Lovely War

by Julie Berry

  APHRODITE

  I never said I wouldn’t tell the rest of the story, Ares.

  Colette and Hazel were back chopping cabbage and onions at Compiègne. Hazel had been apprehensive. The German who’d assaulted her stalked her nightmares. She and Colette began their second sojourn at the concentration camp by meeting with the guards and sergeants in charge and putting them on alert that they expected their safety, and that of all workers, to be assured. The camp directors were so understaffed and so grateful that the girls had returned that they accepted all terms without argument. Hazel watched but never saw a sign of her assailant.

  Compiègne was close to Soissons, where James was posted. Letters flew back and forth between them almost as fast as telegrams. Though the echo of guns was louder, she had such frequent letters from James that she never wondered for long if he was all right.

  When the battle ended, James wrote to let Hazel know that he’d have half a day of rest and relaxation the following Saturday. Was there any way she could come spend it with him? The same day, a letter arrived from Aubrey saying he would have the following Monday off. So the girls concocted a plan. They would don their old YMCA uniforms and travel by troop train to the depot nearest to James’s sector. He would meet them there. They’d spend a few marvelous hours together. Then Colette and Hazel would take the spur line back to a main artery that would lead them toward Verdun. They’d travel Sunday and spend Monday with Aubrey.

  It was wicked and daring and harmless and so simple. They boarded the train in Compiègne without opposition and sweated their way through the short ride in the August heat to their meeting place. Seeing how no one seemed to care whether they were with the YMCA or with the circus, they peeled off their wool uniform coats. As the train approached the depot near Soissons, Hazel borrowed a mirror and comb from Colette to neaten herself up. She was too excited to feel the heat.

  James waited at the depot for their train to arrive. He felt jumpy with anticipation. These few weeks apart felt longer than the entire war.

  He mopped the sweat off his brow and searched for anything in this scorched earth that could give a chap some shade.

  ARES

  The occasional rumble of guns in the distance was as normal now as traffic in the city or birds in the country. James barely noticed it.

  The track began vibrating. He saw smoke and heard the engine’s song. Here she comes!

  Inside their passenger car, Hazel looked up.

  “Nearly there,” she told Colette. “The train’s slowing to a stop.”

  From nowhere, a rush of air knocked James to the ground. Then came the whine, after the shell itself. From a long-range gun. The Long Max. Thirty-eight centimeters.

  The explosion shook the earth beneath him. The geyser of dirt rained down upon train track. Smoke and flames roared upward from what remained of the train.

  HADES

  The engine and the first two cars were annihilated.

  The cars beyond buckled and crashed into one another.

  Soldiers and war workers were thrown all about the cars.

  Shards of glass from shattered windows flew like shrapnel.

  Colette emerged unscathed, for Hazel had thrown her body over her friend’s.

  * * *

  James found Colette holding on to Hazel, rocking her like an infant. As though she’d only gone to sleep. As though she could be persuaded to wake up.

  “It’s my fault,” she repeated. “It was wrong of me to love her. I had no right to do it.” She gulped and keened. “La guerre takes everyone I love from me. She won’t even spare me Hazel. I never should have made myself her friend.”

  * * *

  James the battle veteran, arriving on the scene, knew what to do. Apply pressure to the bleeding and summon a medic. Clear airflow, release tight clothing.

  James the boy from the parish dance was lost in the fog of a dark world, searching everywhere for one who would not be found.

  HADES

  The Royal Albert Hall

  HAZEL ARRIVED. She wore a light summer dress and walked in bare feet through soft grasses. Tiny white flowers glinted like pearls among the deep green.

  Her steps led her to an unfamiliar door. She pushed it open and found herself in a vast, dark room, so huge that no walls could be seen. The lack of any echo gave her vertigo.

  She wasn’t ready to be here.

  In a far distance, she thought she saw a glimmer of light. Cautiously, stepping blindly, she made her way forward. A wooden floor felt smooth under her bare feet.

  The light grew. A spotlight, in its perfect oval, illuminating a gleaming ebony satin Steinway & Sons nine-foot grand piano. Its opened top beckoned.

  A gorgeous instrument. Never in her life had she come near one so deluxe, so pristine.

  That, in fact, was still the truth.

  Hazel approached the bench and sat down.

  Houselights rose to the faintest glimmer. Just enough for her to see where she was. The grand room appeared in solemn majesty. An empty Royal Albert Hall in the middle of the night.

  She touched the keys, playing tentative notes. As each bead of sound rang outward, her hesitation fell away. She began to play. “Pathétique.” The second movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Number 8 in C minor, opus 13. “Adagio cantabile.”

  The sound filled the empty hall and rushed back upon her like a revelation. Such purity, such sweetness of tone. Each hammer striking its string like a chiming bell, filling the darkness with beauty.

  Tears fell from her eyes. Never, never had she played like this. Never had she had such an instrument nor such an acoustically divine space. Never had she felt such freedom to play as she longed to, without a nervous body getting in the way. No paralyzing fear from an audience—yet now, she saw, what a crime it was that no one else could be there to hear this music.

  I sat beside her as Monsieur Guillaume. He wasn’t actually dead, but Hazel understood.

  “Have I died, monsieur?”

  She looked up, still playing, and saw, high in the balconies, right where she and James once sat, a small clump of people. Her parents. Colette, Aubrey. Tante Solange. Georgia Fake and Olivia Jenkins. Father Knightsbridge. Ellen Francis. Reverend and Mrs. Puxley. Maggie.

  James.

  They were far beyond reach, yet she could see them as clearly as though they were close.

  Beside them were other people. Slowly spreading rows upon rows, filling the balcony. People she had yet to meet. People who would have come into her life and graced it, filled it, but now they would not. A young woman with dark curls. A sandy-haired boy.

  “Please,” she asked me. “Might I go back for a little while longer?”

  She waited for my answer while her fingers still played.

  I am not unmoved by music. We need not all be you, Apollo, to appreciate it.

  Nor am I unmoved by love, no matter how many loves I’ve been forced to cut short.

  Hazel persisted. “Can’t you send me back?”

  “It’s been known to happen,” I told her. “Though nothing would ever be quite the same.”

  “Please,” she begged. “When you call me the second time, I’ll come willingly.”

  I rose from the bench and retreated into the shadows. Much as it grieves me, I do understand that my company isn’t always welcome. Hazel continued to play, and I was glad to see it. Music was the best thing for her then. Nothing could do more to resign her to this painful transition.

  Someone else appeared at my side.

  “Why, Aphrodite,” I said, if you recall, Goddess. “To what do I owe the rare honor of your visit?”

  You bowed. “If it pleases you, my lord,” you said. “If I have ever pleased you, I beg you to give Hazel back to me. Let her go.”

  “Lovely Goddess,” I told you, “these are the fortunes of war. If every lov
ed soul were snatched from death simply because she’d be mourned and missed, the universe would fold in upon itself.”

  “Hazel’s not done,” Aphrodite insisted. “She has so much more to give and to do.”

  “I can say the same for each one of war’s millions of fallen dead,” I said.

  Aphrodite, you turned to me then, and fell upon your knees. “Please, give me Hazel,” you begged. “Hers is a love I’d only barely begun. James needs her. Her parents need her. Colette needs her. Please, Lord Hades, God of the Underworld, Ruler of All.”

  I believe, if memory serves me rightly, I needed a handkerchief.

  “She’s badly injured,” I told you.

  “Not where it matters most,” you countered.

  “The Fates will shriek in protest,” I warned. “They will dog her steps.”

  “I’ll watch over her, my lord,” you said, Goddess. “I will shield her as much as I can.”

  Though the mortals have long portrayed me thus, and I forgive them for it, mine is not a heart of stone.

  I took your hand and raised you to your feet. “Passion, Love, and Beauty,” I told you, Aphrodite. “You know she can no longer have them all.”

  APHRODITE

  Lazybones—August 20, 1918

  TUBES OF RED blood dangled from jars mounted to a metal frame and ran, Hazel realized, into a needle injected into her arm. It burned where it stuck there, wedged into her flesh like an insult.

  She didn’t know it, but she was in a field hospital.

  Her body ached. Her abdomen—even breathing was agony. Things inside her that she couldn’t name cried out in protest. She turned her head from side to side in order to see. That slight movement sent ripples of pain up and down her body.

  She tried to sit up, and fell back into her pillow with a gasp.

  Colette was at her side in an instant. “Good morning!”

  Hazel looked about. “Is it really morning?”

  Colette kissed Hazel’s cheek. “Non, ma chère. It isn’t. But you’ve had a long night’s sleep.” She pulled up a stool and sat close by. “Does it hurt terribly?”

  Hazel breathed slowly. Her head was still somewhere between drugged sleep and wakefulness.

  “Never mind,” Colette said. “I can see the truth.”

  “How long have I been here?” Hazel marveled at how scratchy her voice sounded.

  Colette’s eyes filled with concern. “Three days,” she said. “We’ve been so afraid.”

  “We?” Hazel gave up the struggle. “Can I have some water?”

  Colette slid her arm under Hazel’s pillow and eased her upright. She caught the wince of pain and held a glass of water to her lips.

  Hazel closed her eyes. Colette took her hand and entwined her fingers through hers.

  “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you awake.”

  Hazel smiled and opened her eyes. “It’s good to see you, too.” She took a measured breath. “Three days?”

  “Lazybones.”

  Hazel laughed for a second, until the pain told her not to.

  “Colette,” she said, “what happened to me?”

  Colette’s heart bled. Where to begin? “Do you remember the train ride?”

  Hazel nodded once.

  “Do you remember the explosion?”

  Hazel frowned. “Do I?” She waited. Her mind was still a muddled swirl. “Maybe?”

  “A shell hit our train,” Colette explained gently. “People died. Many more were hurt.”

  Hazel studied Colette’s face. “You seem to be all right.”

  Colette gulped. She doesn’t remember what she did. She opened her mouth to tell her, then paused. Something—it was me—warned her not to do so.

  “You know me,” Colette said lightly, though it killed her. “Always the lucky one.”

  “Figures.” Hazel grinned. “Well, what hit me?”

  “Broken glass,” Colette said. “Like shrapnel. Your body was badly cut. You bled a great deal.” She pressed Hazel’s hand to her lips. “We thought we’d lost you.”

  Hazel took inventory. She wiggled her fingers. They were there. She wiggled her toes. They were, too. She saw bumps on the bed jostling where feet should be.

  “Did we lose any parts of me?”

  Colette wanted to laugh but didn’t allow it. Apparently they hadn’t lost Hazel’s humor.

  “They operated,” Colette said, “to remove the glass and stop your bleeding. The doctors said it’s a wonder you pulled through.”

  Hazel tried to comprehend all this information. What had she known? What did she remember? Something about piano. Something about a concert hall. A presence, there beside her. Not frightening, but not altogether comfortable, either. Just there, watchful.

  And while all this had happened, she’d nearly died. She’d been carved open on an operating table. Strangers had examined her insides. She shivered.

  “Colette,” Hazel said, “do my parents know?”

  Colette nodded. “It took time, tracking them down. We expect them in a few hours.”

  Hazel gestured for more water, and once more her friend assisted her. She spooned a mouthful of stewed apples between her dry, chapped lips. The patient closed her eyes. These sensations of liquid and food were almost more than she could comprehend.

  “Colette?”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Why can’t I see out of my right eye?”

  A laugh, or a sob, burst from Colette’s lips. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s covered with a bandage. The eye itself is fine, though. That’s what the doctors say.”

  “But it’s covered with a bandage. Why?”

  Tears spilled down Colette’s cheeks. She remembered the terrible sight. Red, and white, and bones where her friend’s lovely face should be.

  “Your cheek was badly cut, chèrie,” whispered Colette. “And your forehead.”

  Hazel’s mind was blessedly dim just then. She couldn’t feel all that she might later feel about this.

  “But your eye was unharmed,” Colette went on hurriedly. “The doctors say it was a miracle. As if someone had covered it for you.”

  “Well.” Hazel took a ragged breath. “If I can ever figure out who it was, I’ll thank them. You can’t buy eyeballs at the store.”

  A shadow fell from the doorway. Colette glanced up, and Hazel, though sluggish, caught on and looked up, too.

  Private James Alderidge stood in the door.

  “Hello, Miss Windicott,” he said. “I’ve been missing you.”

  APHRODITE

  Scars—August 21–September 1, 1918

  COLETTE AND JAMES never told Hazel that she had saved Colette’s life. Heroism is much too heavy a burden to carry. James knew it, and Colette agreed. With a little help from me.

  Hazel didn’t need heroic deeds to reconcile herself to her new face. She was alive. She had everyone she loved close by. Ever since her brush with death, many things that seemed to matter once just didn’t anymore.

  Only for James’s sake did the angry red scars carving up the right side of her face cause her any worry. When the bandages came off, James begged to be there, along with her parents and Colette. Hazel was reluctant to let him, but she agreed.

  A nurse gently peeled off the bandages and plaster. Hazel right eye opened and blinked at the unfamiliar light. All the better to see James smiling down at her.

  “Look at you,” he told her.

  “I can’t, unless you’ve brought me a mirror,” she told him tartly. “Please do.”

  He handed her a mirror, and she appraised herself with curiosity.

  “These have healed up better than I might’ve expected,” said the surgeon, examining her scars. “No infection. You’re very lucky.”

  Better than he’d expected? “I look qu
ite horrible,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Compared to how you looked on the train,” said James, “you look remarkably well.”

  “Thank you,” Hazel said. “I think.” She glanced at her parents and saw her mother struggle to keep her composure. Poor Mum.

  “I’m Frankenstein’s monster now,” Hazel told the room. “This will be useful any number of ways. Scaring burglars, warding off evil spirits . . .”

  Mr. and Mrs. Windicott, huddled close together by Hazel’s side, beamed at their girl and poured forth every encouraging word. If they went back to their hostelry that night and wept into their pillows, no one, I believe, will blame them for that.

  * * *

  Aubrey managed to visit one Sunday afternoon. Colette kept his visit a surprise, then paraded him into Hazel’s hospital room, where she sat diligently completing her strengthening exercises.

  “Whatcha been up to, Lady Hazel de la Windicott?”

  Hazel squealed and tried to jump up, but a sharp twinge of pain stopped her. Aubrey swept up the piano girl in an embrace. He knew what she did not about what she’d done on the train, and he would never forget it.

  Aubrey and James met at last. I’m certain they would’ve been friends under any circumstances, but with Hazel and Colette in their lives, they quickly became brothers-in-law, or, if not in law, in truth.

  * * *

  August wore on, and the nights began to cool. Hazel learned she would be dismissed from the hospital the next day.

  James’s current sergeant was a tenderhearted soul, underneath a great deal of bluster. He let his young private visit his injured volunteer girl whenever he could be spared from duty. With the Second Battle of the Marne well behind them now, a great deal of repair and fortification and cleanup work remained to be done, but if a heroic young lady in love with a soldier in his company didn’t deserve comfort and cheer, who did? Private Alderidge wasn’t good for much if he hadn’t gotten his hospital visit in every couple of days.