The French War Bride (3 page)

September 3–October 29, 1939

T
wo days later, it was official: France, along with our ally Great Britain, declared war on Germany.

My brothers shipped off to training that very week. They were not alone; all of a sudden, it seemed as if every Parisian male under the age of thirty-five had vacated the city. Yvette and I were devastated; we had envisioned French soldiers swelling the streets of Paris, eating in the cafés, drinking and dancing in the nightclubs we planned to sneak out to. We had not imagined they would all leave!

Most British and American nationals left Paris, as well. Those first few days, the streets were deserted. And then foreigners from other places—Russia, the Ukraine, Belgium, and heaven only knew where else—began pouring in. Many of them were not well dressed, and some of them seemed to have no place to stay. French police began stopping people and checking identification papers—to what end, I have never known.

I do not remember if we did not have school, or if our mothers simply didn't make us go. My father insisted on continuing to tutor Yvette and me in German and English, as he'd been doing for years—but Yvette's father, an engineering professor, was working on a secret government project, so he did not give us our usual extra lessons in higher mathematics.

I was relieved. I hated geometry and algebra and calculus. Papa said knowledge was gold that no one could steal, that I should gladly gather
all I could, and that one never knew when one might have need of it. Yvette and I joked that we would slit our wrists if our lives ever became so dull that we had use for mathematics.

The city was so tense it seemed to be suspended on a tightwire. Everyone was hungry for information. Newspapers sold out as fast as they were placed in the kiosks. We listened to the radio constantly in those first days. There was little music; most programming was grim news of Germany overrunning Poland.

The numbers being reported were so enormous that they had no real meaning. How could one even imagine a million and a half German soldiers? How could one fathom thousands of tanks, rolling hundreds of miles through farms and villages, crushing everything in their path? How could one comprehend ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred thousand Polish citizens killed? The numbers fluctuated wildly, but all were astronomical, and the estimates did nothing but climb.

The stories about the German Luftwaffe were the most horrifying of all. According to the news reports, swarms of planes would suddenly darken the skies, then bomb civilian as well as military targets. Railroads, bridges, waterworks, even schools were locked in the bombardiers' cruel crosshairs. Roads crammed with fleeing families were systematically annihilated. German aircraft would suddenly swoop down below the clouds to strafe civilians with machine gunfire in what was called “terror bombing.”

As far as we could determine, it was all terror bombing. How much terror could one listen to before one's ears grew calloused? Yvette and I wearied of hearing about it. We would occasionally sneak out—each of us saying we were going to the other one's home—and wander around the Quartier. If we were feeling particularly brave and our parents were preoccupied, we would do this after dinner. One evening we went into a cellar club—a tiny, bare-bones university student hangout with no electricity, just candles stuck in wine bottles. We shared a glass of wine and listened to a middle-aged baritone sing “Begin the Beguine” to the accompaniment of a tinny piano.

The music filled my heart with longing. “How does a woman ever make a man feel that way?” I asked.

“She shows him her breasts,” Yvette replied. We giggled like the schoolgirls we were. Under the laughter, I was saddened by the response, because I feared there might be some truth to it. Yvette had an impressive bust, while my chest was as small as the rest of me.

“What if you don't have much for breasts?” I asked.

“Well, then, I think you must flirt. With your eyes and your touch and your body. But beyond that, you must intrigue.”

“How?”

She took a thoughtful sip of wine. “I think perhaps you make him a bit uncomfortable. If you can make a man unsettled, you can make him a conquest.”

An older man in a tattered jacket was eyeing Yvette in a rather creepy manner from the bar. With most of the students gone, the clientele of the cheap bars in the Quartier were largely middle-aged refugees.

“I think you have made a conquest over there.” I nudged her.

She turned, and the man smiled, revealing several missing teeth.

“Merde,” she whispered. “Let's go.”

We returned to my house, because Maman was a nervous wreck and she liked me to be nearby. Maman wasn't sleeping, and she filled her many waking hours with frenetic activity. She stockpiled dry goods, canned vegetables she bought at market (prior to this, she only canned the vegetables she grew in the summer in the little garden patch behind our townhome), and fitted our windows with ugly blackout curtains. Papa said she was spending money like a drunken sailor on shore leave; Maman said we couldn't eat money if things got scarce.

Papa still went to university every day, but his classes held only one-eighth of the students initially enrolled. Foreign students had gone home, coeds were staying indoors, and young Frenchmen had abandoned school for the military. From what I overheard in hushed, worried conversations with Maman, Papa's pay had been cut in accordance with the diminishment of the student body.

The war news grew more ominous and complicated. At Hitler's apparent urging, Russia invaded Poland on September 17. We waited for word of the British or French entering the fray, but nothing happened. All of France seemed to hold its collective breath.

And then . . . it seemed to be over. On October 1, a month after the invasion had begun, Poland surrendered to Germany. The Germans made no move to invade France. We were still technically at war, but nothing occurred that affected life in Paris.

Yvette and I went back to school. Maman and I went back to the dressmaker, but Maman was so high-strung since my brothers had left that I didn't have the heart to argue about the zipper. I pretended to like the covered buttons she selected.

In mid-October, Germany made an offer of peace. First Great Britain, and then France, rejected it. As with everything, this was great cause for debate. Some thought our leaders were foolish not to accept a peace treaty; others said it was only a German trick.

Most French were relieved that an offer had been rendered. There was much hopeful talk that it meant the Germans would not invade us. Our fortified Maginot Line along the eastern border was too daunting, most people said; the Germans must realize that France was impenetrable. Many hoped that France and Great Britain would broker diplomatic peace, and the state of war would soon be rescinded.

The days wore on. Life returned to normal—or as near normal as it could be at our house, without Pierre and Thomas. The house seemed vast and lonely without them. We heard from them regularly—they were posted together at an undisclosed location in the Alps, at a station of the Maginot Line. Mother and I knitted warm socks and mittens.

Yvette and I were restless. When one of the brasher girls at our school suggested an outing to a jazz club in Montmartre, we eagerly agreed to join in. We would have to sneak behind our parents' backs—they had antiquated ideas about unescorted young women being out at night, and Montmartre was a racy part of town—so we said we were going to Lisette's apartment to listen to records.

Lisette's parents required more of an explanation, so I forged a letter
from my mother, inviting Lisette to our place for the evening. (Lisette's parents were sticklers about invitation protocol, and I had a real talent for exactly copying other people's handwriting.)

It was so easy, I felt guilty. Yvette came to my door at seven, and we scampered to the Métro like a couple of thieves, the little money we'd saved from birthday gifts and the occasional babysitting job tucked into our purses. We met up with Lisette and our friend Madeline and rode the train for about twenty minutes, then found our way to the La Grosse Pomme—The Big Apple. The club was founded by the beautiful black jazz singer Adelaide Hall, but Adelaide, like so many Americans in the last few months, had fled France.

As we neared the cabaret, the haunting wail of a saxophone wafted through the closed door. When a doorman in white gloves opened it for us, the music tumbled out, wrapped around us, and pulled us in. We giggled as we stepped inside the crowded club.

It was like entering another world. The decor was luxe—red-flocked wallpaper, crystal chandeliers and sconces, white linen tablecloths. The air was thick with smoke. The mellow tones of Gypsy jazz—a violin wrapping its sweet notes around the bluesy blare of a saxophone, softened by melodic clarinet and a brush-stroked drum—mesmerized us. We hesitated to check our coats—it would cost money to retrieve them, would it not?—but we didn't want to seem simple, so we did.

I looked at the crowd, and immediately felt out of place. Men—many of them our fathers' age—fawned over shockingly younger women. Everyone's dress was far more formal—and far, far more chic—than mine. The men wore suits, and the women wore fitted silk and rayon with low-cut décolletés, their skin aglow in candlelight.

Yvette and my other classmates had somehow managed to get out of their homes wearing dresses, although all of us were sadly mis-attired. In my woolen skirt and round-collared cotton blouse, I felt like a schoolgirl at a ball.

We were escorted to a table on the far edge the room, away from the stage, and a bored-looking waitress in a scandalously short red frock came to take our order.

We had planned to share drinks to save money, but she wasn't having it. “If you don't drink, you don't sit.” Her tone was so like one of our harsh teachers that I whispered to Yvette, “Do you think she works as a nun during the day?” Smothering giggles, we all ordered the cheapest wine available.

No sooner had we settled in than a man in a slick blue suit approached our table. He looked to be in his early twenties—an older man from our perspective. He introduced himself as Herman Beck, and said he was a Swiss banker in town on business. We nodded and smiled. He looked at each of us, one at a time, for several discomfiting moments. And then he bowed before Yvette. It was no surprise; Yvette was stunning. With her impressive bosom and self-possessed bearing, she seemed older than her years—and certainly older than the rest of us. “Would you care to dance?”

Yvette smiled and batted her eyes. “Only if you can provide a partner for my friend, as well.” She gestured gracefully to me.

Herman turned, raised his hand, and flicked his forefinger at someone. A young man in a white apron came over. His dark curly hair flopped over his forehead.

“Mademoiselle would like to dance,” Herman said, gesturing to me.

“Oh.” The young man brushed his hair off his face. He had high cheekbones and a square jawline. It was a nice face. He looked puzzled as to what he was supposed to do.

“Take off your apron and dance with her,” Herman said.

“But I—I have to work.”

Herman's eyes narrowed. “I am sure your boss would want you to make the customers happy.”

The young man shifted from one foot to the other, apparently weighing the consequences of refusing Herman's request against the consequences of acquiescing to it. “Yes, of course.”

“Good.” Herman took Yvette's elbow and led her out to the dance floor, as if the matter were settled. Yvette smiled back at me over her shoulder. The young man quickly untied and yanked off his apron, then pulled out my chair.

“I don't want to get you into trouble,” I said as I awkwardly rose.

He lifted his shoulders. “I will get in trouble either way.”

The girls at my table giggled. The young man placed his apron on the back of my chair, took my arm, and led me to the dance floor.

“Will you really get in trouble?” I asked.

“Do not worry yourself about it.”

He spoke French with a heavy foreign accent. “Where are you from?”

“Austria.”

That was a country the Germans had taken over the year before. I didn't understand all the reasons, but it had something to do with a treaty, and I knew it played a part in France's decision to declare war so quickly when Poland was invaded. “Did you come to France because of the Germans?”

“Yes.”

Something in the low, tight way he bit off the word told me further inquiry would not be welcome.

He stiffly held out his arms, and I stepped into them, taking one hand and resting the other on his shoulder. His hand was warm and dry; his shoulder was broader and more muscular than I would have imagined. He placed his other hand on my back, in proper fox-trot fashion. I had danced before with boys from Saint-Julien's, the boys' school in our diocese, and I had, of course, taken ballroom lessons. Never before, however, had I felt dizzy when a hand had touched my back.

I searched for something to say, something to normalize the abnormal way I was feeling, as a low, slow tune began. “What is your job here?”

“I am a busboy. But during the day, I am a student.”

“Oh, me, too! What are you studying?”

“Engineering, with an emphasis on physics.”

“Is that at all like calculus?”

“Not really, but you must use calculus.” He looked down at me. When I met his eyes, he appeared entirely different. My knees suddenly felt wobbly. I had never seen eyes so brown and expressive. They were regarding me with genuine interest. “What do you know of calculus?”

“More than I want. My friend's father is a professor and he tutors us.”

“What is his name?”

“Jean-Claude Chaussant.”

His eyes widened. “He was my professor!”

“Really?”

“Yes. He is a brilliant man. But he's not teaching this semester.”