Louise's War (22 page)

The orchestra filed out on stage, followed by the conductor, and the music began, wafting across the tidal basin.

Once an airplane, with red and green lights blinking at its wingtips, passed overhead, muting the orchestra’s sound.

Occasionally Joe whispered in my ear, explaining something about the music to me, but he wasn’t at all condescending. We held hands most of the evening and I loved feeling the intimacy of his body pressed close to mine.

After the program ended the orchestra played some show tunes for an encore, and I did get to hear ‘The Last Time I Saw Paris’, and couldn’t help thinking of Lionel again.

After the concert was over, as we walked back towards our car, Joe asked me if I’d like to finish our meal and have dessert. I wasn’t hungry, but I wanted to spend more time with him, so I said yes.

Inside we sat at the same table. The waiter brought us coffee and a menu.

‘Why don’t you order for me again?’ I asked.

‘Two apple strudels,’ Joe said to the waiter.

We sipped our coffee.

‘I have something I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time,’ Joe said. ‘Promise not to laugh.’

‘Sure,’ I said, ‘ask away.’

‘What’s a fish camp?’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, it’s kind of a, well, how shall I describe it? My parents’ place is on the Cape Fear River. It’s got a bait and tackle shop, a fishing dock and a marina, and a seafood restaurant. We can cook whatever the customers catch themselves, or what the commercial fishermen sell to us. And we have our own crab pots. We always have cole slaw and hush puppies and a dessert, usually banana pudding or strawberry pie.’

‘Sounds rustic and delightful.’

‘Squalid and smelly is more like it.’

‘You didn’t like working there?’

‘Not at all. My parents and brother adore it, though. They’d open on Sunday if the law allowed it.’

‘If you hated working there, why did you do it?’

‘Because after my husband died I had nowhere to go and no way to make a living, that’s why.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge up anything unpleasant. You’ve mentioned working at a fish camp several times and I didn’t know what that was.’

‘No, I’m the one being impolite. I hated being dependent on my family and don’t want to be reminded of it.’

Our strudel came. It was delicious, all sweet warm apple filling and crisp pastry. Joe ordered more coffee, and before I knew it I blurted out just the question I was embarrassed to ask him.

‘It is you, isn’t it, knocking on the pipe sometimes in the evenings? Not Henry?’

‘Yes, and thank goodness it’s you, too! I’ve been afraid I might be on top of Ada.’

The double entendre sent waves of scarlet up Joe’s face and I couldn’t help but laugh.

‘I meant, oh you know!’ he said.

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘We’d better go,’ Joe said, covering his embarrassment by sliding back his chair and helping me out of mine. ‘Karel’s blowing out all the candles.’

The nightwatchman encountered Lionel Barbier smoking on the wide stone veranda of the Vichy French embassy.

‘You’re here late tonight,’ he said. His guard dog, a black Alsatian, sniffed Barbier’s hand, then wagged his tail in recognition.

Barbier dropped his cigarette on the stone floor and crushed it with his foot.

‘Working,’ Barbier said. He dug into a pocket and brought out a peppermint candy, unwrapped it and presented it to the dog, which crunched it happily.

‘You’re the only person here,’ the nightwatchman said. ‘The weekend has begun for everyone else.’

‘Actually,
mon ami
, I wished to speak with you.’

‘Yes?’

‘I have an American girlfriend.’

‘You are fortunate.’

‘I believe my wife is becoming suspicious. I can no longer rent a hotel room for fear someone from the embassy might see us. Tomorrow is our anniversary.’

‘You and your wife’s?’

‘No,
imbécile
, me and my girlfriend’s! We met a year ago tomorrow. We wish to celebrate, of course. My office, as you know, has a very comfortable sofa.’

The nightwatchman groaned.

‘I cannot . . .’

‘Of course you can,’ Barbier said. He drew a thin wad of American dollars from his suit pocket.

‘There’s no harm in it, I suppose,’ the nightwatchman said, taking the money and tucking it into his pocket. ‘This girlfriend of yours, is she pretty?’

‘Of course! You’ll see for yourself tomorrow night,’ Barbier said.

‘Use your key,’ the nightwatchman said. ‘It will be less conspicuous.’ Barbier unwrapped another peppermint and fed it to the dog.

On the way home Joe focused on driving on the correct side of the road in the dark, challenging since the street lights weren’t lit because of the dim-out rules. Me, I concentrated on kissing him.

Or rather, intending to kiss him.

I had it all worked out.

Once we got back to the boarding house, I’d offer to make us coffee. We’d go into the lounge, sip our coffee and talk about our evening. The house would be dark and quiet, of course, since everyone would be upstairs asleep. Joe would put his coffee cup aside, turn to me, put his arm around my waist and draw me to him. We’d neck for as long as we could before losing control. Well, I expected Joe to ask, I’d be disappointed if he didn’t, but tonight wasn’t the night for that. I wasn’t ready, and I wanted to be alone with him, without any chance of interruption.

How did a girl carry on a romance in a boarding house, anyway?

I couldn’t take my eyes off Joe, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, his capable hands gripping the steering wheel, his arm muscles flexing as he changed gears. We were almost home.

‘That’s odd,’ Joe said, breaking into my romantic reverie.

‘What?’ I answered.

‘All the lights are on downstairs.’

He was right. Bright lights edged the blackout curtains of the lounge, hallway and kitchen of ‘Two Trees’. At nearly midnight. Something terrible must have happened.

EIGHTEEN

M
y first reaction was fear for one of Phoebe’s sons.

Joe quickly parked the car and we hurried up the drive to the front door, instinctively holding hands.

Phoebe met us in the hall. She looked a little weary, but nothing like she would have if one of her sons had been killed or injured.

‘There’s a young foreign woman here to see you, Louise,’ Phoebe said. ‘A refugee.’

Rachel!

‘She wants to speak to you, only you, but her English isn’t very good.’

So it wasn’t Rachel.

‘She insisted on waiting for you,’ Phoebe said. ‘She’s in the lounge.’

I hastened past Joe and Phoebe into the lounge. A woman who I guessed was in her mid-thirties sat primly on the davenport. A threadbare cotton dress hung on her thin frame. A cardboard suitcase tied up with rope sat next to her on the floor. She wore scuffed brogues and thick socks on her feet, a beret tipped back on dirty blonde hair that hung to her shoulders and a blue much-darned cardigan sweater, clothing too warm for Washington in the summer, but not for an ocean crossing.

Ada sat across from her. Either she or Phoebe had brought the woman something to eat and drink, because a tray with an empty glass and crumby plate rested on the coffee table in front of her.

When the woman saw me, she stood up and reached out her hand. ‘Louise Pearlie?’ she asked, in a thick German accent. Her grip was firm and her face was strong and composed.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Bad English,’ she said.

‘That’s all right,’ I answered.

‘Henrietta Falk,’ she said, patting her chest with the palm of her hand. ‘Rachel’s friend.’

I sank heavily onto the davenport. My vision darkened, bright spots drifted in the air and I was afraid I would faint. Ada quickly took my hand, and Phoebe brought me a glass of water.

‘Are you all right?’ Ada asked.

‘I think so,’ I said.

‘It’s terribly hot in here,’ Joe said. ‘With your permission, Phoebe, let’s dispense with the dim-out rules tonight.’

‘Certainly,’ Phoebe said.

Joe drew back the curtains and flung open the front windows. Cool air, or what cool passed for on a July night, breezed into the room. I pulled myself together.

‘Who’s Rachel?’ Phoebe asked.

‘A dear friend of mine from college,’ I said. ‘She’s French, and Jewish. I haven’t heard from her in a couple of years, except for one postcard. I’m terribly worried about her.’

Henrietta, who’d moved onto a chair next to Ada, began to nod vigorously.

‘Is Rachel still in Marseille?’ I asked. ‘In her home?’

‘Home, no. Not home. Oh, what is the word!’ Henrietta bit her lip.

‘Let me help,’ Joe said. He turned to Henrietta and began speaking in German. His words unleashed a torrent of more German from Henrietta. When she stopped to catch her breath, Joe turned back to me.

‘Your friend Rachel is in an internment center in Marseille,’ Joe said. ‘She had to leave her apartment building in the Old Port. The Nazis evacuated the buildings that overlooked the harbor.’

Rachel and her family had been evicted from their home. Was this a preliminary step to sending them east? I was devastated.

Henrietta tugged on Joe’s sleeve, and spoke again.

‘She says,’ Joe said to me, ‘that Rachel’s husband had to flee Marseille, he’s with the Resistance now, but Rachel and the children are together at a place just for women and children, a converted hotel. Henrietta met Rachel there.’

‘Children?’ I said. ‘There’s just Claude.’

Henrietta understood me, because she cradled an imaginary baby in her arms, and said, ‘Louisa.’ A little girl named after me.

Only Ada’s firm grip on my arm kept me under control.

‘How did you find me?’

Joe repeated my question in German, she answered, and he translated. ‘She had your parents’ address, she telegraphed them as soon as she arrived, and they replied with your address here,’ he said.

‘Ask her what I can do to help Rachel,’ I said to Joe.

Henrietta started to shake her head before he finished speaking.

‘Very little, she cannot get a visa,’ Henrietta said. ‘The authorities suspect her husband is with the Resistance. But you can send packages, through the Red Cross, or the Quakers.’

Henrietta handed me a paper, just half a lined page torn from a cheap pad, folded in two. Scrawled on the page in Rachel’s hurried handwriting were the words ‘Hôtel Bompard’ and a Marseille address, signed with an ‘R’, and a tiny heart.

I looked at Henrietta questioningly.

‘That is the address for the packages. There was no time for Rachel to write more. I had to go.’

‘Is there any talk of the Germans sending them east?’ I asked. ‘To a labor camp?’

‘There are many rumors,’ Henrietta said.

Ada squeezed my hand again. ‘I’m sure that won’t happen, dear,’ she said.

Joe and Henrietta continued their conversation in German.

‘Henrietta is from Breslau,’ Joe said. ‘She is going to live with her cousin in Cincinnati. He sponsored her for a visa. She’s going to work in his restaurant.’

Henrietta put her palm to her chest again.

‘My cousin Adam Falk,’ she said. ‘Two Oh Five Forest Street, Cincinnati, Ohio. My train leaves at eight fifteen tomorrow morning. I must go now.’

‘Please ask her to stay the night,’ Phoebe said. ‘She looks like she could use a bed and a good breakfast.’

Joe repeated Phoebe’s invitation, but Henrietta shook her head. ‘I must go to
Bahnhof
now,’ she said. ‘The train leaves at eight fifteen tomorrow morning.’ She finished in German.

‘Her cousin sent her a ticket and a little money. She’s scared to death she’ll miss the train,’ Joe said.

Henrietta picked up her suitcase and headed for the door, clearly intending to walk all the way to Union Station in the middle of the night.

‘Can I drive her in your car, Phoebe?’ Joe asked.

‘Of course,’ Phoebe answered.

‘But she can’t stay at the station until morning,’ I said.

‘It’s safe enough,’ Joe said. ‘It’s open all night, there are people everywhere, and she can get something to eat, sleep on a bench. We’ve all done it.’ He grabbed his hat and followed Henrietta, who was already on the porch, took her suitcase from her and led her down to the garage.

In the lounge Ada, Phoebe and I sat, silent, listening to Joe drive away with Henrietta.

‘I’m very sorry about your friend,’ Phoebe said to me.

‘Me, too,’ Ada said. She shivered. ‘I hated hearing them speak German. It’s such an ugly language.’

And until now none of us had any idea that Joe knew German.

All my plans for a romantic tryst with Joe vanished. Instead I went upstairs and locked myself into the bathroom. Then I sat on the cool tile floor and fell apart, sobbing, terrified for Rachel and her family. This feeling of security Rachel had, she and her father, since I’d known her at college, because she was a French citizen, because her family had been more French than Jewish for generations, had been pure delusion. Europe wasn’t civilized any more, and wouldn’t be as long as the Nazis were in power. The Gestapo were due to arrive in Marseille in a few days, and they wouldn’t care what passport any Jew carried.

Tomorrow I had planned to break and enter the Vichy French embassy and steal foreign government documents with the help of an embassy attaché I barely knew.

Cold fear gripped me. What if I got caught inside the embassy? I would be on French soil and subject to French law. A French prison! The Devil’s Island penal colony outside French Guiana was the closest. Maybe Lionel had already informed on me. Maybe gendarmes would be waiting to arrest me once I set foot on the embassy grounds.

And if I escaped the Vichy embassy but the OSS found out about my activities? What if Charles was pestering me, not because he had designs on my virtue, but because he was suspicious of my preoccupation with Gerald Bloch’s missing file? What if Marvin Metcalfe had called Don to check up on me? What if the FBI agents outside ‘Two Trees’ yesterday morning were watching me, not Joe or Ada?