He expected the crowd to thin as they left the train station, but in the streets, the whole of the country seemed to be promenading in jubilation. He wished again that Margaret were here with him, as his loneliness was more pronounced than ever. He’d known no life other than one without siblings, but John and William’s companionship had given him a desire to have someone to share the tales of the day with.

Even better if it was a girl like Margaret. All around him, couples were kissing in the shadows of buildings that had escaped Hitler’s wrath. Celebrating with bursts of affection that squeezed his heart for want of it.

He even saw a group of women display their bare chests, draped only in cloth around their waists, an homage, he believed, to Delacroix’s painting of La Liberté.

No one seemed to notice as the masses swirled around them, engrossed in their own versions of celebration.

A man tossed oranges from his balcony into the crowd, shouting, “Victoire! Victoire!”

Victory! Victory!

And then—there it was. Looming over everyone, appearing as if out of nowhere, the famed Eiffel Tower. He’d read that it had been a controversial structure, and a temporary one. Yet here it stood, outlasting the critics and overseeing two horrendous wars.

It was a monument of endurance, just the encouragement that Tom needed to believe he could go on.

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

August 1944

The door to the House of Fragonard on the Rue di Rivoli was outlined in bronze that was polished to the point of sparkling. It stood in contrast to much of the Paris that Tom had seen as he had walked around all night. He’d decided to save money by sleeping outside on a park bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, and he’d woken to the cooing of pigeons. It had been charming until he sat up and discovered that they’d soiled his jacket. He wiped it off in the fountain and set off on his mission.

“Bonjour, soldat. Etes-vous venu pour acheter du parfum?”

A young woman opened the door. Her hair was coiffed to perfection and she wore pearl earrings that dangled just past her earlobes. She was so thin that he wondered how she even stood up straight. Was it in fashion here? Or was it starvation brought on by war?

“I…I…” he stammered. “It’s for my mother. My mére.”

“Ah, you sound American,” said the shopgirl.

“Yes,” he answered, relieved. He didn’t know how he would have conducted the transaction otherwise.

“You are in luck. Is this how you say this?”

He nodded. “Yes. Luck. It is very lucky that you speak English.”