Unmentionables

by Laurie Loewenstein

  A flock of little girls, all gripping black shawls tightly under their chins, ran out.

  “Bonjour, les filles!” Nezzie called. “Hello, girls! Good to see you.”

  Most wore torn lisle stockings over sparrow legs, although some, Marian noted with a wince, had no stockings at all. The truck rolled to a stop and she yanked the hand brake as the children crowded around.

  “What do you have today?” one called out.

  Marian guessed that they were expecting the unit’s traveling store, and not a load of scratchy woolen blankets. Once a week the truck was outfitted like a peddler’s cart with bins of notions, lengths of cloth, soap, fascinators, sabots, and a brass band of tinware clanking from its sides.

  Nezzie was rooting in the leather satchel at her feet, complaining loudly, “Where did I put the sewing kits?”

  Another child jumped on the running board, her wind-chafed face serious. “Great Uncle says I may buy galoshes if you have them.”

  Nezzie leaned out the window. “I’m sorry, but we are not bringing the store today, mes filles, but I promise to make sure you get your galoshes.”

  When Marian had first arrived, she thought the villagers, who all seemed in search of galoshes to cope with the region’s famously gummy mud, were asking for the filmy rubbers that American businessmen snapped over their shoes on rainy days. She soon learned that in Picardy, galoshes had patterned leather tops and cloglike wooden soles. More importantly, Picardy’s galoshes differed from the all-wooden style worn in Brittany. This had become an issue when Marian pulled into the tiny crossroads of Ham with Brittany-style footwear, a mistake on the part of the regional Red Cross supply station, and hadn’t been able to give away a single pair because the villagers refused to change styles. Remembering this, she thought of the fraternal pins on Deuce’s lapels, authenticating him as a native Emporian in good standing. She smiled. Funny how important little things like that could be.

  Nezzie returned to her excavations and at last pulled several paper packets of needles and cards of thread from her bag. “Ah hah! Sewing kits for all!” she shouted and was met with squeals of delight. “Merci, madame,” the children exclaimed before running off toward what now passed for their homes—barns, partially ruined cottages, cellar-ways with improvised roofs, chicken coops. It was really too cold to be out in the open. And who was there to greet them when they eagerly rushed in with their prizes? Very likely an ancient grandmother or crippled uncle, for Canizy, like all Picardy’s villages formerly occupied by the Germans, was a town of the very young and the very old.

  Nezzie pulled on her worsted mittens and tugged the scarf over her mouth. “I’ll find Old Lalonde. Be right back.” She hopped from the truck, trotting toward a barn from which issued a rag of smoke.

  * * *

  Old Lalonde was Canizy’s acting mayor. A man of at least sixty, with the narrow eyes and leathery jowls of a pelican, he served in place of the official mayor who had been sent as forced labor to Germany. Avec les boches, as the villagers said. The Fielding Unit depended on the charcoal maker’s immaculately penned lists of the hamlet’s households, which included the names and ages of each inhabitant, to ensure an equitable distribution of Red Cross supplies. The Fielding Unit’s director was constantly harping on the diplomacy needed to tiptoe around the village families, most of whom were members of interrelated clans mired in ancient blood feuds. Not so different from what I saw in Emporia, Marian thought.

  A bony dog emerged from under an overturned and wheelless wheelbarrow, tentatively sniffing the air. Something about the color of its coat, or maybe the shape of its head, reminded Marian of Deuce’s dog. What was its name? She could see it following them around the newsroom. This French dog was obviously starving; the span between its rib cage and hips shriveled against its spine. Marian dug into the pocket of her overcoat, hoping to unearth a crust of bread. Nothing. With effort, she leaned over, bumping her head against the gearshift, to check under the seat. There was a great deal of dried mud, a crumpled piece of paper that turned out to be a work order, and—what luck!—a withered apple. Grunting, Marian pulled herself upright. But the dog was gone.

  Old Lalonde and Nezzie were striding toward the truck.

  “I must check the quality of the blankets,” he was saying. “If they are lightweight, each individual should receive two. That is only fair, no?”

  Nezzie, trotting slightly behind, widened her eyes. An airplane passed overhead, and Marian tensed until she saw the red and blue of the Union Jack on its canvas wings.

  The entire process took well over an hour. The acting mayor fingered the blankets and contemplated his lists. He argued with Nezzie when she contended that a family of three who shared a bed should get three blankets, not one as he insisted. Finally, he yanked the clapper of the church bell mounted on a pole beside the tumbled sanctuary walls. The response to the call was prompt. Two ancients, weighed down under an assortment of skirts, undervests, topcoats, capes, and open-work shawls, approached. From a partially collapsed garden shed, a woman shepherded three young children toward the mayor, who was forming a line with an excess of hand waving and shouting, the pouch beneath his chin swaying. Two older men, one missing a leg and leaning heavily on an improvised crutch, the other with a cap sitting atop a bandaged head, took their places. Soon the tattered line stretched halfway down the street. Old Lalonde made various tick marks beside their names as each stepped forward to receive blankets. Many of the women insisted on inspecting the closeness of the weave and the tightness of the binding, as if considering a purchase from a fine shop.

  After the last patron was served, Old Lalonde hurried off to make a permanent record of the disposition of woolen blankets on this, the sixth of January 1918, to thirty-seven residents—all that remained of the one hundred households in Canizy, in the région of Picardy. Tucked under his arm were two blankets, rolled together so as to appear as one.

  Marian settled her rump onto the running board, wishing away the ache in her back and shoulders while Nezzie racketed around the back of the truck, reordering the tumbled stacks of their remaining stock.

  “We’ve enough for our other stops.”

  Groaning, Marian pushed herself to her feet. With effort, she flipped up the engine cover to retard the spark, glancing up to scan the sky for telltale silver glints, but there were none. An old man, bundled thickly in brown serge, a crisscross of scarves, and a leather satchel slung across his back, wavered past on a bicycle. The downward stroke of his galoshes was so erratic that it seemed as if he might topple over. He rolled to a stop in front of a substantial home that was now broken open like a smashed bird’s egg. The roof and one entire side had been torn away, leaving only a low addition intact. The lintel remained but the door was missing. After knocking twice on the empty casement, the man laboriously swung the bag to his hip and began thumbing through its contents. The mistress of the house emerged, wiping her hands on her apron and talking to the postman in an animated fashion. For a moment, Marian thought she was hallucinating. But no, the creak of the leather satchel, the faint tang of wood ash, was real enough. The pair was acting as if this were a regular, tranquil summer morning, rather than frigid winter in the middle of a cataclysmic war. As if the backyard gardens were embowered with spiky hollyhocks rather than muddy excavations left behind by soldiers searching for buried caches of coins. As if this were Emporia in August instead of smashed and gutted Canizy, fifteen miles from the front, with the constant threat of bombs dropping from above. She thought of the last time she’d seen Emporia. Deuce standing in the driveway as she drove away. I’ve done nothing but drive away, run away, all my life, she thought. She sighed heavily.

  Nezzie abruptly slammed the truck’s back door, thrusting Marian back into the present. She hurriedly dabbed her eyes with the edge of a scarf.

  “That went fairly smoothly, don’t you think?” Nezzie said breathlessly.

  Marian nodded. “Where to next?” she asked dully.

  �
�Nesle. But really, I’d say we make a first-rate team.”

  The warmth of Nezzie’s voice caught Marian by surprise. She brightened.

  Nezzie tamped the end of a fresh cigarette against the dashboard. In an exaggerated British accent, she added, “Onward, my good woman!” Her nose and cheeks glowed as the match flared. “Want a puff?”

  And yes, Marian did.

  * * *

  They had handed out the last of the blankets and were heading back to the château, as washes of lavender tinted the evening sky. It had been a long day but the near-empty truck rattled satisfactorily.

  Nezzie spoke after several minutes of companionable silence. “I know who you are.”

  “What?”

  “I know who you are. I’ve read your articles about dress reform and all that. I think you’ve done a lot of good. Most girls my age don’t wear corsets anymore—and it isn’t only because of the steel ration.”

  “Humpf,” Marian puffed. “It doesn’t seem all that important compared to this.” She swept her hand across the view, taking in the empty truck, the scarred fields.

  “I disagree.” Nezzie yawned heavily. “Excuse me. I’m bushed. Mind if I grab a quick nap?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re not drowsy?”

  Marian shook her head.

  “You know the way?”

  Nezzie curled against the far door, tucking up her boots, pulling the red tam low on her forehead. She shut her eyes. A few early stars broke out in the silent sky. Marian thought of the blankets tucked around sleeping children back in the darkening villages.

  They were about six miles from the château when the far horizon erupted in a violent spurt of rhythmically pounding trench mortars. A scrim of reds and yellows dropped across the sky. The noise, even from this distance, was concussive. Marian’s fingers clamped rigidly around the steering wheel. Nezzie, her head bobbing against the window frame, opened her eyes briefly and then shut them again. Steady, old girl, Marian thought, pushing well back in the seat and straightening her arms. They jolted on, past roadside stumps that looked like so many black coal scuttles.

  After a time the road narrowed, then dipped below the fields so that the flares to the east were briefly veiled. Marian exhaled heavily. The sounds of the explosions were muffled. The truck rattled over a set of railroad tracks. A thin buzz, barely noticeable, quivered at the horizon. Over the course of a few minutes the drone slid into a steady hum. The sound grew louder, separating into the rumbling dip and surge of a powerful airplane motor. Suddenly a piercing whine descended through the night sky and exploded into light and ear-shattering noise only a dozen yards from the truck. A furious black fountain of earth surged through the open windows. Gravel and frozen clods of dirt rained down on the two women. Nezzie’s lips worked frantically but her words were drowned out by the terrific noise of the blast that was slamming against Marian’s ears. The truck tipped onto two wheels, smashing Marian against the door, before it righted itself and rocketed forward into the blackness. Stunned and half-blinded by debris, she wrenched the steering wheel toward what she prayed was the road.

  Then came the dreadful whine of a second bomb cutting through the darkness. Closer this time. The force of the blast sent the truck spinning. Jerky patterns of dazzling radiance and blackness skittered past, as if someone were madly flicking a spotlight, on, off, on, off. A corner of the roof ripped open, pouring dirt and jagged shards of metal into the cab. Marian, fighting the urge to duck, locked her elbows and drove on, hoping to get away from the railroad tracks. Her right leg was shaking so violently it threatened to jolt off the gas pedal. She glanced at the passenger seat. Empty. Oh God. Where’s Nezzie? She must have been thrown from the truck.

  Marian raised her foot to jam on the brake when something rammed brutally into the truck’s radiator. A direct hit, Marian thought frantically. Her bowels let loose. There was a wetness, a stink. A heavy thud of collapsing metal was accompanied by the smash of breaking glass. She jolted violently forward then backward, cracking her knee against the dashboard. Although her thoughts were scrambled, she was aware that the third bomb hadn’t detonated—yet. But it will, she thought. It will. She twisted toward the door but the steering column had been knocked cockeyed, pinning her in place. Marian’s heart thudded wildly. She squeezed her hands under the steering wheel, trying to push it forward. No go.

  Suddenly, a fierce hissing erupted near the grille. I’m going to die here, she thought. Blown into a thousand pieces in the middle of nowhere. Far away the trenches flared to life, momentarily illuminating a snow-covered field, white and uneven, stretching just beyond her reach. Jeannette Bellman’s tangled white bedclothes flew into her mind—the girl’s eyes glowing feverishly in the pinched, pale face. I’ve got to get out. Nezzie was lying somewhere close by, severely injured . . . or worse.

  Marian shoved her hand inside her coat, touching Deuce’s letter before pushing on the steering column with all her strength. This time it shifted incrementally. She tried to slide out but couldn’t quite make it. The hissing roared louder. She pushed again and this time broke free, stumbling out of the cab. She bent over, hands on knees, catching her breath, but nothing could slow her racing heart. She straightened and ran down the road, eyes straining for a dark, crumpled heap. Suddenly the hissing gave out. Marian dived into a snow-filled drainage ditch, covering her head.

  Nothing. After several unbearable seconds Marian rolled onto her back. The cold sky was sprinkled with stars. Maybe it had been a dud.

  Marian rose stiffly to her feet, shuffling then trotting down the road. A low shape huddled not far ahead. Oh Lord! But it was only a boulder. A few large snowflakes fell, quickly followed by more. Clouds inflated like spongy balloons across the clear expanse of sky. Snow clotted her eyelashes. There was a dim glimmer up ahead that must be the railroad tracks and, before that, a smudge. Had it stirred?

  “Nezzie!” she yelled. It was hard to tell in the half-light if the sooty form was moving, but yes, it seemed to be. Marian ran, seeing a body stagger to its feet, a flash of red across the forehead. “I’m coming!” She stumbled the last few yards, grabbing the young woman. They both collapsed on the road, Marian wheezing heavily.

  “What happened?” Nezzie’s face was as pale as the snow.

  “We were hit,” Marian panted, sat up. “Are you bleeding?” She pressed her fingers against Nezzie’s forehead but felt only the tam’s soft red wool.

  Nezzie closed her eyes. “I don’t know. I was having the most wonderful dream. Roast beef, potatoes, and the most delicious . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Marian yanked off the girl’s hat, her fingers locating a lump the size of a plum at the back of the head. When she pressed it Nezzie yelped.

  “You’ve got to move around. Here, stand up.” Nezzie swayed against her. Snow fell thickly now. Cold crept up through Marian’s boots, freezing the embarrassment that had run down her legs. “We’ve got to get under a tree at least. Something to shelter us. Here.” She shook off the cape topping her greatcoat and put it around the girl’s shoulders. “Do you remember if there were any blankets in the truck?”

  “What?” Nezzie’s voice was drowsy.

  “Blankets?” Marian shouted.

  Nezzie frowned. They floundered down the road. When the gray bulk of the truck loomed, Marian lowered Nezzie to the ground. The girl was quaking violently. Marian stooped to tuck the cape around Nezzie’s knees and pulled the red tam more snugly over her ears.

  The guns to the east were now quiet. A muffled silence pressed down all around. The truck had come to rest facing the tracks. Marian approached cautiously. Something was ticking faintly. Marian’s heart hammered. There probably aren’t any blankets anyway. I’ll crawl in there, get blown to shreds for nothing.

  The dim moonlight filtered through the snow, illuminating a massive shape smashed against the radiator. Marian halted, then slowly tiptoed forward. Only yards away she held her breath . . . but quickly expelled it wi
th a great guffaw. She’d smashed into a colossal stump! Marian’s raucous laugh filled the air. Tears of relief ran down her cheeks. An image of herself mincing up to the splintered stump rose in her mind’s eye and she laughed harder.

  “What’s so funny?” Nezzie’s voice came weakly through the thick snowfall.

  “It’s only a stump. Not a bomb. How stupid. I was sure it was a bomb.” She was giddy with relief.

  She pulled Nezzie up and walked her to the tailgate.

  The cord lines that held the canvas flaps in place at the back of the truck were frozen. Thawing the knots with what seemed the last of her breath, Marian shoved Nezzie inside. She started to climb inside too, but smelled the contents of her bowels on her legs. She bundled snow into a handkerchief, shoved a hand beneath her skirt, and scoured off the mess.

  The wooden flooring of the truck bed was splintered, the canvas walls snapped like storm-riven sails in the stiff wind, a faint odor of kerosene lingered from a previous distribution of lamps. She quickly pulled the rear flaps together and secured them as best she could.

  “We’re all right?” Nezzie asked groggily.

  “Safe and sound.”

  Marian groped toward the toolbox stowed behind the driver’s seat. Among the greasy wrenches, bits of wire, and oily rags was a flashlight.

  “Now we can get our bearings.” When Marian twisted the knob, a beam shone on two blankets left over from the day’s efforts, and Nezzie’s leather satchel that had been tossed backward. Marian unfurled one of the blankets beside Nezzie and lowered her onto it.

  The girl was still shaking violently. Marian covered her with the second blanket and then stripped off one of her own scarves, rolling it up as a pillow and tucking it under Nezzie’s head.