There was hardly any space to move. On one side, wool dresses and thick coats were packed tight on hanging rods. I waded through. On the other side, cotton and polyester dresses hung in thick clusters. They smelled of bleach and floral-scented steam water. A large flat wooden counter sectioned off the back of the store. A sewing machine sat idle. Scissors and other paraphernalia littered the surface.

A big woman in her fifties with a mass of red curls was removing clothes from donation bags and sorting them into piles. I figured she was Fanny. Behind her was a young girl with short black hair. She was bent over a black garbage bag, pulling clothes out. It looked like a struggle. Fanny took a look at me and pointed to the other side. “Men over there”.

Aside from a limp tux, the mens was all hunting gear. There were enough used camouflage shirts, coats, jackets, trousers, and hats to trouble duck and deer for years. I said, “I’m looking for a shirt.” I showed her the tear in the back of mine.

Fanny came up to the counter and put her hands on her hips, inspecting me. “Big strong guy like you needs size large or extra large.” There was a wonderful mischief in her eyes that I liked immediately.

I said, “What do you have?”

Fanny clucked her tongue. “What do we have? What do you want?”

“A replacement. I’m not picky. As long as it’s comfortable. That’s my only criteria. After this I’m giving up on trying to be fancy.”

She hunted through the back. Came out with a brown shirt in packaging. “Never been worn. New ten years ago. Try it on.”

I pulled off the torn shirt. The brown one fit fine. Fanny looked satisfied. She inspected the torn blue shirt with the little nautical logo at the breast. Like a ship’s wheel. Fanny held it up. She said, “Good brand. Expensive. What a pity.”

I’d bought the shirt in Berlin the day before. Some store in the train station. I was walking around waiting for a connecting train. It was a designer brand apparently.

I asked her, “Where do you get these clothes from?”

“People die. We get their wardrobe.” Fanny laughed. “Not to worry, I’m joking. Well, sort of. Donations, a lot of donations.” She looked back at the girl, still struggling with the garbage bag. “Right, Miriam? A lot of donations.”

The girl came up. She had eyebrows straight as rulers. She said, “A lot of donations. Yes.”

Fanny stepped up and straightened the collar of my new brown shirt. “There. You look fine, for an American.”

I said, “My accent.”

She said, “Good French. American accent. You are on vacation?”

“My mother spent summers around here. I wanted to see it.”

Fanny perked up. She said, “What’s the family name?”