at John from the corner of her eye.

He stood outside the entrance. His large familiar frame cast in shadow, outlined by the gray winter light.

“I’m going inside.” She stroked her pony’s neck and kissed his soft nose, then locked the stall and walked past John.

The sound of his footsteps followed her up the steps. She unlocked the bolt, entered the door, and then faced him. Accusations of some undefined treachery burned her tongue, and she fought her desire to crawl inside his coat, press her cheek to his chest and weep. The struggle to find the right words failed her, and she simply stared into his eyes.

“May I come in?” His brow rose, and he almost smiled.