And Both Were Young (15 page)

“I don’t really remember anything before my mother and father found me,” Paul said. “Sometimes I remember bits of the concentration camp. Aunt Colette thinks it’s because of the concentration camp that I’m afraid of institutions. I might as well admit it, Flip, I am
afraid
of institutions. I think if I could remember I wouldn’t be afraid. Sometimes when I’m in the château I feel as though I were going to remember, but I never do. I remember bits of the camp, the way you sometimes remember bits of a nightmare, but when I try really to remember it’s like going out of a bright room into a dark room and you can’t see anything in the dark except strange shapes and shadows . . .”

“Oh, Paul,” Flip whispered. She could think of no words of comfort or reassurance, so she whispered, “Oh, Paul . . .” again to let him know that she was listening and caring.

“I know your mother’s dead,” he said, “and that’s terrible, but you remember her, don’t you?”

She could not say, “Of course,” so she nodded, murmuring, “Yes.”

“I think my parents have to be dead,” Paul said. “I could bear them being dead if only I could remember them. It’s like being blind, not remembering. When people talk about the five senses they forget memory. Memory’s like a sense . . . Flip, I have never said these things to anyone before. I know my mother and father—the Laurenses—have done everything they possibly could to find out where I come from and who I am. And they love me, and I love them, and I don’t want to hurt them by talking to them the way I’m talking to you. You’re not like a sister to me. I don’t think I’d talk this way to a sister. You’re—you’re special.” He turned abruptly and they started walking back to the gate house. He had forged ahead, but he slowed down and looked back at her. “Any more word from lusting Eunice?”

He had made both of them smile. “I flush her letters down the toilet,” Flip said. “I wish I could make Eunice vanish that easily. If she marries my father . . .”

“Don’t borrow trouble,” Paul said. “Are you cold?”

She shivered, and said, “No.”

“You must be cold. You wouldn’t be shivering if you weren’t. We’ll go back and roast some more chestnuts.” She walked along beside him and suddenly he turned to her and smiled and his voice was Paul’s voice again. “We’re going to have wonderful times this winter, Flip!” he said. “When you
learn how to ski we can go skiing together. And in the spring we can go for trips on the lake and in the summer we can go swimming. I’m glad you came to the château, Flip.”

“Oh!” Flip said. “Supposing I hadn’t.”

The next afternoon the sky clouded over and it began to snow and it snowed all afternoon and all night and the following afternoon skiing began. Fräulein Hauser met the beginners in the ski room and told them the various parts of the skis and the ski poles and how to take care of them. Flip clutched Eunice’s discarded skis and felt happy with the excited kind of anticipation that comes before Christmas. Somehow she knew she would be able to ski and maybe if she turned out to be a really wonderful skier the girls would like her better and then she would begin to like school and she would be better able to help Paul.

But when they got out on the gentle slopes where Fräulein Hauser taught the beginners it wasn’t at all the way she had imagined and hoped it would be. Instead of all at once being able to fly over the snow like a bird as she had dreamed, she found that no sooner was she on her feet than she was flat on her back, skis up in the air, or with her head buried in the snow, or doing a kind of wild split. Fräulein Hauser was not unkind, but after a while she said, “You don’t seem to have much aptitude for this, do you, Philippa?”

Flip gritted her teeth. “I’ll learn.”

“I hope so.” Fräulein Hauser sounded dubious.

Every afternoon Flip went out grimly with the beginners. She was covered with bruises and every muscle in her body ached, but she was determined that she was going to learn how to ski, that in this one thing at any rate she would not
fail. When the other beginners laughed at her tumbles she tried desperately to laugh back, to pretend that she thought it was funny too.

At the end of the ski class on Friday afternoon, Fräulein Hauser called her back to the ski room as the others left.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Philippa, but I think you’d better drop skiing. You’ll enjoy the ice skating when the hockey field is flooded, I’m sure, and in the meantime there are walks, and gym work.”

“But why, please, Fräulein Hauser?” Flip gasped in dismay.

“You just don’t seem able to learn, and I’ll have to admit I can’t teach you. I’m afraid you’ll hurt yourself in one of your falls and I think it would be best if you just give it up.”

Flip looked at the racks and racks of skis as they suddenly began blurring together. “I’d rather keep on, please, Fräulein Hauser, if it’s all right.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t all right,” Fräulein Hauser said impatiently. “I just can’t have you in my class. I’ll put you on the walk list for tomorrow.”

Flip turned her head and left. She walked blindly down the corridor but she had managed to control her tears by the time she got to the big hall.

On Sunday she could not help telling Paul of her defeat. Paul had immediately seen that something was wrong, asking, “What’s the matter?”

“I know I could learn to ski if she’d just let me go on trying,” Flip persisted. “I know I could.” Ariel was licking her face in a worried manner and she put her head down on his back to try to hide the tears that were threatening.

“Bring your skis over next Sunday and I’ll help you,” Paul told her.

“Oh, would you really, Paul?”

“I said I would. Do you think it’s because of your bad knee you told me about?”

Flip shook her head. “No. My father asked the doctor when Eunice gave me her skis and he said skiing was fine for me. So it isn’t that.”

“Well, bring your skis next time then,” Paul told her.

So Flip brought her skis over. Madame Perceval arrived just as they were about to set off.

“Hello, Philippa, Paul, what’s this?” she asked, fending off Ariel’s frantic welcome.

“I’m going to teach Flip to ski,” Paul announced.

“Oh?”

“Fräulein Hauser said I had to drop skiing,” Flip explained.

“Why, Philippa?”

“She said I just couldn’t learn and she couldn’t teach me. But, Madame, I’m sure I
can
learn, I’m sure I can.”

“Why don’t I go out with you and Paul,” Madame Perceval said, “and we’ll see.”

She watched while Flip put on her skis, watched her push off, fall down, push off, and fall down again.

“Where did you get your skis?” she asked.

“A friend of my father’s gave them to me. They were hers.”

“Take them off for a moment,” Madame Perceval said. “Now raise your arm.” She measured the skis against Flip. “Just as I thought. They’re much too long for you. I don’t
know what your father’s friend was thinking of. She can’t know much about skiing.”

“Well, she says she’s skied a lot,” Flip said. “Maybe she was trying to impress Father. He doesn’t know anything about skiing. He used to use snowshoes when he was a boy.”

Madame Perceval took the skis away from Flip. “No wonder you couldn’t learn on these. They would be too long for Paul. I don’t know why Fräulein Hauser didn’t notice it at once.”

“She probably would have on anybody else. People just expect me to be bad at sports.”

Madame Perceval laughed. “You’re probably right, Philippa. And Fräulein Hauser certainly has her hands full with beginners this year. Now, there’s a pair of very good skis back at school that would be just about right for you. One of the girls from last year left them. I think I’ll run along back and get them. You and Paul wait inside for me.”

“Oh, thank you, Madame!” Flip cried.

“Thank you, Aunt Colette,” Paul added.

She and Paul went indoors. Georges Laurens was shut up in his tiny study, deep in concentration, so they did not speak to him, but went over to the fire, stripping off jackets and sweaters. For a moment they were silent and Flip knew that Paul did not want to talk about any of the things he had told her, or to have her talk about them.

“Papa’s been writing all day, except when he went to get you,” Paul said, talking nervously as he stared into the fire. “I was afraid that he might forget to go for you, but he didn’t.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Flip sighed.

Paul stood up. “I’m hungry. I’ll go get us some bread and
cheese from Thérèse.” He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and came back with a chunk of cheese, half a loaf of bread, and a bone-handled carving knife. Flip lay on the hearth, using Ariel as a pillow.

“Aunt Colette was over here last night,” Paul said, “and that Italian teacher, Signorina what’s-her-name.”

“Signorina del Rossi.”

“That’s right,” Paul said. “And they were talking about you.”

“About me! What did they say?” Flip cried, sitting up.

“Well, I didn’t hear all of it because I was reading.”

“But what did they say?” Flip asked again. “Well, Signorina was saying that it was the first time Aunt Colette’s ever taken a special interest in any one girl. And Aunt Colette laughed and said that you had great talent and then she said that an artist’s life was a hard one but she was afraid you were stuck with it. And then she said—now, don’t get angry with me, Flip—”

“Go on.”

“Well, she said you were a nice child when you didn’t spoil it by being sorry for yourself.”

“Oh,” Flip said. “Oh.” And she lay down again, rubbing her cheek against Ariel’s fur.

“Here,” Paul said. “Have some more bread and cheese . . . You aren’t angry at me, are you, Flip?”

“No.”

“Are you sorry for yourself?”

“Yes. I think I am sometimes—”

“Why?”

“Oh, because I want my mother. And the girls don’t like
me. Oh, and everything. And I want to be with Father instead of at school. But I don’t feel that way so much anymore, Paul. And if I can learn how to ski, it will be wonderful. And I love coming here every weekend. And I’m beginning to like school. Truly I am.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Paul asked, holding the bread against his chest and cutting off another chunk. “You keep saying you like school so much and I don’t believe you really do at all.”

“I
do
,” Flip persisted. “I
don’t
hate it the way I used to.” And she realized with a start that her words were true. While she didn’t actually
like
school, she no longer hated it with the sickening passion of only a few short weeks ago.

“Aunt Colette said something else,” Paul went on. “Do you want to hear?”

“Of course.”

“She said you reminded her of Denise.”

“Who’s Denise?”

“Her daughter.”

“What!” Flip yelled. “Her
daughter
!”

“Hush. Here she comes. Have some more bread and cheese, Flip,” Paul said as Madame Perceval came in carrying a pair of skis.

“Here you are, Philippa.” Madame Perceval held the skis up. “Let’s try these for size.”

Flip scrambled to her feet and Madame Perceval tried them against her. “How are they?” Flip asked eagerly.

“Perfect. Couldn’t be better. Put on your things and we’ll go out and try them.”

As Flip snapped the skis onto her boots Madame Perceval
said, “Now don’t expect miracles, Philippa. The skis don’t make as much difference as all that. Just go very slowly and do as I say.”

Madame Perceval was right. Flip was not able, all of a sudden, to ski like an angel because of the new skis. But she no longer fell quite so frequently, or had such a desperate struggle to get to her feet again.

“Better, much better!” Madame Perceval cried as Flip slid down a tiny incline and stopped without falling. “Now turn around.”

Flip raised her leg and the long ski no longer tumbled her ignominiously onto the snow. She snapped her other leg around and there she was, all in one piece and erect.

“Bravo!” Madame cried. “Now herringbone up the little hill and come down again.”

Her tongue sticking out with eagerness, Flip did as Madame Perceval told her.

“Good,” the art teacher said. “Good, Philippa. More spring in your knees if you can. How about that bad knee? Does it bother you?”

“Not much.” Flip shook her head. “Oh, Madame, do you think I can learn?”

“I know you can. Just don’t stick your tongue out so far. You might bite it off in one of your tumbles.”

“Do you think Fräulein Hauser will take me back in the ski class?”

“Wait! Wait!” Paul cried, waving his ski poles in wild excitement. “I have a much better idea.”

Madame laughed and ducked as one of the sticks went flying. “All right, Paul. Calm down and tell us this magnificent idea.” But Flip could see that she was pleased because
Paul sounded excited and happy, and the dark look had fled from his face.

“Well, Flip was telling me about this ski meet you have at school and how everybody can go in for it and there’s a prize for form, and a long race, and a short race, and a prize for the girl who’s made the most progress and all sorts of things. And I think it would be wonderful if
we
could teach Flip and she could enter the ski meet and win and surprise everybody.”

Madame Perceval started to laugh, but then she looked at Flip and Paul and their eager, excited faces, and she said slowly, “It would be rather a tall order teaching Flip just on weekends. She needs lots of practice.”

“I could slip out in the morning before call over,” Flip cried. “If I make my bed before breakfast and hurry breakfast I’d have almost an hour and nobody’d see me then.”

“And think how surprised that Fräulein Hauser would be,” Paul cried.

“And the girls would be so surprised,” Flip shouted. “Erna and Jackie and all of them. Oh, Madame, do you think I
could
learn? I’d work terribly hard. I’d practice and practice.”

“If you keep on improving the way you’ve improved this afternoon,” Madame Perceval told her, “I’m sure you could.”

“Come on, Aunt Colette,” Paul cajoled.

Madame Perceval looked at them for a moment longer. Then she smiled and said, “Why not?”