The Jeweler of Stolen Dreams by M. J. Rose

Author:M. J. Rose [MJ_Rose]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: MJ Rose, historical romance
Publisher: Evil Eye Concepts, Incorporated
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

Suzanne Belperron

November 17, 1942

It is difficult to breathe, knowing that Bernard is in Drancy and that I have to go on acting as if I will be able to survive. But I must. I owe that much to Dixie for all the effort she put into helping me. I glance over at her now. Her patrician profile is as strong as her spirit. I am lucky to have such a friend.

“Thank you for everything you are doing for me,” I tell her.

“You would do no less for me.” She smiles but does not take her eyes off the road.

Dixie and I are driving through the night to reach Nice by morning. We get as far as Avignon without any trouble, but two officers approach her car when we stop in the old town for petrol.

“Why are you out driving so late?” one asks in a suspicious tone.

“We are going to visit my aunt and uncle who are in Nice,” Dixie says without hesitation.

“And why during the night?”

“Because we both have jobs, and we had to finish our work for the day.”

“What do you do?”

“I am a jeweler,” I say. “And Mademoiselle is my assistant.”

“And what are these jewels you make?”

“Costume pieces made with crystals and brass, plastic pieces, nothing too dear.”

“Is that what you are wearing?” He points to Dixie’s necklace.

“Yes, these are Bakelite beads.”

“What is this Bakelite?”

I describe the plastic, pointing to Dixie’s South Sea pearls, which are anything but Bakelite. Even though cultured pearls are available now, my friend’s natural pearl necklace is a marvel of matched gifts from the sea. Worth a small fortune.

The soldiers are either skeptical or think that Dixie is pretty enough to keep chatting up. They ask more questions. Not for the first time, I am glad I am in my forties and not a beauty. I hear too many stories of women forced to do whatever the soldiers want in exchange for being allowed to go on their way.

The two men walk off to the side and have a discussion. Is it about what they should do with us? Overhearing a word here and there, it’s clear they are not convinced we are harmless.

“We are going to need to search the car,” one of them says, watching our faces carefully.

Dixie and I have rehearsed for every eventuality and know not to show any signs of concern.

We get out of the car before the soldiers even ask us to, our handbags on our arms, and step toward a line of trees. We watch with deliberate interest, making every effort not to appear nervous or guilty. And they do keep checking. They look over to gauge our reactions every few minutes.

When the soldier opens a knife to slit open the seat in Dixie’s beautiful little car, she lets out a little cry and runs over to him.

“Please don’t ruin my car. It will take forever to get it fixed with the war going on. There is nothing hidden anywhere. And certainly not in the seat.

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