The Girl in the Blue Beret (42 page)

“Soon after that we came to a barn and bedded down for the day. In the light we could see where we had been, and where we would go that night. We could see that the side of a slope ahead was a steep jumble of rocks. It seemed so treacherous we could not imagine how it could be crossed.

“It was cold in the barn,” he said. “I was probably dressed more warmly than the others because your family had outfitted me so well, and I had a sort of wool neck warmer that I kept in my jacket pocket. I had brought it with me from England.

“After resting that day, we took off in the dusk and plodded up one peak after another; zigzagging up switchbacks, then coming down in order to go up again. A misstep and we’d go ass over teakettle. All night again we were climbing and climbing, and the track twisted around on itself, and the guides wouldn’t let us stop.

“The trail was steep and cobbled, and even before we gained any altitude, we slipped and slid through patches of snow. Mostly it was great sweeps of scratchy vegetation that tore at us. Then it got rocky. The Basque didn’t slow down at all, but we were dog tired. I can tell you that a guy can be a pilot of a jumbo jet and yet be afraid of heights. I’ve never confessed that before. But I was afraid of heights that night, and I guess I have been ever since.”

“That is reasonable,” she said. “Go on.”

He took a deep breath.

“At dawn we were in a clearing, and soon we arrived at a farmhouse. We learned that we were still in France. This was a Basque family. None of us could understand their language. But they were generous, and they fed us.

“We fell asleep on straw mats in a sort of lean-to behind the house. We slept till dusk. They gave us some more food, and then we hit the rocky road again.

“We were bushed, and our feet were sore and torn up. If it hadn’t been for the pace of that Basque guide, and if we’d had good equipment and enough food and rest, we might have done better. But we had to rush along in the dark. I couldn’t have done it without some Benzedrine from my escape kit. All my life I’ve always thought I could make it, whatever jam I was in. But on those mountains there were times when I
knew
I wasn’t going to.”

Marshall laughed ruefully, ashamed of himself.

“But you’re here,” she said gently, laying her head on his shoulder.

“I’m not sure how to tell this next part. I know it doesn’t begin to compare to what you went through, but … Are you cold?”

“No. I’m all right. But yes, your arm around me feels good.”

The young guide, Roland, appeared in the half-light outside the hotel. “Do you need anything?”

“Non, merci,”
said Marshall.

“We will be on the trail at eight in the morning.”

“Merci. Bonne nuit.”

“Bonne nuit.”

Marshall continued. “The trail was treacherous, but despite everything, I was glad to be on my way. The cold, misty rain stopped when we got to the snow. At first it was just a dusting, but soon we got to places where it was up to our knees. Our guide just mushed on through and left us to hop in his footprints. Then it got even deeper. Sometimes we sank in to our waists, but we got through it. And then we trudged down the other side of the mountain. Hallelujah, I thought. We’re in the home stretch. But we only went down a short way before we started climbing another slope. And that’s how it went for hours. Up and down. We had hardly any food, and we didn’t stop to rest or eat. The aim was to cross the border while it was still dark so we wouldn’t be seen out in the open above the tree line.

“The border was near, and there were sentinels and a German guard post two hundred yards from the narrow path where we had to sneak across. There was a dim crescent moon and enough reflected light to see the path—just barely. The nearest sentinel was moving back and forth ahead of us. We had to wait till his back was turned, when he was moving away, and then two of us could make a break for it. Then the rest of us waited until the sentinel came back; when he turned away again, two more of us could go.

“The Brits went first, when the Basque signaled. We waited. The sentinel returned. We could see his silhouette and the guard post on a promontory. We were up pretty high, but we were still below the guard post.

“The other guys sneaked through. I was hanging back with Hootie, and it came our turn. We had just climbed a steep path to the side of a precipice, and we were panting. It was steep, and the air was getting thinner. I started ahead, toward the path that I could barely see. I saw the shadow of the guide. Hootie was just behind me, I thought. Suddenly there was a burst of light, and then gunshots. My instinct told me to run. I ran like hell, toward the path ahead, toward the Basque.

“I heard a whimper and a clatter of rocks. I looked back and I couldn’t see Hootie. He wasn’t there. Behind me was the cliff we had just climbed. A searchlight was sweeping across, and there were more gunshots. I couldn’t run back. The rear guide, the Frenchman, was herding us on, into a thick grove. There was nothing we could do, he said. I wanted like hell to go back, but he wouldn’t let me. And I could see he was right.”

“That is what the guides did,” Annette said. “They just kept going. It was necessary. It was too dangerous otherwise. I know of such journeys.”

“So we were across the border, but Hootie was gone. And before long the guides were gone, too. The French guy slipped away near the border. He headed off to the side, to cross back into France somewhere farther along the border. The Basque led us a mile or two into Spain, but then he picked up speed and just left us behind.

“We were in Spain, but we had no food, and we weren’t really sure what to do next. And my head was whirling because of Hootie. I don’t think I’ve ever been so heavy-hearted. I had reached my goal. I had made it out of France, finally, but it felt like the worst day of my life.”

Marshall quit talking, and Annette waited. They sat quietly, side by side, for several minutes before Marshall took up the story again.

“It was less rocky there, and then it was grassy and we came tumbling down, sliding on the fresh grass. There I was, in Spain with four strangers who might have included spies for all I knew, but we were still in mountainous terrain with no clue to what was ahead for us.

“I won’t bore you with our wanderings. You know how we were arrested by some Spanish border guards and detained. But that was pretty much just for show. We wound our way through Spain and then to Gibraltar, where we were processed back to England.

“I never saw Hootie again. He simply vanished. Except for that one whimper, there was no noise, no cry. It was just darkness. I don’t know if he was shot or if he simply fell from the cliff. That episode is something I’ve played over and over, as if it had a meaning, some symbolism for my life. What could I have done differently?

“I was able to tell his family what happened—how he seemed to disappear. I wrote to them. After that, I tried hard never to think of that night, but it kept coming back to me. How could I be sure he was dead? I wasn’t sure the shot hit him. I assumed that slipping over that ledge was fatal. But I don’t know. I wondered—should I have gone back?”

She laid her head on his chest. “Was his body ever found?” she whispered.

“No. Surely someone will find his dog tag one day. You remember, we kept our dog tags in our boots. Of course, I always imagine I’ll run into him somewhere.”

“No one is to blame,” she said.

“C’est la guerre?”

“Oui.”

“Understand, I’ve never talked much about this, not since the war. Annette, I know you saw much worse—much worse than you can ever tell me. But you told me a lot, and I—I owed it to you to tell you my own small story.”

Annette cupped his face in her hands. “Marshall, I think you are a person who has rarely divulged his heart. But now you have. Thank you.”

He rose and walked a few steps away. She was still sitting on the ledge.

“Loretta and some of the others made a fuss over me,” he said. “The ‘hero.’ I made it to Spain and back to England when so many others didn’t. But
I
was no hero. What did I do in the war? Nothing.
De la merde
. Got shot down, then saved my own ass.”

He paced a few steps, then punched his fist in his palm.

“I didn’t even do that,” he added. “You and the others saved me.”

She started to speak, then tightened her lips and turned her head.

“There are no heroes,” she said after a moment. “We both got caught. You were shot down, I was deported.”

She stood, smoothed her lap, and moved the few steps to him. The moon was high now.

“We were both caught.” He repeated her words.

“Now, we begin again,” she said.

Her fingers were so slender, her hand warm in his, her cheek warm on his.

59.

“A
RE YOU AWAKE?” ANNETTE ASKED, REACHING FOR HIM ACROSS
the narrow crevice between their beds.

“Sometimes I don’t know the answer to that even when I
am
awake,” he said.

“Can’t you sleep?”

“No.”

“I can’t either. I want to tell you something more,” she whispered. She scrunched across to his bed, bunching back the covers, and snuggled in with him.

“What is it?”

“It’s Robert. You see, the war brought us closer,” she said.

“I see. But that is normal,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Maman trusted Robert. She wanted me to be safe, and Robert kept me safe when I went with him to Chauny or to Noyon on the train. At first we played the lovers, a common
stratagème
, so no one would suspect our mission. But then we found retreats, places to be alone.”

Even in the dark Marshall could tell that she was glad that he could not see her face.

“It’s all right,” he said, pulling her closer to him. “I don’t have to know.”

“It is such a small thing. It is not important. But I want you to know.”

Her voice was low, the whisper of a secret.

“On one Friday afternoon, Robert and I went to meet
aviateurs
at Noyon, but they were not there. There was some slippage in the network. We had made our contact, and then we were told to stay the night in a barn in order to convoy the men the next day.
Oh, la la la la
, the barn was cold! But we kept each other warm. We did manage to fulfill our duty and guide the
aviateurs
to Paris the next day. We did our job well, but …”

“C’est la guerre,”
he reminded her softly.

She was silent for a long moment, her hands pulling at the covers.

She said, “We would have had a baby—but it wouldn’t grow in me.”

She nestled her head against his neck, and he encircled her shoulders—clumsily, with the two sets of rumpled covers intruding.

“I loved Robert, but our hope was destroyed.”

“But
you
weren’t destroyed,” he said, feeling her tears. He stroked her hair, trying to soothe her.

“I was always an optimist, as you know. And I was happy, relieved, that I lost the baby. I could not have had it taken from me and murdered. To lose it naturally, this was more acceptable. But still the ache of loss has never dissolved.” She laughed softly, sarcastically, through sobs. “There was a law encouraging family expansion! But there was no food! And then the deportation. The babies born in France had the
rachitisme
. I don’t know the English word. It was so cruel. I’m sorry if I trouble you.”

“It’s O.K. Go on.”

“Before the war, girls didn’t wander about unchaperoned, but in the war, anything could happen. To misuse my liberty distressed me—the betrayal of my parents. Maman understood, though.”

“Did you ever tell Robert?”

“No, I never told him. I didn’t tell Maurice. I was so content to have a husband who didn’t probe or pry, who loved me, who worked for me. I was so glad to have a son and a daughter. I was so privileged.”

“Did Robert love you?”

“
Bien sûr
. I know he did. He promised me … he gave me such gifts. He was
artiste
, you know. He made the pastel portrait of me that you saw in my
salon
. It survived the war.”

She spoke in whispers, into his ear. He stroked her hair, her cheek.

“When Maman and I arrived at Fresnes prison I was with child, but I did not know it yet. Although I did not have a healthy glow or signs of swelling and bloom that would be natural, Maman soon knew. We lived so closely, and she saw that I did not bleed after we arrived at the prison. On the train out of Paris to Ravensbrück, some weeks later, it pushed from me quickly, with pain no worse than the pain of blisters on the heels, or the frostbite on my nose and fingers. I knew I should have suffered deeper cramps as the little creature tried hard not to let go. But the scraps of food we were fed in prison could not sustain it, and it withered and sloughed from my body. My mother held me as it happened. Later, at Ravensbrück, we learned the fate of the children there. Women had to watch their children starve, or they were forced to see their babies killed. The SS women smashed a newborn’s head against the wall.

“In the end, I felt that so many children died, my not-yet-made being inside me was only a small loss. Yet it was mine, mine alone, and after we were liberated I still felt its empty little spot inside me for a long time. It is still there.”

She lay on her side, facing away from him, curved into him closely, and he held her, steadied her shoulders against her sobs.

“It is very painful to tell you this,” she said.

“I know. It’s all right.”

“I want you to know.”

Annette grew quiet. He had expected more tears, but there seemed to be none.

AS THEY WAITED
for sleep, in each other’s arms, he made a mental survey. The field in Belgium. Henri Lechat’s father shot on his bicycle. The woman who taught him French in a barn. The women in black. Claude blown up in his barn. The cat Félix. Chauny and the remarkable Alberts, still there. Nicolas wearing the Bugs Bunny jacket. Pierre offhandedly taking out the “isolated
boche.
”