Lies Told In Silence (25 page)

Chapter 34

April 1918

Paris was surreal, vaguely familiar but intensely different from the city she left at sixteen. Different because it was a city enduring war, different because Beaufort was the place where she had become a woman. Helene was amazed to see her home after such a lengthy absence.

Her first impression was of uniforms absolutely everywhere as soldiers on leave or wounded or on military business occupied the streets, their medals and weapons creating an air of purpose and a reminder of combat. Then she noticed the women of Paris, their bright, fashionable plumage replaced by dark, tailored shapes; the presence of black veils and armbands marking those who mourned. Gone was the lightness and laughter of Paris.

Almost every automobile they passed contained at least one officer, and almost every well-dressed woman had a soldier beside her while those without looked longingly at each passing couple.
Perhaps
, she thought,
they’re imagining their own husbands, sons or lovers
. Edward’s face, never far from her mind, appeared, and she felt his loss deep within, her heart aching with sadness.

As her father’s driver negotiated the streets, she saw further evidence of war: bombed-out buildings, sandbags surrounding national monuments, Red Cross symbols on former grand shopping
halls. Despite the soldiers, an emptiness hung over the city, which puzzled Helene until she realized that playful children and laughing tourists were missing from the parks and pathways, almost as if she were out very early, before anyone else was awake.

Entering their home brought no comfort. Most rooms were shuttered and dark, evidence of living tucked away in closets and drawers, in boxes and alcoves, making her feel desolate, longing for wide-open spaces and swooping birds and the warmth of kitchen aromas. Tears surfaced and she gulped them down, turning away to hide her emotions.

“There’s a lot of work to do,” her mother said.

“Mm hmm. Lucy will be here tomorrow,” Papa said. “She’s delighted to have you back.”

“It will soon be home again,” Maman said as she touched her husband’s cheek.

Too much has happened for it to ever feel like home again
, Helene thought.
Grandmere is gone; Edward doesn’t know where I am. Millions of soldiers are dead. I can never be the carefree girl who lived here
.

For two days, Helene, her mother and Lucy worked to restore each room, scrubbing, polishing, unpacking, rearranging, their sleeves rolled up and aprons streaked with dirt. They tackled the main rooms first and
then the kitchen and bedrooms.

“Maman, I’d like to clean my room by myself,” said Helene towards the end of the second day.

“Are you sure?”

“It’ll give me time for nostalgia.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” She squeezed Helene’s shoulder.

Helene smiled at the thought of her mother in the kitchen, something she would never have done before.
Grandmere was rig
ht, she reflected,
Beaufort changed us all
.

A short while later, she stood on the threshold of her bedroom.
What will I find of myself?
she wondered. It looked like her room, and yet it didn’t. Pillows, dolls, books, pictures, all much as she had left them, though her curtains and bedspread were faded, and she could see several spots where Tout Tout must have scampered with dirty feet.
Why did I like all those silly ruffles?
Helene crossed the threshold and went to work.

When she was finished, nothing remained of Helene’s sixteen-year-old self except a few books, a family picture and a doll Grandmere had given her on her ninth birthday.

The following day, Marie came for a visit.

She looks so sophisticated
, Helene thought, taking in Marie’s calf-length linen skirt of dark blue with a matching jacket that gathered tightly at the waist and flared over her hips. Her figure was fuller than Helene’s, and she wore her clothes with style. As they embraced, Helene noticed Marie’s red lips and spicy perfume.

Sitting in the window seat like they had as schoolgirls, Helene told her almost everything, somewhat amused at Marie’s fascin
ation with nearby battles and her romance with a Canadian soldier.

“Will you see him again?”

Helene’s face whitened. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean to upset you. Of course you’ll see him. I’m sure of it.”

* * *

Lise and Henri were in their bedroom less than two weeks after the family’s return to Paris. Henri watched his wife brush her hair.

“Will it end soon?” she said.

“Depends.”

Lise put her brush down and turned to look at him. “On what?”

“Germany thought they could force either France or Britain to make peace, but we hung on. It surprised them. Thankfully, their offensive in the north seems to be failing. The Americans will make the difference.”

“Where’s Guy?”

“Out of harm’s way for the moment,” he said. “I didn’t want to worry you, but the pleurisy took more out of him than the doctors realized. He’s been assigned as an aide to Marshal Foch.” Now that Foch commanded both French and British troops, Henri hoped his
son would prove indispensable to Foch and spend the balance of the war behind the scenes.

Lise began to undress, stepping out of her shoes and unbutto
ning her blouse. He enjoyed the pleasure of watching his wife after so long apart; the everyday ritual of bedtime preparations filled him with longing.

“Helene is anxious about her Canadian.”

“You know I don’t approve.” Henri bristled, thoughts of making love temporarily interrupted. “He’s not French. He’s not an officer. You told me he left school at the age of fifteen, so what possible life could he offer our daughter? He would take her away to another continent. We would never see her.”

“Henri, that’s far too harsh. He’s a good man, sweetheart. I met him. He makes her very happy.”

“We know little about his background or whether he comes from the right kind of family. From what you’ve told me, his parents are amongst the working poor. Our daughter can do much better than that.”

“You’re being a snob. It’s not becoming.”

“I won’t have her moving to a place like Canada. It’s still a wild frontier out there.”

“You’re making that up. And you may have no choice in the matter.”

“We’ll see. With troops moving rapidly for this next offensive, it will be very difficult to get letters through. Maybe she’ll forget him.”

“I doubt that. But let’s not argue. Come to bed, my love.”

* * *

Dearest Edward,

My father brought us back to Paris last week. Despite my unhappiness at leaving the place where we have shared so much, I had no choice but to come with my family. I am so afraid that you will not know where I am. Please, please write to me as soon as you can at this address so that I will know you have received my letter.

Not a minute goes by without you in my thoughts. I have pro
mised to wait for you, and I will.

Keep safe, my darling.

Helene

Chapt
er 35

May 1918

During a stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries, Helene confided in Marie. They had already browsed the shops on Rue de Rivoli, where fashion houses, anticipating the end of war, displayed optimistic shades of pink, green and yellow despite the sandbags and barricades adorning the streets. In the gardens, roses, flanked by freshly trimmed boxwood hedges, sprouted hints of magnificence. Long lines of trees with bright green leaves drew the eye, and stone paths with intricate patterns invited time for contemplation.

“You’re sad,” said Marie.

“It’s been more than three weeks, and I haven’t heard from Edward. I’m trying not to think the worst.”

Marie laid her hand on Helene’s arm. “I’m sure he’s all right.” She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “Would anyone let you know . . .” Marie did not finish the sentence.

“He told me that his best friend and his captain have my address, but that’s for Beaufort. Not Paris. I don’t understand it, Marie. He always wrote two or three times a week. What if he doesn’t love me anymore?”

“He sounds like such an honourable man. If that were the case, he would find some way to tell you. But I’m sure that’s not it.”

“He said he wants to marry me. After the war. We made plans.” Helene blushed and turned her face away from her friend. “We . . . we have been intimate. I know that’s not a topic I should talk about, but it made me so happy. I have to tell someone. Are you shocked?”

“Nothing shocks me anymore. I see so much at the hospital and hear things the soldiers say.” She shook her head. “Sometimes we do things just to prove that life is worth living.”

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I love him. If he still wants to marry me, I will go anywhere to be with him.”

“To Canada?”

Helene nodded.

“Have you written to his friend?”

“No. I didn’t think of doing that.” Helene’s face brightened. “What a good suggestion.”

* * *

After two months, Helene was losing hope of hearing from Edward, although she wrote him faithfully three times a week with stories of her life in Paris. Even the letter to his friend Eric had prompted no response. Eventually, she stopped going out and instead sat by her bedroom window for hours looking at his picture. Without the possibility of Edward, she was disappearing into emptiness.

Everything has gone wrong
.

Given the stress of resettling into Paris, the first time Helene missed her monthly, she paid little attention. But the second month was disturbing, and now that a third month had passed, she knew. Occasionally, the thought of pregnancy filled her with intense wonder, but the rest of the time she was in a state of panic. When doubts of Edward’s intentions came to mind, she forced herself to think of his words of love and his gentle caresses. Most often, she worried that he was wounded or worse.

What can I do?
The question plagued her over and over. She had no answer.

* * *

“Marie is here,” her mother said, standing just outside the bedroom.

“I don’t want to see her.”

“But, sweetheart, she’s been here every day this week. You’re being very rude to your best friend.”

“Tell her I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

Helene looked away, not bothering to respond. She couldn’t face Marie’s sunny disposition or her questions. Her mother sighed, and a few minutes later, she heard the murmur of voices followed by the sound of the front door closing. She thought she would be left alone, but instead her mother’s footsteps echoed along the hallway.

“It’s time to tell me what’s wrong. You look ill and I’m worried.”

“There’s been no word, Maman. No word from him at all.”

“But he’s at the front. Sometimes it’s . . .”

“He always wrote before, even when there was fighting. He said it kept him sane.”

“Well, perhaps Papa . . .”

“No, not Papa. He’s the one who took me away. If it weren’t for Papa, I would still be in Beaufort. I would have letters from him. I know I would.” Helene heard her own voice rising shrilly.

“Give it more time, sweetheart. Edward cares for you. Very much. I know he’ll write.”

Helene looked away.
Maman has to know. Maman’s the only one who can help
. She took a deep breath.

“There’s no more time. I’m going to have a baby, Maman. I don’t know what to do.” Her eyes filled and she wiped them with a handkerchief.

“Oh, no. How could you, Helene?” Her mother put a hand over her mouth. “Are you sure?” Helene nodded, her faced drained of colour. “Dear God, this is terrible. I trusted you, Helene. Surely you knew the risks.” Her mother paced up and down in front of the window, rubbing her forehead. She turned to look at Helene once more.

“Damn that man. I brought him into our house. I thought he was kind and decent, and he betrayed my trust.”

“Don’t blame him, Maman.”

“What a scandal this will be . . . How will we . . . I need to think. Papa—”

“You can’t tell him, Maman. He will be so ashamed of me.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see Edward again.”

“It does matter.” Her mother’s voice was low and harsh. “You have a life to live even if he has disappeared.”

“Oh, Maman, I’m sorry. Perhaps I should just go away.”

“Hush now, we’ll find a solution. You’re still my little girl,” her mother said
pulling her into her arms and hugging her tight.

* * *

As she went to bed, Lise looked in on Helene, who had refused all offers of food, accepting only a cup of hot broth. Now she was asleep, her knees drawn close to her body, one hand tucked beneath her chin.
How will we get through this
?

She was gentle but firm the next morning. “I’ve written to Tante Chantal,” she said. “I know she will understand, and the sea air will do you good. You can stay with her until the baby is born. I can provide some of my own money for the midwife. Perhaps Papa doesn’t need to know. And then, once the baby is adopted—”

“Adopted? But I can’t give the baby away, Maman. It’s all I have left of Edward.”

“Don’t be
foolish. You need to be sensible. Unmarried mothers are not welcome in society. You know that. And besides, if you chose to keep the baby, how would you make a living?”

Helene slumped forward,
head in her hand. “I don’t know.”

“I’m going to tell your father that the doctor has ordered sea air and rest to cure your depression. He’s so busy, and this will give us a few months to figure things out. Only Tante Chantal and I will know the truth.”

Helene surrendered to her mother’s authority, and within a few days, boarded a train to Honfleur on the northwest coast of France, a place for summer holidays, ice cream and sunbathing on the beach.

* * *

Dear Marie,

Thank you for being such a steadfast friend. I am sorry that I refused to see you, but I was so sad about Edward. I can’t stand the thought of never seeing him again.

Maman will have told you that I am staying with my aunt for a few months. The doctor thinks the seaside will help cure my depression. For now, Tante Chantal is cooking me all sorts of delicious treats, and each day we walk on the beach for hours. Perhaps the doctor is right.

Did you ever visit the hat shop called Coco in Deauville? My aunt took me there yesterday, and it seems this designer is introducing women’s trousers as part of her new clothing line. I wore some of Jean’s trousers when we went hiking and found them very comfortable. Perhaps I will be among the first to adopt this new style. Our fathers would be shocked, wouldn’t they? Tante Chantal tells me that some women doing war work are wearing Coco’s loose, comfortable fashions. Much more suitable than all those layers of corsets and petticoats.

Since it is May, Honfleur is still rather quiet, which suits me and my circumstances. In the evenings, we usually read or write letters, and my aunt is teaching me to crochet. Very domestic.

I miss you. Please forgive me and write soon.

Helene

* * *

Dear Helene,

Of course I forgive you. We have been best friends for so long that I knew your retreat was temporary. You are so lucky to be in Honfleur right now as we are experiencing regular air raids, and I am hardly sleeping at all. Maman insists on going to the shelters each time, which is such an inconvenience.

Did I tell you that I am volunteering on Saturdays with the Red Cross? With so many allied soldiers recuperating in Paris, they need extra women to serve at the canteens. I am becoming very efficient at brewing coffee and tea, folding napkins and cleaning tables. On the positive side, I have met many young men! Combined with my hospital work I have little time to spare.

Francois is still at the front, and we are quite worried since his regiment is in the thick of it, chasing retreating Germans, according to Papa. We are all hopeful that war will soon end. Perhaps when it does you will find your Edward.

I have saved my best news for last. Maman has given me a little extra money so I can visit you. I hope to come at the end of June, if your aunt will have me.

Write back soon and let me know.

Marie

After reading Marie’s letter, Helene got up from her seat on the front porch and went down to the wide sweep of beach where she and her aunt walked every day. Only a few souls braved the wind-whipped beach, and she stood for a moment watching a brown spaniel nip the heels of a young boy splashing along the water’s edge. Furled umbrellas were anchored in the sand, waiting for warmer weather.

She gazed along the shore towards the town centre nestled at the mouth of the Seine. Chantal told her of famous painters who captured its setting: Corot, who painted the reds, blues and greens of Honfleur’s fishing boats and its sheltered wharf and narrow streets; Monet, who painted the quaint charm of its shops and the Seine estuary where sailboats skimmed the water against a backdrop of summer clouds and Wedgwood blue skies. A ridge rose sharply behind the town as if framing it for the pleasure of visitors and painters alike.

Turning away from Honfleur’s charms, Helene walked past a shuttered ice cream shack and crossed the boat ramp, its rails rusty from rain and snow, then made her way to the end of the wooden pier, where ferries jockeyed in and out during the season. Waves crested in white foam against the pier.

How can I persuade Marie not to come?

Already her skirts were tight and the little bump of her child plain to see. When she looked in the mirror, her cheeks were plumper and her nipples large and dark. Helene touched her belly as she felt the baby turn, and despite her worries, she smiled. When she had first felt the baby’s flutter she thought it might be indigestion. But the second time it happened she was overwhelmed by the thought that Edward was with her, deep inside like he had been before.