Lies Told In Silence (29 page)

“Didn’t want to marry you?” She drew his arms tighter in response.

“When you and Marie came to visit, I never for a second imagined that you would ask me. But when you did, it felt like a sign that everything would be all right. I didn’t question you. Or ask you why. I just accepted it.” Helene turned over so she could see his face. “I have to find out whether he lived or died.”

“What will you do if you find him?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered so softly he could hardly hear. “I love you. I fell in love with you after we started raising Claire together. You’re a wonderful father. And husband.”

“But.” He stiffened.

“But . . . it’s been eating away at me ever since I read about the memorial.”

They were silent for a while until Francois pulled her close. He made love to her, gentle at first and then less so. She accepted his body, responding to everything he demanded, and held him tight until he climaxed inside her.

Chapter 42

June 1936

After more than forty years living in the same apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement, Lise felt the need to clear the clutter she and Henri had accumulated and decided to dedicate the first part of June to the task. She began in the dining room, where a set of glassware that had belonged to Henri’s parents was the first item designated for the secondhand shops. The larger of two buffets revealed a crystal decanter missing its stopper, several cracked bowls, broken silver candlesticks, an old carving set Henri no longer used and two boxes full of other items. Feeling pleased, Lise tackled the living room next and then, with Lucy’s help, the kitchen and pantry.

In the small bedroom Henri had used so many years ago when they had been estranged, she sorted through a dresser full of old clothes, musing over formal wear acquired before the war, her husband’s dress army uniform, a few moth-eaten sweaters, two ridiculous-looking swimsuits, his baby shoes and a long white scarf with a cigarette burn at one end. Underneath his riding gear was a cardboard box tied up with string.

Lise sucked in her breath, her mouth forming a small round circle, and sat back on her heels. What kind of secrets had to be hidden away in a place she would never think to look? Did the box contain letters from Henri’s long ago lover or some other woman who had been important to him? Did she want to know? Maybe the best course of action was to throw away the box unopened.

Lise hesitated a long time before lifting the lid. Just as she had expected, the box revealed letters,
their edges yellowed with age. But not letters to Henri. Instead, they were letters from Helene to Edward Jamieson and from Edward to Helene, dozens of letters that had never reached their intended destination. Lise placed a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with shock. Slowly she picked up an envelope with narrow, slanting script, and withdrew a folded piece of paper.

My darling Helene,

It’s been thirteen weeks since I heard from you, and I am going mad with worry. Eric assures me that there must be some mix up with the mail, but I no longer believe him. Please write to me even if it is only to tell me that you do not love me anymore. I have to know that you are still alive. I have to know!

My battalion has seen a lot of action these past few months. Captain Earnshaw has heard encouraging news that the Germans are on the run. I will come looking for you as soon as I can, but you must write to me, Helene. I can barely discharge my duties because all I do is worry about you.

I will always love you no matter what your answer is.

Edward

Mon Dieu,
she thought
. He intercepted their letters when we returned to Paris.
How could her husband, who would have sacrificed anything for his children, have done such a thing? Her head throbbed. The letters belonged to Helene. Henri had no right to take them. He had done something despicable, something she could barely imagine him doing. Had he in some terribly misguided way been attempting to protect their daughter? How different would Helene’s life be if he had not interfered?
Would anything good come about by confronting Henri or giving the letters to Helene? No, nothing good at all. Lise folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. Slowly and with great care she returned the box to its place beneath her husband’s riding clothes.

* * *

Four weeks before the dedication ceremony, Helene went to see her mother.
Maman will understand
, she thought.
Perhaps she’ll have some advice, and if not, at least she will listen.
Francois had made it clear that the topic of Vimy was taboo.

Late June was warm and sunny, and since the apartment was hot, Helene and her mother sat on the balcony. A streetcar rumbled
along followed by the
whoosh
of a passing taxi. Helene got up from the table and leaned on the wrought-iron railing, observing the antics of two children walking a dog that was clearly too big for them. She and her mother had been talking for almost an hour.

“Why do you feel the need to risk your marriage over a man you haven’t seen in eighteen years? You can’t go back, Helene.”

“I want to know.”

“Know what?”

“What happened to him.” Helene lifted her chin. “If he died, his name will be listed. That’s what the papers said. I need to know. It’s been eighteen years, and I need to know. I have to know, Maman. Ever since I read about the memorial, I’ve been overwhelmed by a sense that I should have done something different. Gone looking for him or found a way to write to his family. I don’t know if that would have made any difference, but I didn’t try hard enough. I let you and Papa and my fears dictate my decisions.” Her voice broke and she swallowed to keep from crying. “I didn’t follow my heart.”

“Circumstances were very difficult then.”

“But I was old enough to act like an adult, and instead I acted like a child.”

Her mother’s face softened with sadness. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Helene turned away. “I’ve already made Francois doubt our marriage. I can’t repair that unless I find some answers.”

Maman tapped her fingers up and down on the small table where they had been sitting then picked up an empty glass and twisted it so that the light of the sun sparked colours on the tabletop. “What difference would it make if you knew he was alive?”

“I don’t know. Why would you ask such a question?”

“Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

When her mother returned with a small box under her arm, she gestured for Helene to sit and put the box on the table between them. Watching her tap her fingers once more, Helene wondered what was in the box and why her mother seemed so nervous.

“I’ve been cleaning house, clearing out the clutter your father and I have. Tucked away in an old dresser, I found this box. I haven’t told your father what I found, but I think you deserve to know. Perhaps it will help. Before you open it, remember that your father did what he thought was in your best interest, and remember how much he loves you.”

Helene’s body tensed at her mother’s sombre tone. There was nothing remarkable on the box, nothing to suggest its contents, nothing except her mother’s obvious anxiety to indicate caution. She pulled the box closer. It was smaller than a shoebox, square, the edges worn. Nothing to indicate its contents but she had a feeling that it contained something ominous. Helene fingered the lid for a moment then slowly lifted it off revealing a thick stack of letters. When she pulled one out and saw the achingly familiar writing, she closed her eyes and shook her head from side to side.

“No. No. No. Maman, tell me these aren’t what I think they are. Papa would never have done that to me.”

Lise reached for Helene’s hand. “Darling, remember what I said. Papa loves you.”

Helene’s fingers shook as she lifted the envelope, its edges brittle with age, to find another behind it, and another
, and another. When she found one in her own handwriting, tears slipped down her cheeks, and deep sobs wrenched her body as if it might break apart. Still sobbing, Helene replaced the lid and held the box to her chest.

“He was writing
to me all that time,” she whispered.

“But now you know he’s alive,” her mother said.

“I can’t believe this is happening. I have to go.”

“Sweetheart, don’t go. Talk to me. Please talk to me.
”

Helene stood up. She ignored her mother’s voice calling her to come back and left the apartment without a word.

The front door banged shut behind her. All she could think of was the need to be alone. Her head spun at the enormity of her father’s deception, lurching forward one moment to consider why he made that decision, leaping back the next moment to block the thoughts hammering in her brain. “Papa,” she moaned, “how could you?” Helene was not aware she had spoken out loud.

Hurrying along Rue de Grenelle, she passed a bookstore and newspaper stand, small grocery stores, a cart brimming with oranges, an old woman minding buckets full of roses. Every sight and sound receded as she headed towards the Champs de Mars, where she remembered a bench amongst the shrubs and trees that might offer refuge, a place where she and Marie used to share confidences after school.

The Champs was ripe with greenery and warm in the afternoon sun, narrow paths arcing in various directions. Helene stopped to get her bearings before heading left around a pond bordered by a stone bridge and two weeping willows.
It’s still here
, she thought, sinking onto the bench, clutching the cardboard box of letters to her chest. Eyes closed, she waited for her heart to stop pounding.

Eighteen years of not knowing, and all that time, her father knew. Helene was so stunned she could hardly breathe. Her mind tumbled in disorder. Why would her father intercept their letters? Why would he be willing to lose his first grandchild rather than tell her? “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” She covered her mouth with her hand and rocked back and forth, the pain of discovery once again overwhelming.

As the sun eased west, the air freshened, lifting a few tendrils of hair. Helene brushed the tears from her cheeks and opened the box for the second time. Pulling the first letter out of its envelope and unfolding the pages, she began to read.

Dearest Helene,

I am south of Beaufort now, more than 100 miles away, and all I can think of is your beautiful face and the joy of being with you in our favourite place. I am safe and well behind the lines, so you need not worry about me. Captain Earnshaw has been given a special training assignment and has chosen me and Bill Simpson to accompany him. I don’t know how long we will stay.

We are billeted with a French family who are very generous to us, offering delicious meals and taking care of our laundry. I share a room in the attic with Bill, where we have proper beds to sleep in. Such a luxury. The countryside is rolling with wide hills in the distance, and although spring is only just beginning, I can see that it will be very lush in a few weeks’ time. Our host maintains a small vineyard and urges us to have a glass of wine with dinner, which makes me think of the wine we had at Tante Camille’s.

Each day we ride off to camp in a dilapidated car to conduct training sessions. The car we use lurches and sputters so much I am amazed that it still runs.

Darling, I’m sorry for the delay in writing to you; however, we travelled very quickly to get here and our workload has been enormous. Please give my best wishes to your mother and Jean. Remember your promise to me.

I love you,

Edward

A large tear dripped onto the page as Helene lifted her head and looked into the distance.
He loved me. He would have honoured his promise. I would have honoured mine. My life would have been completely different.

Wrapped in a cacophony of thoughts, Helene heard nothing of the people passing along the path or the gardeners trimming nearby bushes, nor did she hear the chestnut vendor calling for customers. She paid no attention to the shifting breezes and changing angle of the sun. Her mind became consumed with when and how to confront her father an
d the rage building inside her.

She read no more of Edward’s letters that afternoon. She would save them for her trip to Beaufort.

* * *

“Your daughter is here to see you, Monsieur.”

Henri looked at his secretary with raised eyebrows before consulting his gold-rimmed pocket watch. He had no recollection of arranging to see Helene. Perhaps she intended to take him to lunch.

“Send her in.”

He pushed his chair away from the large mahogany desk and stood up. A visit with Helene always gave him great pleasure, but as soon as he saw her rigid posture and barely controlled emotion, the smile on his face dropped away.
What on earth is the matter?
He crossed the room to close the door before coming to stand beside her.

“What is it? Aren’t you going to give your father a hug?”
Henri reached out his arms.

Her eyes flashed. “Does this look familiar?” She withdrew a letter from her handbag and threw it on his desk.

Henri was rarely surprised. His entire career depended on his ability to anticipate circumstances and the reactions of others. That ability had secured many promotions over the years and been instrumental in his wartime dealings with the United States and Britain. He had no idea what his daughter was so angry about.

He played for time. “Are you going to tell me who the letter is from?”

Helene said nothing. Henri waited a moment or two longer before picking up the letter. When he saw the slanting scrawl and address on the envelope, the colour drained from his face.

“Where did you get this?”

“That’s not the right question, Papa. The question is why didn’t I get this eighteen years ago?”

“Did your mother give it to you?”

“Wrong question again, Papa. It doesn’t matter how I have this letter. What matters is your despicable conduct.”

Henri flinched at her choice of words. “It was a wartime r
omance. A low-ranking soldier. I thought it best—”