The French War Bride (21 page)

2016

I
cannot help but interrupt her. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Literally, ‘Don't sell your pelts before the kill.'”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It's a very old saying from fur traders. It means don't count your chickens before they hatch.”

Oh, for heaven's sake. I frown as hard as my Botox will allow. “Why didn't you just say that?”

“Because it is my story to tell.” She leans forward and pours more coffee into her cup. “So. What were you doing on D-day?”

“Me? I was saying prayers for Jack. Whom, I would like to point out, you still haven't mentioned.”

“He wasn't in France before D-day.”

“I know. I don't understand why you didn't start this story with when you met him.”

“You don't?” She cocks her head to one side like an inquisitive parrot and looks at me in a knowing way that just makes me want to strangle her.

All right—yes. I do know, actually. I have never really thought about the war from her perspective, and if she is telling the truth—and for all I know, she is completely whitewashing her role and dramatizing everything—her life has been significantly rougher than mine. All the same, if she believes that having a tough time during the war made it all
right for her to seduce a man pledged to another, she has another think coming.

But patience is the key to getting the truth out of her. I draw a steadying breath and try to steer her back on track. “I gather you went to the north of France soon after D-day?” She must have, from the timing of the baby.

Her smile is like the Mona Lisa's, slight and enigmatic. “I will tell you in due time. Since you halted my story, however, I would like to hear, please, about your life after Jack left. Did you suspect that he was supporting the Allied landing?”

“Daddy did, when he heard the news.”

June 6, 1944

My father shook me awake from a sound slumber—I had been at my friend Mary's house until late the night before, me and two other girls. We had played charades and drunk some wine—Mary was a Presbyterian, so it was all right by her religion, and I was at her house, so I decided when in Rome, do as the Romans.

We were celebrating the liberation of Rome, after all. The Allies had freed it that very day. It seems that everyone has forgotten about that, but the day before D-day was a huge victory for the Allies. We had gotten the Germans to evacuate Rome without destroying the city—really without much resistance at all. The pope had addressed the crowds and greeted the Allied commanders, and all of Rome was celebrating. We'd celebrated, too, by eating spaghetti and drinking wine.

Anyway, when Daddy woke me the morning of D-day, I was confused and a little fuzzy headed—as a Baptist, I wasn't used to drinking.

“Kat, wake up,” Daddy said. “The radio just announced that the Allies have landed in France. I'll bet Jack is with them.”

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. I didn't really understand the significance. “But Jack was sent to England.”

“That's where the Allies came from,” Daddy said. “They crossed the English Channel in the dark and landed on the north coast of France.”

I got up, pulled on my bathrobe, and joined my parents in the living room, where the radio was on. New Orleans was seven or eight hours behind Europe time, so we were hearing reports of how many thousand troops had landed, and how many had been killed or wounded.

“They'll need the Medical Corps there right away,” Daddy said. “Jack is probably in the thick of it.”

That was the first time I feared for Jack's actual safety. “They'll wait until they stop shooting to send in the Medical Corps, won't they?” I asked.

“That's hard to say,” Daddy said. “They'll set up a little behind the troops, but I bet he's on one of the ships, just itching to get on land and help.”

“Didn't the announcer just say there were submarines bombing the Allied ships?”

My father had served in the First World War, mind you. He never talked about it, so I figured it hadn't been that big of a deal. I assumed that the Medical Corps were kept well out of harm's way.

But now Daddy looked worried. And the fact that my father was worried made me worried.

“It's war, Kat. We have to say our prayers and trust God to take care of things.”

Father went to work, and Mother took me to visit my grandmother. She made sure to keep me busy throughout most of the day.

The mayor organized a service in the town square to pray for our servicemen that evening. The high school band played “America the Beautiful” and the national anthem, and a black woman sang “How Great Thou Art” in a way that gave everyone goose bumps. Three different ministers prayed, then everyone went home and listened to their radios. There were several boys from our town whom we suspected had landed on those beaches. One of them, Fred Corrigan, was married to a high school friend of mine—Peggy Hastings. They had dated all through high school and married as soon as he was drafted. They were the kind of couple who just seemed perfect for each other. The kind who seemed to tune out the whole world and only really need each other.

Peggy was crying during the service. “I had a dream last night that Fred came and kissed me good-bye,” she whispered. “When I woke up and heard the news . . . oh, Kat, I'm so afraid it was real!”

“It was just a dream,” I said, but it spooked me all the same.

“Did you dream about Jack?” she asked.

“No more than usual,” I said. But I hadn't ever dreamed about him—not in the entire time I'd known him. I daydreamed, of course. I suddenly wondered if something was wrong with me—if I were somehow lacking.

If God allowed Jack's spirit to stop and say good-bye to just one person as it left the earth, would he come to visit me? He might go to see his mother—or my father. I hated to think it, but I wasn't sure if Jack and I were all that spiritually connected.

But then, I rationalized, Peggy and Fred were married. Once you were married and not just engaged, that's when the two-people-become-one thing would happen.

Like my parents. They were like that, weren't they?

Once again, I was suddenly unsure of something I had never doubted. Now that I thought about it, my father acted more like an indulgent parent toward my mother than a soul mate. He seemed to have more to say to Jack. They had in-depth discussions and laughed at the same things and, of course, had all the medical stuff in common.

I went home and wrote Jack a letter, telling him that I loved him and I was praying for his safety and that I'd had a dream about our wedding, and I just knew it was a sign from God that he would come home safe and sound. I thought that little white lie might reassure him.

When I knelt down by my bed that night, I asked God to watch over Jack and to bring him home soon. And I asked for a dream of Jack, and for Jack to have a dream of me.

I was disappointed the next morning when I could not recall a single dream. But when a dreaded telegram came for Peggy in July—it took weeks for word to reach us about the casualties—I was more than happy that the dream angel had skipped my bedpost.

June 6–August 1944

A
ll through Paris that June, the French celebrated the Allied landing. As Brits and Americans fought their way through France over the next few weeks, Parisians who had suffered silently under German repression became emboldened. Street violence increased. Young people tossed Molotov cocktails into Nazi cars. Lone soldiers were shot or beaten on the street. A crowd would spontaneously erupt into rounds of “La Marseillaise.”

The Germans were in no mood to humor us—but they seemed baffled as to how to respond. Reprisals were harsh but sporadic. They might do nothing, or they might open fire on a crowd. Life was chaotic, tense, and uncertain.

June stretched into July. On Bastille Day, everyone wore the blue, red, and white of the French flag. More than a thousand citizens gathered in the Place Maubert down the Boulevard Saint-Germain from the Sorbonne, singing and waving improvised French flags. The Nazis did nothing.

A week later we heard that a high-ranking Nazi had made an attempt on Hitler's life, convinced he was the reason the Germans were losing the war. There were whispers it was a conspiracy. As a result, many of the officers in charge of Paris were reshuffled.

German lorries increasingly rolled through the streets, carrying grim-looking German troops and officers to the front or back to Germany.

Incredibly, the roundup of Jews continued. At the hotel, I found orders
for seizures of property, plans for raids of neighborhoods, and schedules for convoys to carry Jews from Drancy and Bobigny to Auschwitz, which I immediately reported.

As August arrived, all of Paris seemed stretched on tenterhooks, waiting for what would happen next. Parisians, already restive, grew increasingly violent.

I waited in vain for Yvette to meet me at our usual place, Terrasse du Bord de l'Eau, the last two Tuesdays in July and the first one in August. When she finally showed at our meeting place, she looked pale and sad. “Dierk is leaving,” she told me.

“What will you do?”

“I don't know. He said he would get me a job at the hotel restaurant, but even if they hire me, they are sure to fire me as soon as the city is liberated.” She drew a cigarette out of her bag. “They despise me for la collaboration horizontale. Are there any jobs at your hotel?”

“They're not hiring right now. When Paris is liberated, perhaps they will.”

She gave a derisive snort and put the cigarette to her lips. “When Paris is liberated, I'm likely to be shot as a collaborateur.”

My brow knitted in worry. Already, people were spitting at women known to have been mistresses of the Wehrmacht.

“It's not so much that they sleep with the Boches,” I'd overheard the laundry supervisor say the previous week at lunch. “I don't really care about that. What I hate is that their tummies are full and fat and happy while my own children are starving.” The other people at the table had nodded in agreement.

“Have you encountered much trouble?” I asked Yvette.

She lifted her shoulders. “Some.”

I brushed a lock of her hair out of her eyes. “And that is why you are so sad?”

She shook her head. “That is only a small part of it.”

My heart stood still for a minute. “Oh, Yvette—you're in love with your Boche after all!”

“No.” She lifted her gaze, and I finally saw the depth of her worry. “But I am pregnant by him.”

I reflexively clutched my own stomach. “Mon Dieu! Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I just missed my monthly, and last week I started throwing up. I can't even smoke anymore, although I still play with cigarettes.” She pulled the unlit cigarette from between her lips and put it back in her purse, the end stained red with lipstick. “Dierk had a doctor check me, and he declared me officially
enceinte
.”

“Oh, la! And what does Dierk say?”

“He said he makes pretty babies. He showed me photos of his children.” Yvette gave a bittersweet smile. “He is right. They are beautiful.”

She sat down heavily on a bench. “I thought about seeing one of the women who do the special operation, but I cannot do it.”

“Oh, Yvette.” The gravity of her situation pressed down on me. I sank beside her on the bench. “What will you do?”

“After the city is freed and the mail runs again, I will write my aunt. I will see if she can loan us money to go to America.”

“That would be so wonderful for you!”

“And you. I will not go without you. Can I give her your address to write back? I have no idea where I will be living a few weeks from now.”

“Certainly. But what will you do for food and money and living arrangements in the meantime?” Hildie was no longer an option; she had taken in a boarder to help make ends meet.

“My baby will eat; Dierk has given me a stockpile of powdered formula. And he said he will leave me some money, but he can't leave me much, because his wife needs it, too. He also said he will pay for me to stay at the hotel through the end of the month.”

“At least you have that.”

“Yes. I'm better off than other women who have just been dumped on the street.” We both gazed at the Seine, which was strangely empty of boats. “He was in love with me, you know. He still is, a little.”

“I am sure of it.”

“But life goes on, does it not? His future is back in Germany, and I am not a part of it.”

“Do you mind terribly?”

“I hate that my baby will be a
bâtard
, but personally, I don't mind
so much.” Her gaze remained fixed on the river. “I will manage. I managed during the worst of it. And because of Dierk, I provided the Resistance with a lot of important information about the movement of supplies to Paris.”

In all our conversations, we had never talked about what, specifically, Dierk did. It fell under the rule of ignorance meant protection. “So he works with supplies.”

She nodded. “He was one of the top officers in charge of logistics. The Resistance intercepted truckload after truckload of weapons, food, clothing, and artillery based on information I provided.”

The importance of this was staggering. “You did a very good thing, Yvette.”

“Not everyone will think that. They only know what they saw, which was a woman eating and laughing and sleeping with a German. They believe that is whole truth.”

She sat very still for a moment. “Do you think my child will understand and forgive me?”

I put my arm around her. “I'm sure he or she will think you are the finest mother in the world.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Will you help me explain how things were, when it is time?”

“Oh, Yvette! I will help you and your child any way I can. You know I will. We will raise him or her together in America.” We stood, and I gave her a hug. “You and I and your baby—we will be a family.”

“We already are.” She smiled at me. “We already are.”

—

I mulled things over for a few days, then decided I should go see Pierre. The war was ending. Perhaps he would repent. If he did, perhaps Yvette would take him back; perhaps he would marry her and take care of the baby as if it were his own.

If that were the case, then perhaps, I, too, could forgive him. Perhaps, when all was said and done, he might even help me learn what happened to Joshua. Perhaps I would discover that he was alive after all.

Perhaps. I knew I was telling myself a fairy tale, one that began with
perhaps
instead of
once upon a time
, but hope was scant, and when hope is all you have, you cling to it like a child to a favorite blanket.

I went to the main police prefecture in the eleventh arrondissement. All of the officers were pulling off their caps and flooding out of the building.

“What is going on?” I asked one.

“We are on strike,” he said.

More like trying to save your own skins
, I thought darkly. The Nazis were fleeing the city like rats from a sinking ship, and the police were eager to get out of the uniforms that marked them as collaborateurs. I found one policeman still standing behind the front desk, although he was preoccupied gathering up his belongings. “Can you tell me where I can find my brother?” I asked. “His name is Pierre Michaud.”

“Sorry, mademoiselle. I do not know.”

“Can you look it up?”

“I'm afraid not.”

All I knew to do was to go to Pierre's apartment. I had the address, but I had never been. It was in a building far nicer than I would have thought a policeman's salary could provide. I knocked, but got no answer. The concierge was out, so I knocked on the door of his neighbor. A stooped man with a nose like a turnip slowly opened it and peered through a crack.

“Excuse me. Do you happen to know the whereabouts of your next-door neighbor, Pierre Michaud?”

“The policeman?” His face screwed into a tight ball. “He moved back to his fancy family home a few weeks ago.”

I felt my heart beat against my ribs. Was it true? Had Pierre been able to regain possession of our home? If anyone could, it would be he. He was the oldest son and therefore the legal heir. Perhaps, if he repented and we forgave him, he would let Yvette and me live there!

I thanked the man and breathlessly hurried to my old neighborhood. The train and Métro workers were on strike, so I walked the entire way, my feet throbbing at the heat of the pavement through the cardboard
soles of my shoes. Now that it was summer, I could not bear to wear three pairs of socks to make Yvette's shoes stay on my feet, and had reverted to wearing my own.

When I reached my old home, the familiarity of it made me want to weep. The paint was peeling from the door and a black shutter hung from a hinge—but looking at it, I could still imagine my mother inside, wearing her favorite red apron, cooking dinner. As I climbed the steps and approached the door, I realized that the heavy brass knocker had been removed. I rapped on the wood with my knuckles.

A thin, middle-aged man answered, a pistol dangling from his right hand. “Yes?”

“Bonjour. I am looking for Pierre Michaud.”

“You won't find him here.”

“Do you know when he will be back?”

“Yes. Never.”

“I—I don't understand. This is our home.”

“Not anymore, it's not. The deed is in my name, notarized and recorded down at city hall.”

“Oh. Oh, my.” Tears unexpectedly filled my eyes. I hadn't cried in a long, long time, but having such high hopes, then having them dashed, all within the space of a couple of hours . . . well, it broke something inside me.

He scowled. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Pierre's sister. He—he sold it to you?”

His eyes hardened. “Same as. I won it as a gambling debt. Like I said, it's all registered at city hall.”

My heart sank to my feet. “Do you have any idea where he is?”

“No.”

“When did this happen?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

He started to close the door. I put my hand on the doorjamb to halt him. He stopped just shy of crushing my knuckles. “What about the furnishings?” I asked.

“Furnishings?” His voice held a mocking tone. “What furnishings?”
He opened the door wider. I saw the faded outline on the gold damask wallpaper where the picture of my grandmother had hung. The sideboard below it, where Maman had stored all her china and silver, was gone, as well. So was the piano across the entry hall—and all the furniture and paintings in the dining room. Only shadows remained. “The thieving Boches took everything.”

“But . . .”

“I'm busy, mademoiselle.” He started to close the door, then paused. “Look, if I were you, I wouldn't waste my time searching for that worthless brother of yours. I'm pretty sure he's no longer among the living.”

“Wh-Why do you say that?”

“The SS came looking for him right after I moved in. Apparently he'd stolen something from one of their officials. They were plenty ticked off and out for blood.”

“Did you tell them where to find him?”

“I told them where he liked to play cards.” He looked at me, and his cold eyes warmed a couple of degrees. “I'll tell you, too, if you want to know, but I suggest you spare yourself the trouble.”

I had to know. I owed it to my parents, to myself, and to Yvette, who had loved him. “Please,” I whispered.

“The Silver Cat.” He gave me the address. My heart was a hard knot somewhere near my collarbone as I made my way there.

It was a hole-in-the-wall in Montmartre, a dark cave that smelled like sour wine and acrid beer, with round tables surrounded by men playing cards. Every head lifted as I entered. I approached the barkeep, a tall man with pockmarked skin and a stained white apron, and stated my business as efficiently as I could.

“Pierre Michaud? Yeah, I knew him.” The bartender ran a dirty rag across the counter. “He was dragged out of here by the SS. Heard them say he was going to wish he'd never been born.”

“Do you know where they took him?”

“Does it matter? It's a safe bet he's never coming back.”

I nodded my thanks, then left the bar, my eyes full, my head down. This time, I was unable to hold back my tears.