Paris 1937

an excerpt from my novel, Smoke; the year is 1937 “This city is on the edge of Germany,” she said. “But the border is hundreds of miles away.” “Paris is closer than you think, to Berlin.” Philip considered this. Then he pointed beyond the Russian edifice, to the west, and said, “Over there, between us and where the sun will set, is Versailles, where the treaty was agreed to and signed after the war. The treaty should ensure peace and security, n’est que ce pas?” “That doesn’t mean a thing to Adolf Hitler.” Her eyes, stern with the memory of where they had just come from, were cast down upon the Seine. “Germans know. That treaty means nothing to the Nazis.” “Do they? Do Germans know?” “Some of them do, though they will not say it. There is a lot they will not say. We have neighbors in Munich who will not say that they have done business with my father for many years. Instead, they pretend to not know us. These last few months when we were at home, near the shop, when I would walk on the streets, I felt at times that I must have some horrible sign on my head, something like a mark of shame, a big. . . yellow patch of . . . verboten, or something . . . Even people my own age would act as if they had never known me. What makes people do such things? What compels them to change their attitude toward others whom they have known all their lives, people they grew up with?” “They must be scared as hell of the Nazis.” “Nazi police; they call them Gestapo.” Lili’s expression turned sour. She had been casually surveying the busy scene of pedestrians and pavilions around them, but suddenly her gaze fixed upon the German pavilion. Philip turned to look at it. “That monument over there—the obscene monolith with the swastika on top of it—it upsets me,” she explained, speaking deliberately, precisely. “I can understand that, Lili, since your brother is still in prison there.” “I don’t want to be here, Philip. Is there somewhere else we can go?”

Carey Rowland