The Paris Orphan

by Natasha Lester

  “You going to write about it?” Martha asked, eyebrows raised as she lit a cigarette.

  Jess shook her head. “The censors would never let it through. Besides, I need more evidence first.”

  “It’s a story that needs to be told.”

  “Like so many others,” Jess sighed. “You know that nobody planned beyond Paris? In the original invasion plan, we were meant to take Paris by D-day plus seventy-four. We made it by D-day plus seventy-five. But that’s it. Apparently the Germans were supposed to capitulate after Paris. So getting a briefing on the army’s next move, although impossible for us gals anyway, is now about as easy as finding a Nazi in Paris.”

  Cognac solved nothing, so the next morning she and Marty took the elevator down to breakfast as gloomy as the night before.

  “Any word of my husband?” Martha asked on the way, not looking at Jess.

  “I heard he’s at the Ritz,” Jess said. “Apparently the Hotel Scribe isn’t able to withstand his reputation.”

  “I know I have to go there and see him,” Martha said, with a hesitancy that wasn’t at all her ordinary way of speaking. “I know I have to ask him for a divorce. But at the same time…”

  “It will hurt to end it,” Jess finished for her. “You know that if I could do it for you, I would.”

  Martha gave her a small and desolate smile. “It’s just so hard to say that a love like mine and Hem’s failed after all.”

  “I wonder what actually survives a war?”

  Martha shook her head as the elevator doors opened.

  “You’ll definitely need breakfast if you want to face off with mon general,” Jess said, fixing on the practicalities. “Hemingway’s attracted a band of followers and you’ll want something to line your stomach before you fight your way through them to be admitted into his presence.”

  Her words came to an abrupt halt when they reached the mess and Emile, with shaven head, pushed past them into the room and was greeted with cheers and applause. He looked back over his shoulder at Jess, face triumphant.

  “On second thought, breakfast might make me sick,” Jess said, turning away, nausea rising in her throat as if her body wanted to purge itself of her past with Emile, knowing that while she hadn’t done anything wrong, she felt ashamed of herself for ever having loved him. “How are we going to stand any more of this?” she said quietly.

  “You know he shaved his own head,” Martha said.

  “It doesn’t matter. They all think that having sex with a woman is a joke they must share with the world.” Jess shook her head. “They’re never going to let us out of here, are they? Every morning I wake up and think, today will be the day, and Iris and Lee agree and then it doesn’t happen and we all drag our heels off to a story nobody cares about. What are we doing? Should we just quit?”

  “I don’t know,” Martha said, uncharacteristically short of a perky comeback. “I just don’t know.”

  * * *

  After covering another fashion show, Jess returned to the Scribe late in the evening, more than ready for a drink—but nothing as bubbly as champagne—her words from that morning echoing in her head like the concussion of shell bursts: Should we just quit? She was doing nothing of use and every day that she took pictures of fashion shows her self-respect and her dignity withered a little more; people were dying and that was what mattered, not what dresses might be in fashion next season. Soon she would have no pride left. Warren would have prevailed and Jess would be just someone who’d once had something important to say.

  “Anyone got whiskey?” she muttered to Martha, who was at their usual table in the bar with Lee and Iris.

  “We’re going to be alcoholics by the end of the war at this rate,” Iris said glumly as Martha organized the drinks for what felt like a funeral and they all began to drink steadily and not at all slowly.

  “What are we going to do?” Jess asked.

  Before anyone could reply, Major Mayborn appeared and Jess felt herself default to her once infamous smile.

  “I thought you might be happy with this,” the major said, saluting Jess, Iris and Lee, handing them all a piece of paper, and then walking away.

  Confused, Jess watched him leave, the paper squashed in her hand. “It’s not a goddamn court-martial, surely?” she said. “We haven’t done anything, have we?”

  “We don’t have to do anything more than exist to get into trouble around here,” Lee said bitterly.

  “Open it,” Martha said.

  So Jess did, Martha, Iris and Lee all watching her. She read the major’s words. When she’d finished, she rested her elbows on the table, her head in her hands, and began to sob.

  “What is it?” Martha’s voice sounded desperate and at last Lee and Iris began to read their own letters.

  Wordlessly, Jess passed hers to Martha.

  She read it through without speaking, then Jess saw her eyes return to the beginning and read it over again.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Marty said slowly. “We are going to get drunk, very drunk. But on champagne. No more whiskey.”

  At last Jess laughed, and Iris and Lee cheered. For the letter had given Jessica May, Lee Carson and Iris Carpenter permission to access all areas. They were no longer only allowed to stay with the nurses. They were allocated jeeps. They were allowed to attend press briefings. To stay at press camps outside Paris. To be told about the day’s hot spots and military objectives. To send copy to their newspapers or magazines as soon as the censor had passed it; they no longer had to wait until all the men had filed theirs. They even got a cigarette ration.

  So long as they found a unit to attach themselves to—which would mean, Jess thought, her joy evaporating a little, that she had to think of a way to get Dan to forgive her outburst—Europe was as much theirs as it was the men’s.

  Fourteen

  It was late morning when Jess awoke with a groan. Her headache confirmed that she’d definitely drunk more than she should have.

  “That was a night and a half,” Martha muttered.

  “It sure was.” Jess blinked and tried to focus. “Will you come with me when I go out to the front? Be my jeep partner. It might be easier for you to sneak around out there; Stone won’t let you have a room of your own here without accreditation. And you can get away from Hemingway.”

  When Martha had visited her husband at the Ritz, she’d discovered him in the bedroom of Time correspondent Mary Welsh. The outcome had been one more blow to Marty’s heart, but also, at last, an agreement to dissolve their marriage.

  “That,” Martha sighed, “is just what I need. Are you joining Dan’s division?”

  Jess stood up and walked over to the window. “I don’t know whether he’ll have me,” she said at last. She explained what had happened at the camp dinner. “He’s in charge of hundreds of men, he’s meant to set an example, and I, his dinner guest, shout about sex in front of all the men he’s supposed to be leading. Warren deserved it but I shouldn’t have handled it like that.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Martha said practically. “Besides, with all the COs you and I have met over the past year or so, we’ll find someone to take us on.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” But Jess knew she’d much prefer to work alongside Dan and his men, GIs she already knew and cared something for. So the only thing to do was to drive out there and hope he’d forgiven her and not think about where she’d go if he hadn’t.

  Soon she and Marty were on their way downstairs with their bags. In the lobby, they found a huddle of correspondents and PROs, obviously waiting for someone. Jess soon found out it wasn’t what had happened in battle overnight that had got everyone so excited; it was what had happened at the Hotel Scribe right under their noses.

  “If only I were blonde,” one said loudly as Jess walked past.

  “You’d need nice long legs too,” another added.

  “Don’t forget the breasts,” Warren added.

  Jess stopped. “I assume you’re maki
ng some kind of point directed at me?”

  “You got access to the front. We’re just interested to know how you did it,” a reporter for a third-rate paper smirked.

  “Yes,” said Jess. “It is interesting, isn’t it? Now I have the same access to the war as you do. No more, no less. I have no extra privileges. But it’s taken me a year to earn the rights you were handed the minute you turned up. So the only reason you might be so concerned is because you think I’m going to get better stories than you, and get them first. If that’s the case, then I don’t know why you’re sitting in the bar. War’s out that way, fellas.”

  Jess pointed to the doors and strode off, tongue having got the better of her again.

  * * *

  When Jess and Martha pulled into the driveway where Dan’s division had been billeted, not far from Reims, they both found themselves uncharacteristically speechless. Before them stood a fairytale chateau—it actually had a turret. Yes, it showed some signs of misuse from German occupation but even the circling of khaki tents spread throughout the once manicured grounds and across the fields stretching down to the canal couldn’t diminish the splendor. Lieu de Rêves: Jess saw the chateau’s name on a sign before them and knew it had been appropriately named. It really was a place for dreaming.

  Her eyes took in the overgrown maze that she imagined must provide the GIs and WACs the perfect opportunity to become lost together, the plane trees that stood proudly above the tangled branches of chestnut trees, and the vibrant splashes of color provided by the wild orchids that had just begun to flower, and the still-lingering butterflies. Hiding here and there were contorted dwarf beech trees that had lost most of their leaves, branches covered with moss, looking haunted. Jess knew from her parents that legends abounded that the trees—Les Faux de Verzy, as they were known—were either blessed or cursed: there were stories that woodland trolls had caused the stunting, or a monk had cursed them, or that to dance beneath the canopy of leaves might grant one both love and fertility.

  “I’m not going to the field hospital,” Marty said, still gazing at the chateau. “I mightn’t have accreditation but I’m staying here too.”

  “You’re assuming I’ll be welcome,” Jess said as she drove forward, adding her jeep to the long row parked down one side of the chateau.

  She was certainly welcomed by the men. Sparrow clapped her on the back and Jennings offered his usual shy hello. The ruckus drew the attention of those inside the chateau, and some of the WACs came out to see what was going on, before Dan appeared.

  “Jess,” he said, obviously surprised.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Hallworth,” she replied, determined to behave impeccably. “Can I have five minutes of your time?”

  He frowned, but at least he said, “Come in.”

  Jess followed him into a magnificent entry foyer that made her head tip up, and then into a huge room—a former ballroom, surely—paneled with gray, the wood inset with faded paintings. Judging by the tables lined up in rows, it was now the mess.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  She shook her head. Thankfully it was quiet and there were few people around. She didn’t even wait until they were sitting before she spoke. “I’m sorry about what happened last time I saw you. I promise I won’t yell at people like that again. At least not in front of you and your men—I might yell at them more privately next time. I’ve finally been allowed out of Paris.” She thrust her papers at him. “And not only that but I’m allowed to go wherever I want and I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I attached myself to your battalion—but I understand if you would rather I didn’t.”

  He didn’t even look at the papers. Instead he grinned at her. “I was wondering why your greeting was so formal. You know why I invited you over for dinner that night?” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “To remind us all what it’s like to laugh,” he said. “I almost behaved in a very un-CO-like manner and laughed at Stone in front of everyone because he absolutely deserved it and nobody could have said it better than you did. Sorry if I looked angry; I was actually trying to keep it together. And I didn’t drive you back because I didn’t want to add any fuel to Stone’s idiotic fire; I know it’s hard enough for you already without me giving anyone cause to gossip.”

  Jess finally smiled. “Well, I’m glad that I keep everyone’s spirits up. In exchange for my special skills at that, will you let me have a room in this grand chateau?”

  “Jess, you can have a room without needing to provide anything in exchange. I’ll get one of the WACs to organize it; there’s plenty of space and a spare bed or two in the attic. And the champagne at dinner tonight to celebrate this,” he pointed to her letter, “is on me. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, but you might want to take all of that back when I tell you that Marty is here with me and she still doesn’t have her accreditation papers back and she wants to stay too.” The words came out in a rush and, as she said them, she felt sure Dan would have to turn them both away but he just smiled again.

  “Luckily my division has been put into reserve so there’s no one particularly official around here at the moment. Gellhorn might just be able to get away with staying.”

  * * *

  With Dan’s division enjoying a well-deserved rest, life was almost normal for a few weeks. Having an address of sorts meant that Jess received the occasional letter from Amelia, who plied Jess with hilarious tales of her nightly antics, over which Jess wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry, as it seemed like Amelia was talking about a different world, one Jess could never really return to. Dan had moved Victorine to a boarding school in Paris, which meant Jess could visit her occasionally as Reims wasn’t far, and Dan had been making the most of the quiet time to visit her too. And Martha was allowing the natural beauty around them to provide a balm for Hemingway’s betrayal and to slowly mend her heart.

  Just lately, Jess had been writing a story that had nothing to do with battles and war, but about what each man most missed from home. They were such simple things—the coffee mug they always used even though it was chipped around the rim, the crocheted blanket that had been on their bed since they were a boy, the particular creak of a step that meant their mother was up and in the kitchen making bacon and eggs for breakfast. She planned to accompany her words with photographs of each man’s young and smiling face, wanting to show that every man here was his own story, taking shots that were simple and very close up so the viewer could see every one of Jennings’ freckles, see the strange sadness that now lurked in the back of Sparrow’s once confident eyes.

  So she gathered up her cameras one morning in December as close to happy as she’d ever been. The advance into Germany had been stopped by the early winter and nobody expected they would be doing any more fighting until the spring of 1945. News had come down that the Germans had pushed into the Ardennes, but no one really believed it.

  She threaded her way through the tents, dotted always with bare-chested men shaving out of their helmets, past GIs lounging around reading letters and smoking, playing cards, feeling a restlessness in the air that hung around Dan too, a sense that they’d all forgotten how to be still, how to be unafraid. Only last night at dinner, Dan had complained to her that his men were all bored and that boredom led to mischief and that he wished they’d be called up to the Ardennes to join the rumored fight going on there. She hadn’t been surprised to find that he’d gone out early that morning to drive to the front to see what was happening.

  “Jess!” Jennings, newly returned from the hospital after setting his foot alight by accidentally stepping into a campfire—much to Dan’s resigned amusement—called out eagerly when he saw her. “Everyone’s ready.”

  She’d chosen a place that had a magical feel to it in an attempt to convey the spell-working that had somehow kept this group of men together and alive and intact through so much bloodshed. Fairy rings of mushrooms spiraled across the ground. Two of the enchanted trees twisted over the men, pro
viding both the protection of a canopy of naked boughs and the eerie strangeness of the distorted branches. The moss, in the pale midwinter sun, was just a shade brighter than the men’s uniforms and when they sat beneath Les Faux, they looked as if they were mingling into the forest, becoming a part of the French landscape in such a way that it would be almost impossible to return to chipped coffee mugs and creaking stairs.

  “I’m first.” It was Sparrow, of course, using his height and size to maneuver his way to the front of the pack of men.

  Sparrow’s claim was followed by the usual jostling for position that happened every time the GIs saw her camera. She laughed with them as they razzed each man when he sat for his portrait, calling him ugly, telling him he had a face only a mother could love.

  “A lot more people love this face than you know.” Sparrow grinned broadly, the torment in his eyes shoved aside by a glint of something Jess didn’t like, and the quality of laughter changed: shifty, with an overtone of nuance she didn’t understand.

  Then another man said, sotto voce to Sparrow, “Hey, you’re not the only one,” and the laughter continued on, starkly.

  She put it out of her mind; it was probably a lewd joke they thought might singe her ears. Instead, she concentrated on the focusing and positioning of the Rollei until she had everything she needed.

  “Thanks,” she said, standing up at last from the crouched position she’d been occupying. “I guarantee this will keep your sweethearts’ attention fixed on you for at least another few months.”

  “Except if you’re Jennings,” Sparrow said, punching the other man in the arm. The laughter chorused again.

  Jess caught a glimpse of Jennings’ reddened face but she had no idea what was going on. She collected her things and hadn’t quite reached the chateau when she realized she’d left her notebook behind. She turned around and was almost past the tents and back to the pocket of dwarf beech trees where they’d taken the pictures when she heard her name, spoken heatedly, the voices raised beyond ordinary conversation. For just a moment she felt the tree before her reach out, its curious and beautiful arms pleading with her to step away. She shook her head. The tree, odd and curling as it was, was just a tree. Sparrow and Jennings’ discussion cut through her strange hallucination.