The French War Bride (26 page)

1946

T
en days later, I received a note from Jack that he would like to come by on Tuesday night.

I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to look my best. Monday evening I washed my hair and Nora helped me roll it. The next morning, she helped me arrange it in loose curls. It was finally getting long enough that I no longer looked like a poodle.

After his visit on Christmas Eve, I had told Nora all about Jack. Her breath had caught at the boldness of my lie. Her hands had folded across her heart. “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu,” she had muttered, pausing to make the sign of the cross—but she understood that keeping my promise to Yvette was of tantamount importance. “Ma chérie, I pray that this is a case where
la fin justifie les moyens”
—the end justifies the means.

I put Elise in the dress Jack had given her for Christmas. She was still awake when a knock sounded on the door at seven.

Jack brought a bottle of wine, a bottle of olive oil—oh, how wonderful! Cooking oil was still very scarce—some formula, and some American chocolate. We exchanged la bise. He smelled good—like soap and shaving cream—and I felt a disconcerting little jump of my stomach.

Nora greeted him warmly and exclaimed over his gifts. She carried them to the kitchen, then returned to hand us each a glass of wine. She took the baby, freeing me to focus on Jack.

We settled on the sofa once again, each of us with a glass of wine.

“You have news?” I asked.

“Yes.” He put down his glass, and I could immediately tell that the news was not good. “I am so sorry, but without a birth certificate, we cannot prove that the baby is Doug's. Without proof, she does not qualify under the War Brides Act to enter the U.S. And I am afraid that since you and Doug were not married, you are not qualified, either.”

The words stung. I felt as if I were being judged by the entire U.S.A. and found lacking.

“But we were engaged!”

“I understand. But unfortunately, there are no provisions at this time for fiancées.”

“But there may be in the future?”

“Yes, but . . .” He looked away. “My understanding is that they will only apply to servicemen who will marry the women within three months' time. There are no provisions for the fiancées or the . . .” He broke off and hesitated.

“What?”

“I know no gentle way to say this.”

“So just say it.”

I watched his Adam's apple bob. “There are no provisions for the illegitimate children of dead servicemen.”

Elise was not mine—I knew that, logically; I knew it was all a lie. And yet I felt a powerful sense of shame at the word. Tears sprang to my eyes.

“I am so sorry,” he said.

“I am, too.” I swiped my face with hand. He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to me. It smelled of starch and soap and man, and it was warm from his pocket. “When do you leave for America?”

“Next week.”

“Next week,” I repeated. “So soon!”

“I want to leave you some money.”

“I do not want your money. I want your help getting Elise to America.”

“I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do.”

“Yes, there is.”

His eyebrows quirked up. “There is?”

I nodded.

“Well, then, just name it.”

I drew a deep breath and said the most daring words I have ever uttered, before or since, even bolder than my lie about being Doug's fiancée. “You can marry me.”

2016

I
feel as if an arrow has been shot through my chest. I sit perfectly still, letting my body adjust to the pain.

Oh, I had known it! I had known she tricked him—but I didn't know how sneakily!

“The whole marriage was your idea?”

“Yes.”

“You lied to Jack about Doug, and then you flat-out asked him to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“Ad he did so because he owed Doug his life.”

“Yes.”

“But the baby wasn't even Doug's.”

“Yes.”

“You ruined my whole life because you told a pack of lies!”

“Ruined your life?” Amélie's eyebrows rise. “You told me you had a wonderful life.”

“Well, yes, but it wasn't the life I wanted back then. I was in love with Jack. I wanted to stay in Wedding Tree.”

“And I wanted to stay in Paris.”

“I do not believe you.”

She shrugs. “Believe what you will. It is not my job to convince you. I am simply telling you what you want to know.”

“Why would you not want to come to America?”

“Aside from the fact that I would be a foreigner in a strange country, where I would know no one? Would you want to do such a thing?”

“No, but I was not in your situation.”

“No, you were not. So you are in no position to judge.”

I feel that I am in the perfect position to judge. I am about to snap out a snippy reply, but she doesn't allow me the chance.

“Coming to America was Yvette's dream for Elise, not mine for myself, but I felt I had to honor her wishes for her child.”

I can see how that might be so. But that is not what I am interested in learning. “It doesn't really make any difference to me. I want to hear about Jack.”

“Of course you do.”

“So tell me,” I say. “What did Jack say when you proposed to him?”

1946

J
ack looked at me as if I were crazy. “Marry you? I am engaged to another woman.”

I leaned forward. “It wouldn't be a real marriage. We wouldn't . . .” I hesitated. The idea had occurred to me when he first mentioned the War Brides Act—how could it not?—but I had not thought it through. I was making it up as I talked. I was stopped by an indelicate word. Oh, what the hell—if he could say
illegitimate
, I could say this.

“We wouldn't consummate the marriage, of course. We would have a ceremony to get a marriage certificate, which would allow Elise and me to enter the country. Once there, you and I can get a quick annulment—you can get marriages annulled on the basis of it not being consummated, yes?—and then you can marry your fiancée as if nothing happened.”

“Oh, I can't possibly do that.”

“Why not?”

“It's deceitful. It wouldn't be right.”

Years of pent-up frustration and anger swelled up in me. At that moment, I understood the expression
to see red
. Everything seemed hot and colored in a blood-hued haze.

“Wouldn't be
right
?” I exclaimed. “Tell me this: Is it
right
that Doug stepped forward, and took the machine gun fire intended for you? Is it
right
that you are alive and he is dead?”

He dropped his head.

“You would not be here if not for Doug. How is it
right
that you get to go home, to safety and family and plenty to eat and an opportunity to work, and Doug's child stays here with nothing?”

He continued staring at the floor.

“In war, the concept of ‘right' stands on its head! It is not right to lie—and yet I lied over and over and over again to help the Résistance free my country. It is not right to go through people's private possessions, yet I went through Nazi coat pockets and briefcases and suitcases every chance I got. It is not right to murder, and yet in war, that is not only the job, but the duty and sacred trust of every soldier holding a gun and facing the enemy. Do not talk to me about what is right!”

“I understand,” Jack said.

“All I ask is an opportunity for this baby to grow up in America—an opportunity she would have had if her father had not been killed. On your behalf, I might add! I am sure your fiancée would gladly postpone your wedding if she knew the circumstances.”

“I think it would be a very difficult thing to explain.”

“Difficult, but not impossible, no? Is she not sympathetic?”

He hesitated for a moment. “She sees things in very black-and-white terms.”

“I would think she would be so grateful that you are alive that she would want you to help Doug's family in any way you can.”

“She will not see it that way.”

“She wouldn't want to help the child of the man who saved your life?”

“Her father would. Her father—he could talk to her.”

“But you do not think your fiancée would have pity on a fatherless child?”

“She would not understand your position. She hasn't been in a war, so she can't understand what it feels like to think you will die. She doesn't know how quickly passions can rise, especially in extreme circumstances.”

I had a flash of insight. “You and she have not made love.”

“No. She does not believe it is right to have sex before marriage.”

“So she will think I am a loose woman with a bastard baby—that Elise and I are not worthy of your help.”

“I did not say that.”

“You did not need to.” I glared at him. “This fiancée of yours does not sound like a very nice person. And if you are like her, well, then perhaps you are not so nice, either.”

“You judge her too harshly. She is young and inexperienced.”

“And you? You would let her potential disapproval keep you from doing the right thing? You can go off and have a happy, carefree life in America, leaving Doug's child here?”

He blew out a hard sigh. He rose and strode across the room. He stared out the window. He walked back and sat down again.

“No. I could not live with myself if I go off and leave you two here. You are right. I owe it to Doug to help you get to America.”

I paused, scarcely daring believe I had heard correctly. “Vraiment?”

“Yes. I will do it.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. The sooner we get the paperwork in order, the sooner I can see about getting you on a bride boat.”

“A bride boat?”

“Yes. The Red Cross and the U.S. government will bring the wives of servicemen across on ships, at no charge to wives or the servicemen. They will start with a boat for officers' wives in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh, this is wonderful news!”

Jack gave a tight smile. “I doubt that my fiancée will see it that way, but I must do what is in the best interests of the child. Do you know what is required for marriage?”

I nodded. A girl at the hotel had recently gotten married. “We must go to the town hall in my arrondissement. I will need identification papers and a witness, and so will you. I think you will need a passport and I will need proof of residency. I believe that is all.”

“All right, then. I will bring a witness and come for you at ten o'clock in the morning.”

January 1946

I
had been worried that Jack might change his mind after sleeping on it, but he knocked on my door at 9:50 the next morning. With him was a man he introduced as Peter Barrett, who was also a U.S. Army doctor. Peter was an older man—maybe late thirties or early forties—and he wore a wedding ring. He looked at me with frank curiosity.

I had arranged to pay another neighbor, a woman with two children of her own, to watch Elise, and I had already taken her upstairs. I wore Yvette's yellow silk dress, which I had cut down to fit me, along with her matching hat, and the shoes that Jack had given me.

Nora handed Jack a small box as he entered the apartment. “This is a ring you can put on her finger,” she said.

“Oh, Nora—not your wedding ring!” I protested.

“It is not mine. It was my mother's, and I have no need of it. You do.”

“But . . .”

“But nothing. I want you to have it.”

“You should wear it,” Peter said. “A wedding ring is a very big thing to Americans.”

It was to the French, as well. I gave Nora a hug and my heartfelt thanks.

Peter reached for the box. “In America, the best man keeps the ring until it is time for the groom to put it on the bride's finger.”

The town hall was only about ten blocks from our apartment, so we walked. Nora insisted that we stop along the way so that Jack could buy me a bouquet and I could buy him a boutonniere.

“It will seem odd if you do not have it,” she said. “You do not want to raise suspicions. And the official is likely to have a few. You two do not look like a couple in love.”

Peter laughed heartily and winked at Nora. “They look more like a couple going to the guillotine.”

“Or as if they had curdled milk for breakfast,” Nora said.

Peter laughed again.

“They talk about us as if we are not here,” I said to Jack.

He nodded, his face wooden.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Just very conflicted about what I am about to do.”

“Me, too. But I am thinking of Elise.”

“Yes. Elise, and Doug,” Jack said.

The words pierced me like an dagger. I silently reminded myself of Nora's words: the ends justify the means.

At a corner flower stand, he bought me a little nosegay with a white rose in the center, and I bought him a single white rosebud. My hand shook as I fastened it on his jacket lapel.

Before I knew it, we were at 31 rue Peclet, standing in front of the town hall of the fifteenth arrondissement. We went inside and found the office where we filled out the application and showed our papers. Jack paid a fee, and then we were shown into a room where an
officier de l'état civil
would perform the ceremony.

It was a lovely room, with high ceilings and a small table up front. In the back were seats for the witnesses.

A tall, dignified gentleman who resembled General De Gaulle walked in, wearing a blue, red, and white sash. He examined the papers the outer office had given us, then instructed us to stand before him.

“I am old-fashioned, so I like my brides and grooms to exchange vows. Is this all right with you?”

I nodded. So did Jack.

“Do you have a ring?”

Peter produced it from his pocket and handed it to Jack.

“Please place this on her finger as you repeat after me. ‘I, Jonathan Bradford O'Connor'—I had not known that Jack was a nickname, much less known his entire name!—‘take you, Amélie Therese Michaud, to be my wedded wife. I promise to be faithful to you in happiness or in trials, in health or in sickness, and to love you all of my life.'”

Jack solemnly repeated the vow. He slid the ring onto my finger.

I repeated the same thing, holding his hand. His eyes were fixed steadily on mine. I knew it was not real, but Jack was so attractive and so kind, and it was easy to be swept into a fantasy. At the moment I said the age-old words, I meant them with all my heart.

The official then turned to Jack. “Jonathan Bradford O'Connor, do you want to take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife? If so, respond ‘I want it.'”

“
Je te veut
,” he said.

Nora twittered.

“The correct response is
Je le veut
,” the official gently corrected.

“Pardon.” Jack said. His cheeks colored, so I knew he realized what he'd just said:
I want you.

“Mademoiselle, do you want to take this man as your lawfully wedded husband?”

“
Oui, je le veut
.” I grinned up at Jack's still embarrassed face. “
Et je te veux aussi
.”

Everyone laughed.

“I pronounce you husband and wife.”

Nora and Peter applauded.

“You may kiss your bride,” the official said.

Jack hesitated, then tentatively leaned down toward me. I tilted my head up. Our lips brushed, softly. It was a light kiss—a kiss that was little more than a peck, really—but I felt it all the way down to my toes. For reasons I cannot name, I pressed forward just as he was about to pull back. Our eyes locked, and something changed. He deepened the kiss
and my eyes fluttered closed. This kiss was slower, more thorough, more intimate. Still brief, of course, but it was the kind of kiss a man gives when he desires a woman.

When he pulled away, he looked at me, his eyes dark and surprised, the expression so fleeting I wondered if I had only imagined it.

“Congratulations,” said the official. He shook Jack's hand, then placed some documents on the table in front of us. “Now, if you and your wife will please sign the marriage certificate and two copies.”

Jack signed, then I signed, then our witnesses signed.

“And now it is time for the photographs,” the official said. He opened the door behind him and the woman from the front desk came in.

“Oh, we don't . . .” Jack began.

But Nora was already pulling Yvette's camera out of the case. “Wonderful. Let me take a photograph of the newlyweds with you, monsieur, and then perhaps your secretary will take a photo with all of us in it.”

“Of course.” The official stepped beside us, posed, and smiled.

“I don't think . . .” Jack began again.

“Elise will want the photos for when she is older,” Nora told him.

And so a few photos were taken.

“Well. It's done,” Jack said when we'd left the building and climbed down on the steps.

“Yes.” I stood awkwardly on the sidewalk. I did not know what to say to this new husband of mine. “Thank you.”

He shoved his hands in his pocket and gave a curt nod. His face looked strained. “It seemed the right thing to do under the circumstances.”

Not exactly the words a bride dreams of hearing from her groom on her wedding day.

“You will have Elise's undying gratitude,” I said. “And mine, too, of course.”

“Let's go have some champagne!” Peter suggested.

“We have to get back to work,” Jack said curtly.

“But it's nearly lunchtime,” Peter protested. “Come on, man—you have to eat.”

“I'll eat at the hospital. I need to get back.” He gave me a slight bow. “I'll find out where I need to file this paperwork in order to get you on the first boat to the United States.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Will I—will I see you again before you ship out?”

“I don't know.”

“All right. Well, then . . .”

He held out his palm, as if to shake my hand. I must have looked stricken, because he leaned in for la bise. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I'm finding this whole thing very difficult.”

Peter said his good-byes, as well. With an apologetic shrug, he turned toward Jack, and I watched them both walk away.