by Phillip Rock
“You might solve yourself right into big trouble. . . . For sedition in France, for which you could be shot, and for violations of the Defense of the Realm Act in England. Which could land you in the pokey for the rest of the war . . . fifty years, the way things are going. I’d think twice about this if I were you, Jacob.”
“I’ve thought a thousand times about it. My mind is made up . . . calm, cool, aware of all dangers, but also aware of the rewards. If I can cause just one person to stop singing ‘Rule Britannia!’ or the ‘Marseillaise’ every time they read an official communiqué from the front, and to begin thinking about this war—to truly ponder the cost of this insanity—then going to jail would be a pleasure.”
“And you want some articles from me—is that what brought you here, Jacob?”
“Yes and no. Yes, I want some articles, unsigned of course, and, no, I didn’t come just to mine your experiences. I need a quiet place to stay for a while and I value your company.”
“I value yours, Jacob . . . and your friendship. I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I encouraged you in this idea. You know, the cost of the Somme offensive has been pretty much tallied up. England lost four hundred thousand men there in four and a half months—nearly half a million dead, wounded, or missing for six miles of ground. People want something for that price, Jacob. That’s why they believe the official reports that tell them it was worth it . . . that something great was accomplished there . . . that the sacrifice had meaning. They’ll only reject the truth because it’s too damn painful to swallow. No one can stop this war . . . certainly public opinion won’t. It has a life of its own now, like some runaway locomotive. Only one side or the other caving in will stop it. Only victory with a fat capital V will stop it. You’re just crying in the wind with this newspaper of yours.”
Jacob stood up with a sigh and stretched his arms above his head.
“I surrender to your logic, Martin. I know you’re right, but I enjoy crying in the wind on the off-chance that I might just be heard. No, I’ll put out a paper and it’ll be a damn good one.”
“So Jacob the iconoclast has finally found a cause to believe in.”
Jacob clenched his hands behind his back and walked over to one of the windows. He looked at the neatly trimmed hedges in the garden, which were white with frost.
“Only partially, Martin. There’s a side of me that just enjoys running the wrong way in crowds . . . another side that wants passionately to do something in life that has lasting value. Perhaps I was born to lead an army of pacifists. Perhaps not. I shall soon find out. Now then, to more immediate concerns. Where is this pantry of yours and how good’s the champagne?”
Madame Lucille of the Croix Rouge was a woman of many objections, and she was not afraid to voice any of them. She objected to visitors, let alone guests, and she objected to the consumption of spirits, the smoking of cigars and cigarettes, and the letting in of fresh air. She also objected to Martin’s objections to the food that was served him. Martin had hired a cook-housekeeper who had been recommended by the mayor of St. Germain for her gastronomic skills, but he had yet to see any of her cooking; all he got was gruel, a watery barley soup, and plain boiled chicken. When he demanded that a couple of ducks be roasted, along with potatoes, to celebrate his guest’s arrival, Madame Lucille declared that she could no longer be responsible for the health of her patient.
“Good,” Martin said, “that’s fine with me. Goodbye.” And that was that.
“What are you going to do for nursing care?” Jacob asked as he carved the ducks.
“Hell, I don’t really need nursing care. I get around okay, and the wound on my hip may look ugly as sin, but it’s healed. What I need is strength—roast duck . . . roast lamb . . . mutton chops . . . pork chops . . . ham and eggs . . . a liter or two of Burgundy and ten good cigars a day. Anyway, I’ve got a nurse coming to see me in about a week when she gets her leave. Army nurse. . . . You remember her—Ivy Thaxton. You met her at the flat in London a couple of times.”
“Slender dark-haired girl with violet eyes?”
“That’s the one.”
“Not my type. Too fresh and virginal.”
“That’s because she is virginal . . . not like the flappers you race after.”
Jacob raised an eyebrow and carved the breast. “Flappers? Right up to date with your slang, aren’t you?”
“I keep up with the language. It’s my job.”
“Is she going to spend her leave here?”
“I’m going to do my best to talk her into it.”
“Ah.”
“What the hell does ‘ah’ mean?”
“Ah means ah. In this case, it means I’ll move into that inn down the road while she’s here. Three, old boy, is a crowd—although not always to the French.”
She arrived four days before Christmas, on the morning train from Rouen to Paris, and walked the three kilometers from the station to the house, her leather carrying bag slung over one shoulder. Martin, watching for her through the drawing room windows, came out to meet her on the path, walking stiffly with two canes, concealing the pain in his hip with a gritted-teeth grimace. Jacob stood a step behind him, ready to catch his friend should he stumble.
“Why didn’t you take a taxi?” Martin called out. “You shouldn’t have walked.”
“I love to walk!” Ivy shouted as she came down the long gravel path from the tree-lined road. “And it was only a mile or two.” She stopped in front of him, smiling, brushing a strand of black hair from her forehead. “Oh, my, look at you, the wounded warrior.”
“Just a shell-scratched scribe,” Martin said. He looked her up and down, forgetting the pain in his hip at the sight of her. “Gosh, but you’re a tonic, Ivy. Do you remember Jacob?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, holding out her hand. “How are you, Mr. Golden?”
“Jacob,” he corrected. “Only my enemies call me Mr. Golden. Let me take your bag while you help this Boswell of the Somme back to his sofa.”
Ivy wandered about the house while the cook prepared lunch. She looked at everything in silent wonder and then sat in a chair next to the couch where Martin half-reclined, his legs propped up on a pillow.
“It’s a beautiful house, Martin.”
“I’ve never seen the upstairs. Not worth the pain of climbing up there.”
“Don’t tell me you sleep on the couch?”
“There’s a small room off the hall with a bed in it and a kind of trapeze bar above it so I can lift myself in and out without any trouble.”
“You didn’t leave the hospital too soon, did you?”
“No. And, anyway, they needed the bed. They had cases in the hallways . . . on cots.”
She stood up and held out her hands to him. “Come on, up you get. I want you on the bed with your trousers down.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I want to take a look at your wound.”
“It’s okay,” he protested. “Coming along just fine. A surgeon from Harvard—American volunteer group—did the operation. Good man.”
“Well, he’s not here to examine it, is he? Do as you’re told, please.”
He led the way into the bedroom, lay on the bed, and glowered at the ceiling as Ivy took down his pants. The red weal traversed the right hip and dipped down across the upper thigh so there was no question of trying to cover anything. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as her gentle fingers traced the scar.
“No inflammation,” she said. “You’re a lucky man, Martin. You missed emasculation by an inch.”
“I know,” he said thickly.
“Do you have any unguent? It looks puckered and must itch badly.”
“I itch all over.”
“You do?” She ran her hand with professional sureness across his belly. “Odd. Your skin doesn’t feel dry.”
“It’s not my skin, Ivy. I sort of itch inside. A visceral burning. It’s called ‘yearning for Ivy Thaxton disease’ and it’s curable.”
He did so gratefully, letting his breath out through his mouth.
“This is a hell of a time to propose, Ivy, but I wish you’d reconsider the whole thing . . . look at it from my point of view. I wouldn’t expect you to quit the nurse corps any more than you’d expect me to give up reporting the war, but, I mean, you do have two weeks of leave, and two weeks of happiness isn’t a bad deal in these times. Anyway, I only ask you to give it some thought . . . weigh it up . . . examine all the angles.”
“I made up my mind when I wrote you last week. It wasn’t an easy decision to reach.”
“Oh,” he said, his tone hollow, “I guess not.”
“But if you really want to take on the obligation of having a wife—”
The trapeze bar clanged as his hands gripped it. “Oh, boy, do I!” He pulled himself upward, shouting for Jacob.
“What’s the commotion?” Jacob asked, peering around the edge of the door. “The girl assaulting you?”
“Call for a taxi! Alert the mayor that he’s got a wedding to perform!”
“Congratulations. And now you know what ‘ah’ means. I’ll walk down to the inn and see if there’s a car there. The telephone’s on the fritz.”
“We’ll all go,” Martin said, easing his legs off the bed. “There’s a wheelchair in the hall closet and it’s downhill all the way. Come on, Jacob, don’t just stand there!”
“Impetuous rascal, aren’t you?”
“Will it be legal?” Ivy asked, looking worried.
“Of course it’s legal! What kind of a guy do you take me for? Monsieur le Maire can marry anyone . . . like a ship’s captain. We can always have a church ceremony one day, Ivy, if you’d like that.”
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I don’t care, Martin . . . just so long as I can write Mum and Da with a clear conscience.”
There was no car at the inn, but there was also no lack of strong backs willing to push le bon Américain into St. Germain, especially for such a purpose. Bride and best man walked beside the chair as two stable hands pushed Martin at a brisk pace down the center of the road and into town. After a brief ceremony in the lobby of the city hall, the mayor drove them back to the house in his wheezing Renault.
“I am happy.” Martin sighed. “Drunk with joy.”
“And champagne.”
“ ‘Fill every glass, for wine inspires us . . . and fires us with courage, love and joy. . . . ’ The Beggar’s Opera. There’s more to it—something about women being the most desirable things on earth. But only one woman, Ivy.”
Later, after they had all gone, she sat beside him on the bed in her army-issue nightgown, plaiting her hair into braids. He reached out, brushed her hands away, and began to loosen the neat coils.
“I like your hair long and loose. You’re very beautiful, Mrs. Rilke.”
“And a bit drab-looking. I never imagined I’d spend my wedding night in a flannel shift with the initials of Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service embroidered on the hem.”
“I’ll buy you a dozen silk gowns tomorrow. They say there are some fine shops in Saint Germain. . . . Or we’ll go into Paris—shop, then spend the night in the best suite at the Crillon.”
“Hush now. We’re in our own house. What could be better than that?”
She stood up and blew out the lamps.
“Sorry about the electricity,” he said, “but we get none after eight at night. Power shortage.”
“There was a permanent power shortage in my home. I like lamps.”
She moved around the bed in the darkness and after a moment slipped in beside him. The flannel gown was gone and her body was cool and fragrant beside him. He attempted to turn toward her, but let out a groan and lay back.
“Damn the Boche,” he muttered.
“Shush,” she whispered. “No bad thoughts. If you hadn’t been hit by a shell, you might be in China now, or Mesopotamia, or some other far-off place, and not lying beside me.” She undid his pajamas and rested her head against his chest. “Your heart’s a trifle fast.”
“A trifle? It’s trying to hammer its way through my ribs.”
“And your breath is shallow.”
“It’s a wonder I can breathe at all. If you only knew what I’m going through right now. I was a fool to marry you until I was capable of doing handstands . . . and jumping fences . . . and . . . Well . . . lots of other things.”
She burrowed closer to him.
“You can hold me, Martin. Hold me very tightly.”
“Sure,” he said thickly. “Sure can.” He folded his arms about her, his hands gliding up and down. “Velvet, pure velvet . . . the most wonderful body on earth.”
“All Norfolk girls have good bodies.”
“Gosh,” he whispered, “what a place that must be if they’re half as wonderful as yours.”
“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t measure up, that’s why they chucked me out. I shall never take you there to see the women they kept.”
“God, but I love you, Ivy.”
She sat up, her body slender and pale as ivory in the moonlight.
“Will you mind terribly if I discard maidenly modesty, but there’s no point in our pining away if we don’t have to. I mean to say, I am a nurse, so if you will just move your good leg—your left leg—as far to the side as you can. . . .”
“Is this going to hurt?”
“I’m supposed to ask that, Martin, not you. . . . No . . . it won’t hurt a bit if you keep your right leg very, very still. . . . And I shall just . . . shift my left leg . . . like this . . . and . . . raise up a bit . . . and . . . and . . .”
“Oh, Ivy! God! You’re a wonder. . . . You’re—”
“No . . . ! Please, Martin . . . don’t say anything. . . . Don’t say a word.”
Jacob cut a small pine tree and dragged it through the snow. It had been the first real snowfall of the winter—soft, wet flakes drifting from the gray sky. Ivy helped him to get the tree into the house and set the sap-dripping trunk into a wood keg filled with sandy soil. They decorated the branches with whatever bright ornaments they could find—strips of red and yellow cloth, tiny silver teaspoons tied on with thread, holly berries from a bush in the garden, tin foil from cigarettes.
“A quite acceptable tree,” Jacob said.
“I think it’s beautiful. If we had some tiny candles to place on the branches . . .”
“We could burn the house down.”
“Yes,” she sighed, “I suppose you’re right.” She glanced at the mantel clock. “I’ll wake Martin from his nap. He’ll be ever so surprised.”
“Let him sleep a bit longer. He’s a lucky man having you to wake up to.”
“Thank you, Jacob. That was a nice thing to say.”
“I mean it sincerely. Tell me, Ivy, do you know about me?”
“Your being a pacifist, you mean? Yes, Martin told me.”
“I hope you don’t despise me for it.”
“Despise you?” She smiled bitterly. “I’ve had two full years of seeing what war does to men. There are no saber rattlers in the medical services, Jacob . . . and no enemies. We treat a German’s pain the same as an Englishman’s. There hasn’t been a night when I haven’t prayed that the war would be over when I woke in the morning. I don’t know very much about politics . . . or the balance of power . . . or any of those things. . . . But I do know the terror a man feels when he comes out of the ether and realizes his legs are gone. God in heaven, Jacob . . . how could I despise you?”
“Thank you.” He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. “Merry Christmas, Ivy.”
The House, January 2, 1917
Observations and Reflections. The House—our House. My present to Ivy. Gerard Dupont drove out from Paris in his limousine and we signed the
papers in the drawing room. M. Dupont casting uneasy glances toward the windows, expecting to see German infantry emerge from the woods before he had my check in hand. The price for house and two acres of land is ridiculously low, but Dupont is more than happy at the deal. He views the Allied line from Arras to Reims as a sheet of glass about to be hit by an iron Teuton fist. Snow is thick on the ground, but M. Dupont remembers that the German hordes struck at Verdun in the dead of winter. “I shall be leaving for Geneva in a day or two,” M. Dupont says. “For my health.” I feel sure that, win or lose, M. Dupont will survive the war with all his assets intact.
January 3.
I was able today to mount the stairs with no problem—except spasms of intense pain, which I stoically ignored. Two fine bedrooms upstairs, one room empty, the other partially furnished. I sat down on the bed to ease my leg and Ivy sat beside me. We made love, she protesting at first that making love in the middle of the day is wicked. Pale sun through large windows. Is there anything more lovely than her body tinged with such a light? If there is, I’ll take an option on it, as Uncle Paul would say. Silent, reflective exhaustion afterward. How fragile we are naked. Distant thunder growled and bumped along the horizon, making us both think of the Somme barrage. Had we been lying here between July and November, it might well have been the guns we heard, but the Somme battles are bogged down in mud, snow, and freezing rain, the armies more exhausted than spent lovers could ever hope to be. Still, the sound was sobering. She goes back to Rouen tomorrow for reassignment, most probably to All Souls in London—which is how my luck runs. Still, I’ll be able to wangle a trip to Blighty every month or so and we can use Jacob’s flat. I know now what Sherman meant when he said war was hell.
Major Charles Greville studied the list placed on his desk by the adjutant. The names of the living and the names of the dead. Few of the names were familiar to him—the battalion had received far too many replacements for that. Names without faces: Jenkins, A. P.; Johns, D. R.; Johns, L.; Johnson, R.