Hearts Beneath the Broken Sky

Chapter 1

A Parisian Morning’s Serendipity

aris! It was Friday, March 17, 1939. A gentle breeze signaled spring. Delicate white flowers and vibrant green leaves adorned Adler’s garden. Several blooming plants added a touch of charm to the house.

Jeanne Adler stood before the wardrobe’s mirror, taking one more look at her reflection. A soft, golden sunlight filtered through the delicate, embroidered curtains, bathing the room in a pleasant glow.

Jeanne’s short, dark brown hair defied her attempts to style it perfectly. However, her unwavering determination kept her from giving up, especially when it came to something she valued—her appearance.

Steady chimes from a lounge clock were a reminder that time was slipping by. Still, she refused to cede, intent on ensuring satisfaction with her look.

Out of the blue, Jeanne remembered her burgundy felt hat with its curved brim. She hurried to the closet, retrieved her hat from its box, and positioned it elegantly on her head.

She returned to the mirror and nodded in approval. The hat completed her look with elegance. Again, the clock chimed an alert: she had to leave. She rushed down the creaky, old stairs, familiar sounds of home accompanying her morning routine.

On reaching the kitchen, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee energized her.

After bidding her mother, Sophie, a quick goodbye with a kiss on the cheek—a cherished ritual—she stepped out into the crisp, dewy air.

From her house on Rue Ferdinand Duval, in charming Le Marais neighborhood, she made her way to the Saint-Paul metro station. There, she took a Line One train to Concorde and switched to Line Eight.

Jeanne disembarked at Invalides. On the platform, a tall, well-dressed young man alighted from the next car; their eyes met. It was a fleeting connection, a silent exchange that ended when he drifted away.

His fair skin glowed in the sunshine, and a draft disheveled his close-cut raven hair. His captivating, almond-shaped brown eyes made him a striking figure. He walked ahead of Jeanne, who followed each step with curiosity.

Outside, Jeanne strolled along the Seine. A fine mist hung on the water’s surface, while distant honking called attention. He sped up, only to stop. Disoriented, he scratched his head and looked around. Jeanne noticed cars whizzing by on the avenue, confusion on his face blending into hazy surroundings. He addressed her.

“Excuse me, miss,” his tone was low. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m not sure which way I should go. Do you know where the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is on Rue Quai d’Orsay?”

“It’s no trouble at all. I’m going to the ministry myself. I work there as a secretary, assisting in international relations and diplomatic affairs. You’re welcome to come with me; It’s close by,” said Jeanne.

“Phew, what luck!” He exclaimed, his worry turning into genuine gratitude as he smiled in relief.

“This is my first time visiting the ministry; I have an important meeting. Being late would be embarrassing. Thank you so much for the kind offer. I’d be happy to join you.”

They proceeded, Jeanne’s brisk pace contrasting with the man’s leisurely stroll. They were now walking side by side. He cleared his throat and apologized. “How rude of me! I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Oliver.”

“I’m Jeanne, Oliver. Although you speak French well, I don’t think you’re from here,” Jeanne introduced herself, smiling.

“I’m English; I work at the British Embassy.”

“British Embassy, I’m sure you’re quite busy. Is France a delight for you?” Jeanne asked.

“The food is fantastic, and the scenery is stunning. I’m still discovering other wonderful things about France,” he answered with a gentle nod.

They arrived; the neoclassical building’s main facade was grand, with Corinthian columns, a triangular pediment, and large, ornate wooden doors. Oliver’s eyes roamed the structure in fascination, taking in every detail of its imposing nature.

Jeanne turned to him, “We’re here; who are you going to talk to?”

“I’ll meet Mr. Saint-John Perse; I’m told he’s the Ministry’s secretary general.”

“Mr. Saint-John is the secretary general. You go through the reception, just right there. When they let you in, find me. I’ll take you to his office. My room is at the end of that hallway on the left. I’ll leave the door open so you can see me.” Jeanne spoke with measured calm, though a flicker of longing lingered in her gaze.

“Thank you, Jeanne. I couldn’t have made it without your help. As soon as the receptionist lets me go, I’ll find you. You’re very kind,” Oliver answered, his eagerness for the upcoming reunion almost tangible.

Jeanne treaded forward, her footsteps echoing on the gleaming marble floor beneath the high ceiling. Crystal chandeliers glittered; opulent furniture, delicate tapestries, and magnificent frescoes whispered splendor.