Lovely War

by Julie Berry

  “Otherwise,” he explained, “the hot-air balloon would be too heavy to fly.”

  “With all that chocolate.”

  He nodded. “Exactly.”

  She remained unconvinced. “Then I suppose I won’t be able to bring a piano.”

  “Oh, absolutely bring the piano,” said James. “We will need music, where we’re going.”

  How she loved this boy who kept her laughing!

  “And where, exactly, are we going?” she asked.

  He considered this question. “The moon.”

  “That sounds cold,” she said.

  James made excellent use of his eyebrows. “I’ll keep you warm.”

  Delighted though she was, Hazel thought she’d better steer the conversation elsewhere.

  She made a proposal. “How about a tropical island?”

  He grinned. “Even better.” The naughty boy! I knew what he was thinking.

  “I suppose the chocolate would melt there,” she said.

  “We’ll live on coconuts.”

  She offered a hand to shake. “It’s settled, then.”

  He took her hand and held it a moment, and they both realized, at the same time, what they’d actually promised. What offering a hand meant.

  She tapped her cheekbone with a finger. “You know,” she said, “we might run out of things to talk about. With just us two.”

  He suppressed a grin. “We’ll talk to the children on the island.”

  “Oh?” Hazel was intrigued. “What children?”

  He shrugged as if the answer should be obvious. “The children who live there.”

  She pursed her lips. “We’re going to an island full of children?”

  “Not at first,” he explained. “It’ll get that way eventually.”

  Hazel suddenly felt a great need to hide behind a sip from her water glass.

  James kissed the back of Hazel’s hand.

  Her shining eyes met his.

  With impeccable timing, the server brought the soup course.

  APHRODITE

  Letting Go—February 14, 1918

  “I CAN’T LET you go,” Hazel told James as they departed the restaurant at about nine thirty.

  “I’m not really leaving,” he said. “I’m just going away for a little while.”

  Hazel studied signs. “This is the wrong way. This leads toward Colette’s aunt’s place.”

  “That’s where I’m taking you.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “I want to come with you to the train station,” she protested.

  “And walk home alone at midnight, through the streets of Paris?”

  “I can take care of myself,” Hazel said.

  The concern in his brown eyes made her melt. “I know you can,” he said. “But it’s a long way. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.”

  Says the boy heading back to the trenches. “All right.”

  Their steps led them past a door from which music spilled. “What do you say, Miss Windicott?” he asked. “Valentine’s Day isn’t quite over yet. Go dancing with me?”

  She smiled. “I’ll probably trip and fall.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  I did all I could to make that hour last. Almost, James could imagine that he was back in that parish hall, at the benefit dance, dancing with Hazel for the first time. Perhaps he’d never gone to war. Perhaps that was all a strange reverie; perhaps they were dancing in Poplar still.

  “What if you hadn’t agreed to dance with me, back at that church dance?”

  Perish the thought! “What if Mabel Kibbey hadn’t made me do it?”

  James chuckled. “Is that her name? I’ll have to thank her.”

  The music wound on.

  “You will write to me often, won’t you?” she asked.

  Nobody was watching, so he answered her with a kiss. “Every day, if you like.”

  “I do like.”

  “Me too.”

  * * *

  I did all I could, but the moment came all the same. They had to leave the dance hall. Slow steps still led to Tante Solange’s door. The last moments they dared to stall were used up. Their lips were sore and their eyes stung. Hazel meant to be cheerful, but she couldn’t.

  “Be careful,” she said, over and over again. “Be safe.”

  “And you,” he said. “Be healthy. Be safe.”

  It’s not what’s said at times like these. We don’t give prizes for rhetoric to the best goodbye. To thank each other for a wonderful time; to separate with a smile, or tears; to part with a final kiss or a final word—no one knows what to do. Even I look away and give couples their privacy.

  When I look back, I see a girl on a doorstep, watching a uniformed soldier’s back as he hurries away, lest he give in to the unendurable temptation to turn around. I see a friend on the stairs, waiting to catch a brokenhearted girl in her arms after the girl has waited outside, long past reason, in the slim chance that he might.

  Three Trains Again—February 15, 1918

  HADES

  A TRAIN DISGORGED Aubrey Edwards and the rest of the 15th New York National Guard’s band, the K Company Quartet, and a small troupe of dancing infantrymen at Aix-les-Bains.

  It was the oddest place: a sumptuous, luxurious resort town nestled in the French Alps, with a crystal-blue lake and stunning mountain peaks, a glittering casino, an opulent theater, premium hotels and restaurants. All but empty. A desolate ghost town.

  An army staff sergeant met them at the station and led them to the one hotel that could plausibly be called the lower-rent option for Aix-les-Bains. Even so, they were nice rooms and the general mood among the band was upbeat.

  Lieutenant James Reese Europe directed his band members to find rooms, eat, and meet for a first rehearsal on the theater stage in two hours. Before he could disperse along with the others, Lieutenant Europe pulled Aubrey aside.

  “You,” he said. “Get some food, then find yourself a piano somewhere. The casino, or a hotel. I want you playing ragtime piano until sundown. Do you hear me?”

  Aubrey’s head drooped. “That’s okay, Jim,” he said. “I’ll just go to sleep—”

  “That’s an order, Private,” Europe replied. “You’re gonna play with the band eventually, but you’d better get your sorry hands moving first. I want you so solid on the ‘St. Louis Blues’ that you could solo it backward for me. Understood?”

  Aubrey saluted. Understood. Then went straight to bed.

  ARES

  Private James Alderidge rejoined his regiment outside Gouzeaucourt early in the morning of February 15, 1918, after riding north all night to Bapaume and hitching a ride east on a supply train on to the stop closest to his combat sector. He was exhausted after a sleepless night of swinging between bliss and torment. But he was ready, by the time he rejoined his comrades, to answer their questions about his Valentine’s outing with “his girl.”

  “Yeah,” he said at least dozen times that morning, “we had a grand time of it.”

  APHRODITE

  Tante Solange was more than a little put out that she hadn’t had another chance to lay her eyes, and presumably, her hands, on the handsome British soldier before he left. It took several board games to appease her. But by midafternoon on Friday, Hazel and Colette had stowed their bags and boarded a slow train headed toward Saint-Nazaire, riding straight into the setting sun.

  APHRODITE

  Waiting for Letters—February 19–28, 1918

  IT TOOK A few days for James’s letters to begin arriving at Hut One in Saint-Nazaire. They followed in a steady stream.

  Colette returned to Saint-Nazaire eager to rehearse songs each night. She checked the door at the slightest sound.

  Days passed, and Colette grew anxious. Had something changed Aubrey’s mind about her?
She visited the commissary and finagled excuses to pass by the parade grounds. No Private Edwards had been in the infirmary’s colored soldiers’ wing.

  She asked other members of the 15th New York if they knew where Aubrey was. With nearly two thousand soldiers in the regiments, most didn’t know him. Finally she found one who did.

  “Haven’t seen him in a while, miss,” he told her. “He must’ve traveled with the band.”

  Better gone than faithless. But why go? And why not write to her?

  Weeks passed without word. Surely if he’d sent a letter, she’d have it by now.

  She dispatched a letter to Private Aubrey Edwards, 15th New York National Guard, Aix-les-Bains, US Army HQ, and waited.

  Nothing came back.

  HADES

  Hideaway—March 1–12, 1918

  TRAINLOADS OF AMERICAN soldiers began pouring into Aix-les-Bains. First Lieutenant James Reese Europe’s 15th New York Infantry Band was the most popular feature there. Their engagement was upgraded, by popular demand, from two weeks to four.

  Finishing the winter under blue skies, beside a crystal glacial lake, certainly could have been worse. It was warmer here, and when the soldiers weren’t rehearsing or performing, they hiked the foothills surrounding the town. They could almost forget la Grande Guerre was going on.

  Aubrey sat by the shores of Lac du Bourget. He watched the water and saw Joey’s swollen face. He didn’t hear birdsong, but Joey ragging on him for staying out late. Joey giving Aubrey a hard time, Joey rescuing his sorry hide.

  He tried to play piano, but it only brought back Colette.

  It slashed his heart to hurt her, after all she’d lost.

  Maybe it had only been a beginning. But he loved her. With a girl like Colette, it didn’t take long to be sure. But where could it lead? He had nothing to offer her now.

  He loved her, and Joey had died because of it.

  In a better world, the war wouldn’t have started. Colette Fournier would be in Dinant, in the arms of her old beau, Stéphane.

  The only honorable choice was for Aubrey to let her find a new Stéphane.

  So when her letter reached him, asking if he could let her know he was safe, he did the hardest thing possible. He put it away without answering it.

  APOLLO

  Three Million Notes—March 13, 1918

  “SO, HAVE YOU written much to your girl since you got here?”

  Aubrey Edwards looked up from the desk in Lieutenant Europe’s hotel room. It was after midnight, and his eyes were tired from the painstaking work of transcribing musical notation, scoring new pieces for the band.

  “No,” Aubrey said slowly. “I haven’t.”

  Jim Europe peered over Aubrey’s shoulder.

  “You’re not writing it in B-flat.” He pointed at an offending measure.

  Dang. How did Europe spot that so fast? He’d forgotten he was writing for horns, not piano. He needed sleep. He reached for a fresh sheet of staff paper. Some soldiers stayed up all night digging trenches or manning lookout posts. Some stayed up all night setting ditties to jazz accompaniment.

  “You left without a word?” Europe asked. “She’s got no idea what happened to you?”

  Aubrey looked up. “Wasn’t that the point?”

  Europe filled in note heads and stems and flags with astonishing speed. “I wasn’t trying to break apart your love affair,” he said. “Just wanted to get you out of a bad mess.” He blew on the wet notes. “You know Saint-Nazaire wasn’t safe for you.” He yawned.

  “You should get some sleep,” Aubrey said. “Sir.”

  The lieutenant sat up and stretched. “Not finished,” he said. “I told the fellas I was up all night, copying out three million notes.” He grinned. “Didn’t tell ’em I’ve got a secret helper.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Europe resumed his scribbling. “It seemed to me,” he said, “that you thought that girl was worth an awful lot of risk and trouble.” He hummed a snatch of the tune, his fingers tapping it out on an imaginary piano. “Didn’t you care for her much?”

  The fastest way to get Europe to drop the subject would be to lie, to say, No, he hadn’t cared for her all that much, not really.

  He thought of Colette’s tragedies at the hands of the Germans. She’d lost so much. Just when she’d begun to have hope again, Aubrey had abandoned her without a word.

  “I guess, if she wasn’t much more to you than some laughs,” Europe said, “you’re better off just letting it die. It’s painful, no doubt, but maybe it’s for the best.”

  Aubrey leaned onto the stack of musical staff paper.

  “Edwards,” Europe said, “you’re not doing Joey any favors by staying miserable.”

  Aubrey lowered his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Europe didn’t seem satisfied. He waited until Aubrey looked him in the eye.

  “If she was worth it then, she’s worth it still,” he said. “Don’t be a dope.”

  “No, sir,” Private Aubrey Edwards replied. “I mean, yes, sir. I won’t be.”

  APHRODITE

  Note for Note—March 16, 1918

  Dear Colette.

  On his final night in Aix-les-Bains, Aubrey pulled out his own musical staff paper.

  Some Romeo I am, Aubrey thought. Writing to Colette because a commanding officer ordered me to.

  He tried to think of what to say. Sorry I disappeared? I know we said a lot of things to each other, but, you know, I’ve been busy?

  He never should’ve kept her waiting. It was selfish. Stupid. You don’t throw aside a girl like Colette Fournier.

  It would be so much easier if he could tell her about Joey, but Lieutenant Europe had warned him, repeatedly, to say nothing to anyone. The truth would devastate her. No need for yet another heart to be racked with guilt. He already had that job covered.

  The thin lines of musical staff stared up at him.

  He knelt down by the side of his bed and fished underneath it for his knapsack. At the bottom, he found his notebook, and in it, the songs he’d begun to write for Colette.

  He chose the first song, and copied it out, note for note. At the end he wrote, Love, Aubrey.

  APHRODITE

  Digging—March 18, 1918

  THE SEA BREEZE in Hazel’s face brought a whiff of spring as she made the trek to Camp Lusitania and its YMCA relief hut. Hope hung in the air. Saint-Nazaire was on the move.

  New shipments—what a word!—of American soldiers poured into Saint-Nazaire almost daily. There was barely a place to put them. Daily, trained divisions shipped out toward the Front. The moment would soon come when the American impact on the war, if there was to be any, would be fully felt. Let it be swift, Hazel prayed, and let it be decisive.

  Hazel entered the hut. It was quiet inside at midday, though there were soldiers and YMCA volunteers about. Hazel noted the young ladies with some surprise. Their uniforms were just like hers. Why hadn’t she met them when she’d been introduced to the other Y volunteers at Saint-Nazaire?

  Because they were black.

  A young woman approached her. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Are you bringing a message from Y headquarters?”

  Hazel shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m here with a question of a, er, more personal nature. About a soldier from the Fifteenth New York.”

  The young woman eyed her sideways. “Come with me.” She ushered Hazel toward a pair of low chairs in one corner.

  “My name is Jennie,” she told Hazel.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Hazel told her. “I’m Hazel.”

  “You’re British, aren’t you?”

  Hazel nodded. “Guilty as charged. Do you know a Private Aubrey Edwards?”

  Jennie blinked. “Have you seen him?” she whispered urgently.

  Hazel was taken aback.
“Do you mean, have I seen him play the piano?”

  Jennie shook her head. “No. I mean, have you seen him lately?”

  Hazel’s heart sank. This young woman didn’t know either.

  “You know him, then,” Hazel said. “No, I don’t know where he is. I came hoping someone here might.”

  Jennie drew back a bit, as if a new caution had occurred to her. “Has there been trouble?” she asked. “Why are you looking for him?”

  “No trouble,” Hazel said quickly. “No, none whatsoever.”

  Jennie’s face relaxed. “Aubrey Edwards is well-liked around here.”

  “It’s plain to see why,” said Hazel. “But you, also, think he’s missing?”

  Jennie’s brow furrowed. She nodded.

  “He and my friend had grown . . . close,” Hazel said, “and even the night before the band left on its tour, they spent time together. He assured her that he wasn’t going.”

  Jennie’s expression was unreadable.

  “After that, he disappeared,” Hazel said. “He hasn’t been around, and no one has seen him. My friend sent him a letter at Aix-les-Bains, and heard no reply.” She realized how this must sound. “Of course, sometimes friendships do, er, end. But there was no indication that this one would. Quite the contrary, in fact. And my poor friend is quite distraught.”

  She saw Jennie’s eyes scan the room nearby, as if to make sure they were really alone.

  “I was hoping,” Hazel went on, “you might know someone to whom we could write a letter, to ask if Aubrey made the trip? We just want to know he’s all right.” Her words spilled out. “Even if he’d rather break things off.”