Paris.
“I have seats for two,” he said casually, and his eyes settled on Kathy. She saw David’s startled reaction. For a tense moment she thought he would lash out at Phil. His mouth set in a grim line, he focused on his cup of Turkish coffee. “Brian, you won’t object if Kathy takes off to go with me, will you?”
Brian hesitated only a second.
“Not if she wants to go,” he said. “She’s been working her butt off since the day we arrived.”
On Saturday morning—hiding her terror as she remembered Brian’s earlier comments about the hazards of flying in winter—she left the flat with Phil while the others struggled into wakefulness. For a moment last night she thought that David was upset that she was going to Paris with Phil. But only for a moment.
“Who can show you Paris better than a GI who helped to liberate it?” he’d said quietly. “Enjoy the trip, Kathy.”
Kathy managed to conceal her alarm on the short flight from Hamburg to Paris.
“My family won’t believe I’ve been up in a plane,” she told Phil, one hand in his as the pilot began the descent to the airport below. “The closest I’ve ever been to a plane is when they had one on display in the center of Penn Station when I was a little kid.”
“It won’t be the old prewar Paris,” Phil warned. “I came over with my Dad in ’37. It was a business trip for him. I was twenty and raring to see everything. The Moulin Rouge, the Folies-Bergére, Maxim’s. And we saw it.” He grinned reminiscently.
“Not the Paris of Fitzgerald and Hemingway,” Kathy guessed. She’d been fascinated by all she’d read of that period. Was that why she’d agreed to come? “But it’s Paris,” she said reverently. She was impressed by the knowledge that Phil had been here before the war. David, too, she remembered, had talked of school vacations in Paris. But Phil and David had lived in a different world from hers. A monied world.
Kathy was enthralled by everything she saw, even though this was Paris still in the shadows of World War II. The morning was gray and shrouded in mist, the trees bare. The city had suffered little damage during the war years. It rose stately and beautiful around them.
Phil was in high spirits as they roamed through the streets. He pointed out the silhouette of Notre-Dame, the old Ile de la Cité—where the great cathedral stands—and the Eiffel Tower.
“I know the Eiffel Tower is not exactly beautiful,” he laughed, “but it has a kind of elegant dignity rising through the mist.”
Kathy was conscious of a grimness, a confusion in the people they passed. The Parisians had been wildly happy when they greeted the army of liberation, she understood; but now they had to deal with cold and hunger and a shortage of money. Kathy saw men with fishing poles on the bank of the Seine, and understood fishing today was not for sport but to put food on the dinner table.
In the prestigious shops they found French perfumes but no Chanel No. 5. Mme. Chanel had closed up her huge company in 1939.
“We’ll make do,” Kathy said blithely, though she was shocked at the prices of French perfumes even in Paris.
“With luck we’ll be able to find a taxi to take us up the hill to Montmartre,” Phil said while they lingered over a meager lunch in a shabby bistro, dimly lit because Paris suffered from a lack of electricity. “It’s like climbing the side of a mountain.”
Finally, they snared a taxi. The driver was amused by Phil’s college French. The Montmartre beneath the chalk-white dome of Sacré-Coeur had lost its Bohemian air of earlier days, though it was still home to the poor of Paris. A few painters had set themselves up alongside the curving, cobblestone streets to entice foreigners to buy their wares. On impulse Kathy bought a small painting of a Montmartre street to take home to her parents.
“You know where I’d like to spend the night?” Phil said softly, an arm about her waist.
“Where?” All
“I have seats for two,” he said casually, and his eyes settled on Kathy. She saw David’s startled reaction. For a tense moment she thought he would lash out at Phil. His mouth set in a grim line, he focused on his cup of Turkish coffee. “Brian, you won’t object if Kathy takes off to go with me, will you?”
Brian hesitated only a second.
“Not if she wants to go,” he said. “She’s been working her butt off since the day we arrived.”
On Saturday morning—hiding her terror as she remembered Brian’s earlier comments about the hazards of flying in winter—she left the flat with Phil while the others struggled into wakefulness. For a moment last night she thought that David was upset that she was going to Paris with Phil. But only for a moment.
“Who can show you Paris better than a GI who helped to liberate it?” he’d said quietly. “Enjoy the trip, Kathy.”
Kathy managed to conceal her alarm on the short flight from Hamburg to Paris.
“My family won’t believe I’ve been up in a plane,” she told Phil, one hand in his as the pilot began the descent to the airport below. “The closest I’ve ever been to a plane is when they had one on display in the center of Penn Station when I was a little kid.”
“It won’t be the old prewar Paris,” Phil warned. “I came over with my Dad in ’37. It was a business trip for him. I was twenty and raring to see everything. The Moulin Rouge, the Folies-Bergére, Maxim’s. And we saw it.” He grinned reminiscently.
“Not the Paris of Fitzgerald and Hemingway,” Kathy guessed. She’d been fascinated by all she’d read of that period. Was that why she’d agreed to come? “But it’s Paris,” she said reverently. She was impressed by the knowledge that Phil had been here before the war. David, too, she remembered, had talked of school vacations in Paris. But Phil and David had lived in a different world from hers. A monied world.
Kathy was enthralled by everything she saw, even though this was Paris still in the shadows of World War II. The morning was gray and shrouded in mist, the trees bare. The city had suffered little damage during the war years. It rose stately and beautiful around them.
Phil was in high spirits as they roamed through the streets. He pointed out the silhouette of Notre-Dame, the old Ile de la Cité—where the great cathedral stands—and the Eiffel Tower.
“I know the Eiffel Tower is not exactly beautiful,” he laughed, “but it has a kind of elegant dignity rising through the mist.”
Kathy was conscious of a grimness, a confusion in the people they passed. The Parisians had been wildly happy when they greeted the army of liberation, she understood; but now they had to deal with cold and hunger and a shortage of money. Kathy saw men with fishing poles on the bank of the Seine, and understood fishing today was not for sport but to put food on the dinner table.
In the prestigious shops they found French perfumes but no Chanel No. 5. Mme. Chanel had closed up her huge company in 1939.
“We’ll make do,” Kathy said blithely, though she was shocked at the prices of French perfumes even in Paris.
“With luck we’ll be able to find a taxi to take us up the hill to Montmartre,” Phil said while they lingered over a meager lunch in a shabby bistro, dimly lit because Paris suffered from a lack of electricity. “It’s like climbing the side of a mountain.”
Finally, they snared a taxi. The driver was amused by Phil’s college French. The Montmartre beneath the chalk-white dome of Sacré-Coeur had lost its Bohemian air of earlier days, though it was still home to the poor of Paris. A few painters had set themselves up alongside the curving, cobblestone streets to entice foreigners to buy their wares. On impulse Kathy bought a small painting of a Montmartre street to take home to her parents.
“You know where I’d like to spend the night?” Phil said softly, an arm about her waist.
“Where?” All
Similar Books
