by Ruth Druart
“I knew it! You like her, don’t you? I’ve tried, but she won’t talk to me, even though I speak French.”
“No.” He had to defend her. “She doesn’t talk to me either.”
“Rubbish! I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”
Four days later, he was moved to another ward. This time he had a chair next to his bed. Gratefully he slumped into it. Hobbling from one ward to the next had been exhausting, even though the nurse had taken his arm—maybe because of that. The close proximity, the light brush of her body against his had set his heart thumping hard, as though he’d just run a race.
She looked at him. “I’m going to remove the bandages from your face now.”
He glanced over at her slender hands, imagining them on his skin. “What’s your name?”
“Charlotte.”
“Charlotte,” he couldn’t help repeating. “I’m Jean-Luc.”
“I know.” She grinned, small dimples appearing.
He grinned back, though it tore at his wound. They stared at each other, wide smiles spread across both their faces.
“I’ll try to be gentle.”
“Merci, Charlotte.” He wanted to add that he couldn’t imagine her being any other way, but he knew that would be pushing it.
Crouching down in front of him, she reached out her hand. Her nails were clean and short, and she wore no jewelry. Her hair protruded from the tiny white cap balanced on her head. It was dark and smooth, cut into a bob, the ends curling forward to meet her chin. He closed his eyes, feeling her nails tapping at the edges of the bandage, easing it off his face. He breathed in deeply; a faint lemony smell reached his nostrils. He took another long breath, savoring the smell of her.
“I’m just going to disinfect it now. It might sting.”
He hadn’t even realized she’d removed the bandage. He watched as she took a bottle, tipping it up onto a cotton pad. He couldn’t help recoiling as the hand holding the pad approached him.
A light laugh escaped her lips. “It won’t hurt for long.”
The pain shot through him like a fresh cut, and instinctively he brought his hand up to his cheek. But she was quicker than him and grabbed his wrist before he could touch his skin.
“You mustn’t touch it! You might infect it.” She didn’t release her grip on him straightaway, and without thinking, he twisted his hand around, taking hold of hers.
Chapter Thirteen
Paris, April 12, 1944
JEAN-LUC
There was something about Charlotte that drew Jean-Luc in. As he lay in the hospital bed watching her mop the floor in the central aisle, he wondered what it was. Maybe it was her warm, gentle manner; so natural, so unpretentious, totally unaware of how attractive she was. There were no airs or graces about her, no flickering of eyelashes or fake smiles.
Abruptly she looked up from her mopping. He caught her eye and she smiled—a wide, effortless smile. He smiled back, inclining his head slightly, inviting her to come and talk to him.
He saw her glance around, checking to make sure the matron wasn’t within sight. The coast was clear, and Jean-Luc’s neighbor was under his blankets, facing away, his body rising and falling with his labored but regular breathing. Fast asleep.
“Is everything okay?” Charlotte asked, the smile still playing across her lips.
“Yes, thank you. I just need some company.”
“I can ask if anyone wants to play cards with you.”
“No. Your company.” He saw her cheeks redden and realized what a sheltered upbringing she must have had. “Have you always been a nurse?” He tried to steer the conversation back to where she was comfortable.
“I’m not a nurse,” she replied.
“Oh? You look like one.”
“It’s only because of the war. I was supposed to go to the university to study literature.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “My parents wanted me to work.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s the war.” She paused. “The future isn’t clear, and we’re hungry now. We get extra rations because I’m working here.”
“Yes. That’s understandable. So you enjoy reading then?”
“I love reading.”
“What’s your favorite book?”
“Le Comte de Monte Cristo.”
He smiled. “Alexandre Dumas?”
She nodded. “You’ve read it?”
“Yes, when I was a kid. My dad read it to me. He loved… loves stories. He made bookshelves for me. Every birthday and Christmas he’d give me a book.” He went quiet for a moment, remembering his father, his love of reading. Then he continued. “It’s a great story, isn’t it? Le Comte never gives up.” He felt the gap between himself and the heroes of his childhood widening.
“No.” She paused. “But is it realistic? The way he keeps coming back after each awful thing that happens to him?”
“I don’t know. It makes us dream, though, doesn’t it?”
“Dream of being better than we are?”
As he stared into her eyes, he understood her wish to be better, braver, as if it had been written in black and white. “Yes. He stood strong despite all the cruelty that was thrown at him. I loved Les Trois Mousquetaires when I was a boy. I wanted to be d’Artagnan when I grew up.” He laughed ironically. “And here I am in a German hospital.”
“Have you always worked on the railways?”
“Yes, I’d had enough of school by the time I was fifteen. I was happy to get out and learn a trade.”
“What about your parents? Didn’t they mind?”
He smiled. “No. My father has always worked on the roads, and my mother… well, she looked after us. They were pleased I’d found a job with the SNCF.”
“But now the Germans run the SNCF.”
“Yes.” He saw her glance away and knew she was anxious that the matron would be back, but he didn’t want her to leave. “Yes, the Boches are in charge,” he whispered. “And I shouldn’t have stayed.”
“I shouldn’t be here either.”
He hadn’t meant to make her feel bad. “I think it’s brave of you.”
“What?”
“It takes courage to come in here every day, to see all this pain and suffering. Look around.” He paused. “Most of them are young men, just like me. They’re not the real enemy. The real enemy are the men at the top—the ones who give the orders. And you can bet they won’t end up in the hospital.”
She turned back toward him. “But the rest of them are following, aren’t they?”
“Do you know how much courage it takes to stand up to a system?” He paused, answering his own question. “More than most have got, and I include myself there.”
“And me. I should stop working here.”
“No, don’t do that… well, not until they let me out. You’re the only bright thing in here. You shine out like a—”
“Shh,” she interrupted him. Just then his neighbor turned over in his sleep, coughing.
Charlotte took a step backward and, with one last glance at Jean-Luc, walked briskly away.
Chapter Fourteen
Paris, April 14, 1944
CHARLOTTE
“Charlotte!”
I looked over the table at Mathilde, trying to focus on what she’d just said, but her words had washed right over my head. Instead of listening to her, I’d been thinking about Jean-Luc.
“So what do you think? Should I speak to him?”
I dragged my attention back to Mathilde. Who? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t dare.
“You haven’t been listening to a word, have you?”
I looked around the worn-out café, at the old posters of Edith Piaf and Yves Montand hanging off the peeling walls. “I’m sorry. I was miles away.”
“Obviously! What’s going on? Who are you daydreaming about?”
I felt myself blush. “No one.”
“No one who?” She smiled.
I couldn’t help smiling back. “Just someone I met at the hospital.”
“What? Hôpital Beaujon? A doctor?”
“No.”
She lowered her voice. “Please don’t tell me you’ve fallen for a Boche.”
“Of course not! He’s French.”
“A collabo then?”
“No!” I took a gulp of water from my glass. I was sure he wasn’t a collaborator; it wasn’t his fault he was working on the lines that the Boches now controlled.
“Why was he in a German hospital then?”
“You could ask the same thing of me.” I stared down at the wine and coffee stains on the old wooden table.
“I could, but I know you. I don’t know him.”
I looked up at her. Concern shone through in her eyes. “He works on the railways. He had an accident; he got hit in the face by some track.”
“He’s a railroad worker?” Her tone betrayed her disappointment.
“Yes.” I paused. “I’m not sure he really likes me, though.”
“Charlotte, I wouldn’t worry about it. I can’t see any long-term relationship between you and a railroad worker.”
“Don’t be such a snob!” I kicked her under the table.
“Okay, okay. What does he look like?”
“You are so shallow!” I grinned. “He’s got thick dark hair, parted on the left side.”
“The left side? You are one for details, aren’t you?”
“And he’s got brown eyes… well, not plain brown like mine. There are tiny yellow dots and green darts in them, but from a distance they look brown.”
“You must have got close!”
“Well, I have to take his temperature every day.”
“Does it go up when you’re near him then?” Mathilde giggled.
“Don’t be silly. I just wish I knew if he liked me. He’s probably bored lying there in bed all day. That’s why he talks to me.”
“But Charlotte, why wouldn’t he like you? You’re pretty, intelligent—”
“No, I’m not. I’m skinny and plain.”
“For goodness’ sake, Charlotte. All you need is a bit of makeup, and maybe you could wash your hair.”
“I know. It’s flat and disgusting. Maman only lets me wash it on Sunday evenings. There’s not enough soap.”
“I don’t get your mother. You have a Picasso hanging in your apartment, but you have no soap!”
“Picassos aren’t rationed. Soap is.”
“Your mother won’t use the black market, but she has a forbidden artist’s painting hanging on her wall. Where’s the logic in that?”
“I know, I know. But she has her principles.” I paused. “Solidarity. She thinks we should stick together, and if rations are imposed, they should be the same for the rich as for the poor.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. My mother could be harsh, but she was no harder on me than she was on herself.
“I can get you some soap.” Mathilde paused. “If you want.”
“No, don’t worry.”
“Anyway.” She stretched her legs out under the table. “I’m not sure he’s worth it. He doesn’t sound right for you.”
“He’s really interesting and he asks me lots of questions about myself.”
“He’s just trying to flatter you. Does he talk to the other nurses too?”
“Yes.” My excitement faded. It was true—he did talk to all the nurses. I’d seen him.
Mathilde raised an eyebrow. “There you go.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. I shouldn’t think too much of it.”
“It’s because there are so few men around, Charlotte. It’s not normal, and so when one gives you some attention, you just soak it up.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’ll forget about him.”
“Good.” She leaned over the table, whispering, “The war will be over soon. I can feel it. You’ll meet someone better.”
The waitress stopped at our table. “More ersatz, girls?”
“Non, merci, just some water, please.”
Mathilde glanced up at the poster to my side. “Edith Piaf is playing this weekend. We said we’d go.”
“I know, but I haven’t asked my parents yet. Maman’s been in such a bad mood all week.”
“We can go to the afternoon show. Don’t ask—just tell them you’re going.”
“Okay, okay. I will.”
“And forget about him, all right?”
She didn’t understand that I didn’t want to forget about him, or meet someone else. I hadn’t been able to tell her how easy it was to talk to him, that he was who he was, and I felt I could become more of myself with him. It wasn’t even that he said that much, but he left gaps for me to fill. And he watched me so intently when I talked, as though he wanted to soak up every last little detail about me. I loved his questions; they made me feel like I was discovering myself as much as him. No one before had really bothered to find out my views about anything, and my thoughts came out raw, half formed, but he guided me patiently, taking in every word I uttered. I didn’t care that he was a railroad worker and hadn’t taken any damned exams. I bet he could have passed them if he’d wanted to, but he preferred doing something more practical, more useful.
He felt the same way about the occupation as I did. He didn’t want to be working for the Boches either. We were both trapped in a system, and we needed to find a way out. I was dying to do more for my country, and I knew he was too. I tried to think of things I could do in my own way, things that would be little signs of resistance. I could build them up, step by step, until I found the courage to do something more daring, more dangerous. I could start by folding my Métro ticket into a V shape, then dropping it on the ground, as some people did. So far, I hadn’t risked even that, not since I’d seen a woman get hit over the head for doing it. They’d made her get down on her hands and knees to pick the ticket up and straighten it out again. I’d cringed in embarrassment for her, but now I wished I’d spoken up instead, told her how brave I thought she was.
Chapter Fifteen
Paris, April 17, 1944
CHARLOTTE
All the way through the Edith Piaf concert I thought of Jean-Luc, especially when she sang “On danse sur ma chanson”—“Dancing to My Song.” He made my heart dance, and I couldn’t wait for the weekend to pass so I could see him again.
When I arrived at the hospital on Monday morning, I took the mop and bucket, cleaning down the floor in his ward, just like I did every morning. As I neared his bed, I glanced around, hoping the matron wasn’t watching me. I knew his neighbors would be taken out for physiotherapy sometime in the morning, and I was wondering if I might be able to snatch a few moments with him. As I mopped side to side, I saw the physiotherapy team coming my way. I held my breath as they swanned straight past me. Yes! They were collecting their patients and Jean-Luc wasn’t one of them. I concentrated on the mop in my hand, forcing myself not to look over. When the coast was clear, I moved my mopping away from the central aisle, down toward his bed.
He was sitting in the bedside chair, reading a pamphlet. When he saw me, his eyes lit up. “Sit down for a minute, will you? Please?”
“No! I can’t do that. I have to make your bed.” I put the mop down, moving to the end of the bed, where I concentrated hard on getting all the creases out of the sheet, my hand smoothing out the lines, running backward and forward.
“Charlo-tte.” The way he said my name—slowly, deliberately, hanging on to the “tte” as though he were tasting it—made my heart jump.
“Yes?” I tried my best to sound nonchalant.
“There’s something I want to tell you.”
My hand stopped moving and I looked back at him. The intensity in his eyes burned into me.
“Please, sit down, Charlotte. Just for a minute. There’s no one around right now.”
I slipped onto the side of his bed, perching on the edge, ready to hop up as soon as anyone looked our way.
�
��I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” He spoke softly. “The other day, when you said you shouldn’t be here.” He lowered his voice even more, and I had to lean toward him to hear him. “In a German hospital. You haven’t done anything wrong. You do what you have to do.”
“But it’s true. I shouldn’t be here.”
His eyes turned dark, the specks of light leaving them. “I didn’t want to work for them. It’s myself I’m disappointed in.”
I nodded, quickly glancing around to check no one was near. It was okay; the matron and the other nurses were helping with the physiotherapy.
“I made a promise to my father,” he continued, looking past me as if he were focusing on some distant point. “When he was taken away for STO…”
“In Germany?”
His eyes looked into mine again as he spoke in a monotone. “Yes. They took him away nearly two years ago. When he left, he made me promise to look after my mother.”
I nodded.
“I might not have listened to him, but I felt so bad.”
“Why?”
“I’d had an argument with him just before he left.” He paused. “It was horrible.”
I waited for him to continue.
“I told him we shouldn’t be lying down and taking it from the Boches.” He stopped, wiping his brow. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“No. Go on.” I looked around the ward again, but it was still quiet.
“He was just protecting his family. That was his priority.”
“It’s important to keep your promises. Your father would be proud of you.” I touched his shoulder. “You only did what you thought was right.”
He shook his head. “What’s right has changed, though, hasn’t it? My father didn’t realize how bad things would get. I think he’d rather see me doing something active now. I want him to be proud of me when he comes back.”
I nodded. “I understand. I’m disappointed in myself too.”
“Neither of us should be here.” He stood up from his chair, putting his weight on his good leg.
I stood too, my face so close to his, I could feel his breath on my cheek. It made my skin tingle.