Lies Told In Silence (30 page)

“You thought it best. I was twenty years old. Old enough to make decisions for myself. I loved him. We promised to wait for each other.”

“But he wasn’t French.”

“You. Had. No. Right.” Helene spit each word at him.

Henri decided to change tactics. He had to find a way to calm his daughter. “You’re happy with Francois.”

“Yes, I am. He saved the day, didn’t he? It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that you put him up to it.”

Henri shook his head to deny her accusation. “Please,
chérie
. It’s a long time ago. I was doing what I thought best for you.”

“Best for me.” Helene snorted. “And you also thought it best that I give Claire up for adoption. Imagine, Papa, not having Claire in our lives. Imagine it. You would rather do that to me than give me the letters from Edward. I thought he was dead or had deserted me. Don’t you know what that did to me? Didn’t Maman tell you?”

Henri could tell that sadness was beginning to quell her fury.
I’m a fool
, he thought.
I should have destroyed those letters long ago.
He remembered the elaborate mechanisms used to intercept each letter. He had told his family that letters sent from the War Ministry had better delivery success, and every morning had asked Helene if she had anything she wanted taken to his office. When travelling, he had arranged for his driver to drop by the house each morning. Since the family had a post office box, Edward’s letters had been easier to intercept. Henri merely extracted them before bringing the rest of the mail home.

From time to time he had experienced a twinge of conscience, but for the most part had justified his actions by imagining that Helene would be better off without a poor Canadian soldier and that she was too young to know about love.

And Francois was an excellent husband. His son-in-law was just the right sort of man for Helene. Dedicated, full of integrity, savvy in business. They had a very good marriage and Helene was happy.
My actions might have been a little bit unethical
,
but things had worked out for the best
.

“
Chérie
, perhaps I made a mistake. But I remember how chaotic it was, the suffering we experienced, how many soldiers were killed or maimed for life. I wanted to protect you. My family was back in Paris where I could look after you all again. You were still my little girl.”

He watched her face soften for a moment and hoped she might understand his motives, or at least see them in a different light. Instead, she picked up the letter and made for the door, turning to fling one last comment.

“And what about Edward? He was fighting for France, risking his life for our country. Imagine what you did to him. You took away the only thing that kept him going. He said that to me one day, that I was the only thing that gave him hope. How do you think he felt when my letters no longer came?”

“I was thinking of your happiness, Helene. Your long-term happiness. Believe me, sweetheart, I only did what I thought best. I’m very sorry. Won’t you forgive me?”

“You’re going to have lots of time to regret what you did, Papa. I won’t forgive you. And I don’t want to see you or speak to you.”

Helene did not wait for his reply. She opened the door, walked out and slammed it behind her.

Chapter 43

July 1936

For the next few weeks, Helene tried to contain her anger, to find some way to bottle it up so she could cope with her everyday world. Francois was already so upset she decided that burdening him further with letters from long ago might cause irreparable damage. Claire, Juliette and Daniel depended on her calm support to steady their teenage ups and downs. Her mother called frequently; however, Helene deflected any discussion of the letters or her trip to Vimy. She permitted no contact whatsoever with her father despite his telephone calls and a handwritten letter begging for forgiveness.

On the Friday before the memorial de
dication, she slipped out of bed early in order to bathe before Francois got up. Sunlight streamed through the bathroom window while the tub filled with hot water, as hot as she could stand. She added a capful of bath salts that always made her skin feel smooth. Lifting her nightgown over her head, she paused to consider her figure in the mirror, smoothing her hands over the curve of her waist and hips, examining the slope between neck and shoulders, turning this way and that, noting the small bulge of a tummy stretched by childbirth and the slight droop of breasts that used to sit higher. When steam covered the mirror, she stepped into the bath. Heat soothed her muscles and the quiet of a sleeping house allowed her mind to wander.

“Are you finished in the bath?”

Francois’s voice pulled her away from memories of Beaufort. “Just about.”

Dressing quickly in a simple skirt and blouse laid out the night before, Helene made a mental checklist of things to do before her taxi arrived. Packing was the priority. With each item she placed in her suitcase, she wondered what the next few days would hold, imagining glittering uniforms, emotional speeches, stirring music and fluttering flags. She imagined looking for Edward, wondering whether finding him would be more distressing than not finding him.
At least I know he was alive when the war ended.

She told herself the crowds would be too dense to penetrate, that he wouldn’t remember her, or that he would be happily married and she no longer mattered to him. She told herself that he might not be there, that he might not want to stir painful memories of war.

Eighteen years felt like an eternity, and yet she could still see him, touch him, hear the deep silk of his voice. She could picture them together dancing, laughing, walking the hills, making love. She imagined telling him about Claire, and in the next breath, told herself that she could never divulge that secret.
Claire is Francois’s daughter, not Edward’s.

Helene dismissed any thoughts of guilt; her father’s actions justified this visit to Vimy and the search for Edward. She continued to pack, comfortable shoes next to high heels, casual slacks on top of a clinging black skirt.

Out on the sidewalk, pedestrians jostled past the Delancey family, some on their way to work, others walking tiny dogs or hurrying home with a baguette and newspaper under one arm. A blanket of clouds made Helene feel confined, impatient to escape to the open skies and countryside around Beaufort.

“When will you be back, Maman?” Juliette said.

“A week from today,
chérie
. Look after Papa for me. All of you. And do as he says.”

Francois stood back as their three children kissed her good-bye. She knew he resented the tension that had grown between them and that even now he hoped she would change her mind or give him the reassurance he needed.

Helene laid her cheek against his. “I’ll telephone to let you know when I’ve arrived,” she said and then climbed into the taxi.

* * *

Every chug of the train and blast of steam brought her closer to Beaufort. Anticipation grew along with agitation. Her suitcase was on the overhead rack, but the letters were in her handbag on the seat beside her, and every so often she reached in to feel their reassuring presence.

How would it feel to be in Beaufort after so long? Paris had been home for her entire life except those four years, and yet so much of what happened in Beaufort defined her adult life and relationships. She could see the main square, Doctor Valdane’s striped awning, St. Jerome’s with its wide stone steps and narrow spire, geraniums on window ledges framed by blue or green shutters, red roofs atop simple limestone houses, the town hall with its ornate clock. And Café Pitou where they spent so many hours gathering news, listening to gossip, hearin
g about tragedies near and far.

She wondered how this new generation of citizens would look. Would they reflect past traditions or the changes in fashion and outlook she was familiar with in Paris? Regardless of superficial matters, she was sure they would still esteem generosity and dedication to family and God.

On the ride into town, she saw evidence of growth in new houses built of brick rather than stone, and a furniture factory not far from the station. Rue Principale opened onto the main square, which looked different without uniforms and military vehicles, and smelled different without the sweat of exhausted men caked in mud and the faint whiff of cordite that could drift for kilometres and lingered on a soldier’s clothes.

The calm of everyday life filled the square
: a group of women chatting by the post office, pots of flowers nestled in front of the flower shop, men going in and out of the café, a woman wheeling a large black carriage outside the patisserie, children laughing as they splashed in the fountain.
Paris fashion hasn’t come this far north
, she thought, smiling a little and stopping to set her suitcase down while she decided how to get to Tante Camille’s.
Funny that we still call it Tante Camille’s, even though she’s been dead for ages
.

The square felt the same and yet different, subtle changes like modern signs and paved roads, more colour and less grey, manufactured brooms instead of handmade, small trucks instead of horse
-drawn wagons. More men and laughter.

She stopped at the café and prevailed upon a pert young wai
tress to call for a taxi, and soon she was whisking down the familiar road past the cemetery, the turnoff towards their hillside hut, Monsieur Garnier’s. Nostalgia crept into her soul with the sweep of hills and scents of summer.

“Are you here for the dedication, Madame?”

“Yes. I lived here during the war.”

“Lost this at Verdun,” he said, thrusting his left arm in the air so she could see he had no hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Happened in ’15
, so I missed the rest of it. Lucky really.”

Lucky
, she thought, lapsing into silence. She wanted to be alone, without obligation or the demands of conversation. As soon as she settled in, she would read Edward’s letters and hear his voice once again. She planned to savour every word, cherish them while she was here because once she returned to Paris, she would have to hide them away. But for this week, they would be hers.

“There it is.”

Excitement rose with her first glimpse of the house. Helene remembered arriving in 1914 with Gaston driving the red Tonneau, her mother angry and unhappy, her father trying to make conversation, Jean eager to get there, Grandmere dressed in black. From a distance, Tante Camille’s looked peaceful, perched on a small hill, exuding contentment. Tall trees framed either side of the house, and tidy stone fences marked the property’s boundaries. As the taxi rumbled along, she saw the pond and the Doucet farm and a large group of black and white cows.
I wonder if they still keep rabbits
.

After the taxi left, Helene drifted through the house touching familiar items.
Maman hasn’t changed much,
she thought, although the woodstove was gone and different chairs flanked the fireplace. She remembered winter nights, knitting beside her mother, thin wisps of heat vanishing as the fire died, and summer nights on the porch, hoping for a little breeze. She shivered at the thought of exploding shells booming in the distance and the whine of airplanes high in the sky.

Upstairs, she found new drapes and spreads in vibrant co
lours—sunny yellow, field green, peony pink—and tasteful decorations and new pictures that made each bedroom feel warm and inviting. On her mother’s dresser were family pictures: Guy with Renee and their four boys, Jean and Yvette with their twin girls and one of her and Francois with their three taken two years ago. She opened the door to what had been her grandmother’s bedroom, where the only colour came from a deep blue washbasin which she remembered filling with warm water so Grandmere could have what she called her “petite toilette” before breakfast. Everything else was white, making the room look like summer clouds.
No wonder Maman and Papa still come here
.

Helene stood at the bottom of the attic stairs, wondering what she would find in her old room, the place where she slept when they first came to Beaufort, the place where she read Edward’s letters and hid them from her mother’s eyes. The place where they made love one winter day. The stairs creaked in protest as she ascended.

At the top, she braced herself for a colour like lavender to conjure up fields in Provence, or azure to recall the Mediterranean, or perhaps red to commemorate the Tonneau that served them so well. When she opened the door, a smile spread across her face. Her mother had left it untouched.

She imagined her mother making this deliberate decision and wondered at her reasoning.
Why didn’t she tell me? Was she trying to protect something I might consider precious?
Each item in the room whispered memories. Helene pressed her fingers against her lips.
Did she know I would eventually come?

* * *

Sweetheart,

I haven’t had a letter from you yet, but I’m sure there is one on the way. Perhaps our military mail system is having difficulty finding me. I have all your other letters tucked in a waterproof bag inside my satchel, so if I don’t receive one from you soon, I will reread one or two to keep you close.

My darling, you have made me the happiest man in the world. To know that you are waiting for me and have agreed to marry me is a gift beyond belief. Every day I think about those last hours we spent together. I long for you; every part of you is precious to me. Promise me one more time that you and I will always be together.

Today is Sunday, and I imagine you sitting in St. Jerome’s waiting for Father Marcel’s sermon to end. I hope you are thinking of me.

All my love,

Edward

By the time the sun was slipping away, she had finished rea
ding every letter, including those she wrote, pausing to wipe her tears or stare into some unseen distance, seeking a way to understand. Edward’s last few letters were so desperate she could hardly bear to read them.

She returned the letters to their box, arranging them by date, hers interleaved with his. Bereft and disoriented, she walked barefoot along a stone path to the pond, where she stood for a long time listening to frogs croaking and the soft mooing of Monsieur Doucet’s cows. A crescent moon, pure and innocent, pierced the sky while fireflies danced near a cluster of lily pads and crickets sang their night song.

Who am I now that I know?

She felt as though an earthquake had opened a chasm, and she was on one side separated from everything familiar. Her life no longer made sense. Her father’s deception made the decision to marry Francois a betrayal of immense proportions; not only had she broken her promise to Edward but she had denied him his daughter. Each of his letters made it clear that she was everything to him. When the air cooled, she shivered and returned to the house, exhausted and empty. In the narrow chasteness of her girlhood bed, she thought about the man who loved her now and the one who
had loved her long ago.

* * *

She woke to the pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof and dragged herself out of bed. A bank of cloud stretched across the horizon like a grey shroud.
Suitable for the way I’m feeling
, she thought.

Helene looked into the mirror leaning against the wall above her old dresser. Her face was bruised from sorrow, red-rimmed eyes puffy, hair lank and dishevelled. She grimaced and made her way to
the bathroom. Except for the gentle sounds of rain, the house was quiet, and after soaking in the tub, her sadness eased a fraction.

Downstairs, she rummaged in the kitchen, making breakfast and coffee from provisions her mother’s housekeeper had arranged. Being in the kitchen reminded her of happy times when her grandmother taught her to cook and when she and her mother talked about life and womanhood.
This is where we became friends
.
Despite the war, this house was full of love and a measure of contentment
. Helene allowed her mind to wander, images coming and going as she contemplated her circumstances, and an almost dreamlike state gentled her soul.

By early afternoon, the rain had stopped, puffy white clouds gradually replacing the grey. Restless, Helene walked into Beaufort, and as she sipped an espresso at Café Pitou, the exterior now painted a cheerful blue, she reflected on the durability of small
towns, and how so little changes with time. A comforting thought. The pharmacy, flower shop, café and dressmaker were much the same; the fountain still offered its welcome spray of water. Women stopped for lengthy conversations, shopping bags in hand; dogs sniffed and lifted their legs; a bicycle bell rang sharply. She wondered if she would see a familiar face.