The French War Bride (9 page)

1940

O
n June 14, the radio announced that Paris had been occupied by German troops. What had been inconceivable a few short weeks ago had come to pass.

The reaction of our parents was, to Yvette and I, more terrifying than the actual news. Both of our fathers shed tears. Even steely, bristly Grand-père wiped his face with a handkerchief, then harrumphed and muttered about catching a cold. Maman bawled like a baby. Even Yvette's mother, the calmest, most stoic woman I had ever known, cried.

We remained glued to the radio, eager for details, although we could hardly bear to hear them. The next day, the BBC aired a Parisian's firsthand report. It went something like this:

Early yesterday morning, I was awakened by a German-accented voice on a loudspeaker. It said that the Wehrmacht were moving in and occupying Paris, and announced an eight o'clock curfew for the evening. Most of the stores were boarded up and closed. The streets were largely deserted. The Wehrmacht marched in, in formation—a frightening sight. We'd been told that the German soldiers were skinny and scrawny and malnourished, but that wasn't true.

They were well fed, both taller and brawnier than our French troops. Nothing about them appeared to be weak or sickly. They had sturdy boots, and they were all clean-shaven. They marched in to the
music of a Nazi band. We heard they had stopped their advance outside the city to shave and shine their boots before entering Paris.

Next came the tanks and trucks and cannons—big and ominous, thundering on the pavement. The Nazis hung a flag with a swastika from the Arc de Triomphe. Throughout Paris, swastikas replaced French flags—on government buildings, on monuments, in front of the large hotels. Signs were posted throughout the city saying that Paris was now under the “protection” of the German army.

“Protection!” Papa scoffed.

We have heard that the French government relocated first to Tours, then to Bordeaux, then to Clermont-Ferrand, and is now at Vichy. All is quiet now in Paris, although reportedly fighting continues south of Paris.

On June 17, we learned that Prime Minister Paul Reynaud had resigned, and that Marshal Philippe Pétain, a French hero from the Great War, had taken his place. Petain immediately made an announcement that was carried over and over on all radio channels. “
It is with a heavy heart that I tell you today that you must stop fighting
,” he said. “
The French government calls on the German government for an armistice
.”

“What is an armistice? What does this mean?” I asked.

Maman looked at Papa. “Is an armistice the same as a surrender?”

“Yes,” Grand-père answered bitterly. “It is the word ‘surrender' wearing lipstick and high heels.”

—

We soon learned that France had, indeed, completely surrendered. We heard that Hitler had demanded that the armistice be signed in the same railroad car where Germany was forced to surrender at the end of the Great War.

On June 18, we gathered around the radio for the BBC broadcast. General Charles De Gaulle addressed France from London.

As he began speaking, my skin tingled and my very bones vibrated.
I knew in my heart that this was something to capture, to remember. I grabbed a piece of paper and, in my fastest shorthand, jotted down the key parts in his exact words, which I then committed to memory.

It is true we were, we are, overwhelmed by the mechanical, ground, and air forces of the enemy
.
Infinitely more than their number, it is the tanks, the aeroplanes, the tactics of the Germans which are causing us to retreat. It was the tanks, the aeroplanes, the tactics of the Germans that surprised our leaders to the point of bringing them to where they are today.

But has the last word been said? Must hope disappear? Is defeat final? No!

The same means that overcame us can bring us victory one day. For France is not alone! She is not alone! She is not alone! She has a vast empire behind her. She can align with the British Empire that holds the sea and continues the fight. She can, like England, use without limit the immense industry of the United States.

Whatever happens, the flame of the French Resistance must not be extinguished, and will not be extinguished.

“We are to fight,” M. Chaussant said. “He is calling for resistance. That means we are to fight.”

“Well, I am good and ready,” said Grand-père.

Four days later, the radio reported that the armistice papers had been signed. The French army was, shockingly, disbanded.

“What will happen to Pierre and Thomas?” Maman asked.

“Aside from whatever has already happened?” Papa said.

Mama's face lost color. “Alphonse!”

“I did not mean to upset you, Marie—but the truth is, we do not know. I well imagine that any French soldiers they capture now will be sent to work camps in Germany.”

“Perhaps they will go to England to join General De Gaulle,” I said.

“Yes. Or come back to France and join the Resistance inside the country,” M. Chaussant said.

According to radio reports, we learned that France was now divided into two zones:
Zone occupée
, which included Paris and northern France, including Grand-père's farm; and
Zone libre
, which was under the control of the new French government at Vichy.

“The Free Zone.” Papa spat out the words as if they were tainted sausage. “What a joke! The new government of France is nothing but a German puppet! They are using French politicians and police to carry out German oppression, while they save their men for warfare.”

“It is an attempt to deceive our very souls,” Grand-père agreed. “They are trying to make us think we want to do as they want us to do. They are trying to turn us against our own.”

“Which will be worse off?” I asked. “Occupied France or Free France?”

“Only time will tell,” answered Yvette's father, “but I suspect it will all be the same.”

That night, General De Gaulle again spoke in French on the BBC. We all clung to his every word, as if his remarks were lifesavers thrown off a sinking ship. Once more, I grabbed a pencil to record the key parts, word for word:

It is absurd to consider the fight as over. Yes, we have been heavily defeated. A bad military system, the mistakes made in leading the operations, the government's spirit of abandon have all made us lose the Battle of France. But we still have a large empire, an intact fleet, a lot of gold, and allies with immense resources.

If the forces of freedom finally prevail over those of slavery, what would be the fate of a France which submitted to the enemy? Honor, common sense, and the superior interests of the nation command to all the free French to continue fighting wherever they are and however they can.

I, General De Gaulle, am starting this national task here in England . . .

I invite all the French who want to remain free to listen to me and to follow me. Long live a free and independent France!

“We must resist,” Papa said.

“Yes, but we must be smart about it,” M. Chaussant said. “We can't just start shooting at Nazis, or we will be murdered ourselves, and that will not help France. We must organize. We must work together. We must form an underground network to thwart their efforts and undermine their every move.”

“Amélie and I can help,” Yvette said.

“You are girls.” Maman flapped her hand, as if the suggestion were a fly. “Stay out of it and leave the war to the men.”

But when we went to bed that night, Yvette and I whispered together eagerly.

“Surely there are things we could do to help France,” I said. “We speak German.”

“Yes. We may be girls, but we can find ways to help fight. We can be a distraction to the Nazis, if nothing else. We can divert their attention while French operatives steal their weapons.”

I rolled my eyes. “You and your cleavage can be a distraction.”

“You can distract, as well! You can show your legs and give that sensual little smile.”

“I don't have a sensual smile,” I said dismissively—and then a hopeful little spark flickered in my chest. “Do I?”

“Oh, yes! I have seen you use it on Joshua. You have a way of turning on your womanliness that is quite devastating.”

“Do you know what I do? I pretend I am the chanteuse at that club.”

“Non! Vraiment?” Yvette giggled. “Well, it is your secret weapon.”

A secret weapon, I thought as I drifted off to sleep. It was probably a good thing to have, if I were to be part of a secret war.

1940

T
wo weeks later, Yvette and I were helping Maman and Mme Chaussant in the kitchen when a German truck rolled up in front of the farmhouse and four German soldiers climbed out.

We all froze and stared out the window. “Mon Dieu,” Maman gasped. She started flapping around like a startled chicken, pulling off her apple-printed cotton apron as if company had arrived.

“Go and fetch your grand-père,” Mme Chaussant ordered Yvette.

Grand-père had prepared for this moment. He had hidden every weapon on the property except for a rusty musket, an old pistol, and a bayonet that had belonged to his grandfather. He'd left those weapons in the house because, he'd said, the Nazis needed to find something. He'd also hidden the family silver, canned food, and two smoked hams.

He had warned us all, with his scariest, squintiest glower, that when the soldiers came—and he was certain they would come—we were to keep quiet and let him do the talking, regardless of what happened. He did not want them to know that any of us spoke or understood German, because they might press us into some kind of service for them. He had given my father a steely look until Papa had reluctantly nodded.

Yvette ran out the back door to the garden and called her grandfather, who was securing tomato plants with stakes.

I continued to stare out the window. One of the soldiers was older, maybe thirty-five. The other three were young, only a little older than
Pierre, and shockingly good-looking. It was disconcerting to discover that this horrible enemy could be handsome.

Mme Chaussant crossed to the dining room to look out the window facing the fields. My father was returning to the house; Yvette's father had pulled down a large hat to shade his face and was shuffling toward the far field, walking with the stooped shoulders and slowed gait of a much older man.

The Nazis rapped on the door.

Grand-père opened it. The rest of us crowded behind him. “Yes?”

“Good day, sir.” It was the older soldier who spoke, in halting, polite, but very rudimentary French. “We are in need of information.”

“What kind of information?”

“We need the names, ages, and occupations of all inhabitants of this house.”

Grand-père told him our names, one by one. A young soldier with wavy blond hair and blue eyes wrote it all down. The three other soldiers stood in the doorway, their hands clasped behind their backs, and surreptitiously eyed Yvette and me—mostly Yvette. One of them smiled at her. She started to smile back—it is a reflex for a girl to smile at an attractive boy, is it not?—but her mother pinched her arm. Yvette ducked behind her and kept her eyes down. I poked her in the side and we exchanged a secret amused glance.

Grand-père told the soldiers that M. Chaussant was his widowed younger brother, used his middle name and added twenty years to his age. He gave my age as twelve and Yvette's as thirteen. (We were terribly indignant until he explained, after the Nazis left, that growing children would get more in food rations and that if the Nazis thought we were too young, we wouldn't be taken to work camps in Germany. It was the first time we had heard that girls might be shipped off to Germany. Yvette and I were appalled and terrified.)

Grand-père told the soldiers that my family were friends from Paris and that Papa was a teacher—but he added in an aside that my father had recently suffered a blow to the head and was now a little slow because of it. (He later explained that the Germans would be likely to press Papa into service for their cause or send him to a work camp; they disliked
having able-bodied men among the civilian population, because they posed a threat.)

The older German, apparently the only one who spoke French, said we needed to go to the town hall to register; from now on, he said, food would be rationed. He then asked us to surrender all of our weapons. Grand-père gave them the pistol and the rifle.

“May we search your house?”

Grand-père lifted his shoulders. “I have no way of stopping you.”

The soldiers paired off and set about looking through every room. They searched under mattresses and pillows, peered into closets, rifled through drawers. They seized Grand-père's bayonet from under his bed. As they went through the bureau in the room Yvette and I shared, one of the young soldiers held up one of Yvette's bras.

“The thirteen-year-old has big bouncy breasts,” he said in German.

The other soldier chortled. “Imagine what she'll look like when she's sixteen.”

They both laughed. Grand-père came to the door and glared. Chastened, they closed the lingerie drawer and resumed their search of the room.

They made copious notes about everything. They listed things that made no sense to us—family portraits on the wall, the number of bedrooms, the cookware in the kitchen.

They took all the potatoes, turnips, and onions from the root cellar. Outside, they plucked the fruit from the trees in the orchard and took all the ripe vegetables from the garden. They then gathered up all but four of our chickens. “I am sorry for any inconvenience,” the oldest German said. “The führer requires food for the troops who are keeping your peace.”

I thought Grand-père would choke on that. His left eye twitched.

“One last thing,” the soldier said. “We must take your radio.”

Grand-père's face turned purple. “The radio? Non.”

“It is the order of the führer that all radios be confiscated.”

“
Il y a une couille dans le potage
,” Grand-père muttered
.

The older German frowned.

“What did he say?” asked the shortest German in his native tongue.
He put his hand on his hip, frighteningly near his holstered pistol. “Did he insult the führer?”

“I think he said there's a testicle in the soup,” replied the older soldier in German, looking clearly puzzled.

Two of the young Germans grinned. One actually laughed aloud.

“It poses a problem,” Grand-père said, rephrasing the more colorful expression he had just used. “Without the radio, we will have no way to know what is going on.”

“Ah. Let me put your mind at ease. We will keep the citizenry informed of all that you need to know.”

“I'll just bet,” Grand-père muttered, as they hauled the radio—it was large; it took two men to carry it—out to their truck.

“I hope the chickens crap all over the wires and render it unusable,” Grand-père said as they drove off.

Papa was spitting mad. Only Maman's hand on his arm had kept him from jumping into the conversation—or trying to throttle the Germans. His face was red and contorted in anger. He let out a string of curses in German, using words I didn't know but could easily guess at, as the truck kicked up a rooster tail of dust on the dirt road.

When M. Chaussant returned from the field and heard what had happened, he was more philosophical. “I can build a radio. All in all, this could have been much worse.”

“I hardly see how,” Papa responded.

Grand-père looked at him, and for the first time, I wondered if he believed that Papa was, in fact, a little damaged in the head. The shock of discovering his father and brother dead, his worries over the fates of his sons, and his inability to provide shelter for his wife and daughter had perhaps caused something within him to snap. “Don't tempt the Fates, Alphonse, or they will show you.”

—

Grand-père was right. In late August, Yvette's aunt, along with her husband, two daughters, and three large teenage sons, arrived from Alsace-Lorraine. Their home had been destroyed in an air raid when the
Wehrmacht first invaded France. They had been staying with her husband's family near Tours, but the Germans there had begun rounding up men between the ages of fourteen and fifty and shipping them to labor camps in Germany, so they came seeking refuge here.

The house was now too crowded. We were also low on food.

“It is not right that we take up resources the Chaussants need for blood relatives,” Maman said.

Papa gazed at her wearily. “What do you propose we do?”

Mama gave him a wistful, sidelong glance. “From the reports, it sounds as if everything is quiet in Paris.”

Indeed, from all accounts, it sounded as if life in Paris was almost back normal. “
Eh,
bien
,” Papa sighed. “We will go home.”

I was thrilled to be going back to the city—back to Joshua!—but heartbroken to be leaving Yvette.

“You should come back to Paris, too,” I urged Yvette's mother.

“Non,
chérie
. Our family must stay here. The Boches would love to use my husband to help them develop deadly weapons, and if he refused—as he would—they would kill him.”

“Can't they find him here?”

“Yes, but they would have to be actively searching for him. From what we hear, they are rounding up French scientists if they are easy to find, but they are not seeking them out. Our family is safer here.”

I could mount no argument against that. Besides, although he had been very secretive about it, Yvette and I knew that M. Chaussant had met with several local men to organize resistance activities against the Germans. I also knew that he had installed a false wall in the attic and hidden a new radio set there, and that he and Papa had dug a wide new cellar in the barn and hidden it under a pile of hay.

Maman, Papa, and I made plans to depart. Travel—like everything since the Germans had taken over—required time and paperwork. We had already gone to town and registered to get our ration cards and identity papers; now we went back for travel permits. We then went to the train station to buy tickets. The cost was three times more than it had been just a few months earlier, and the earliest departure date was
two days away. Apparently the German army had first use of the trains, and the citizens were relegated to just a few cars.

Back at the farm, we gathered our belongings and prepared to leave. The night before our departure, Maman brought me a shapeless dress belonging to Yvette's deceased
grand-mère
and told me to wear it on the train.

I held up the worn gray dress in abject dismay. “Why?”

“Grand-père and Papa think it best if the German soldiers don't find you attractive.”

As if that would be a problem! I was both embarrassed and outraged. Yvette thought it was hysterical.

“You needn't worry,” I told Maman. “Men do not find me so irresistible that we must hide my charms.”

Yvette rolled on the bed, laughing.

“You have no idea how lovely you are,” Maman said.

“That is true, Amélie.” Yvette sat up and nodded.

“You will wear the dress, and you will pull your hair back in a tight chignon,” Maman decreed.

I held the dress up in front of me. “Are you sure this is ugly enough to downplay my exquisite beauty? Perhaps I should wear Papa's britches and M. Chaussant's work shirt and pretend to be a boy.”

“And we can put dirt on your face and a cap on your head,” Yvette added. “And you can wear Grand-père's work shoes, with manure on the soles so your smell will keep the men away!”

Maman refused to back down.

“I will wear it for the trip,” I finally conceded, “but I will wear my own clothes when we get home. I refuse to dress like a babushka in Paris.”

The next morning, I donned the hateful dress and put my hair in a bun.

When it was time to say good-bye, I hugged Yvette, and we both cried. “I will miss you so!” she said.

“And I, you! Who will I laugh with? How will I make it through this war?”

“You are stronger than you know,
ma petite
,” she said. “And don't forget—you have a secret weapon.”

“And you have two, but you must keep them hidden unless a big diversion is called for.”

We giggled and hugged good-bye again, and then Grand-père drove my parents and me to the station.

—

Our train was on time, but even the cars reserved for the French were crowded with Germans. I began to see the wisdom of wearing the ugly dress as soldier after soldier boldly sized me up.

Three young Frenchwomen boarded our train car at the next stop. They wore dresses and heels and lipstick, and made me feel like a frumpy old nun. The German soldiers practically fell all over themselves to dance attendance upon them. They helped the women stow their luggage, they bent to light their cigarettes, and they bought them drinks in the dining car. The women flirted back, as if the soldiers were just ordinary attractive men instead of enemy occupiers.

“Disgraceful,” Papa muttered. He passed me part of the newspaper. “Read this,” he said. “You will be less noticeable.”

“I couldn't be less noticeable if I were invisible,” I whispered back.

“Let's keep it that way.”

Papa, I noticed, was agitated; his mouth was tight, his face red. He tapped his foot constantly. He looked as if he were about to explode.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“It makes me angry, seeing the Wehrmacht riding our trains through our country, their bellies full of our food,” he whispered.

“Alphonse, do not think about it,” Maman said.

“What else am I to think about?”

“Whatever you thought about before.”

“I cannot even remember what that was.”

“Look at the scenery, then.”

I decided to take Maman's advice and turned my attention from the inside of the railcar to the passing scenery. The countryside was unchanged, but at each station, the military presence of the Germans was inescapable. The boarding platforms were a sea of gray-green uniforms with bottle green collars and epaulets. The sight of the Nazi flag flying where the French flag should have been made my chest feel tight and hot.