Not to mention how guilty I feel about being afraid that the refugees will bring more trouble to my door. So I chop, and bake, and make excellent food for Gilles to take upstairs to them.
I’m trying.
Dearest Gabriel,
My worst fears came true. Soldiers came in search of the woman and her children. I heard them in the foyer, the sharp sounds of commands barked in German, the clack of their boots in the hall echoing off of the tall ceilings.
I was in the drawing room with Cécile, Gabrielle, and Alice. When Cécile and I heard the clatter from downstairs, we exchanged a look.
I nodded to Cécile, and she scooped up each girl, setting one on each hip, and murmured in a singsong voice as she walked toward the second-floor entrance to the passageway. Amazingly, both girls seemed to think it great fun, rather than an unwanted interruption in their play.
Gilles’s voice echoed off of the ceilings; there was too much of an echo for me to understand what he said, but I knew he was down there. So it was left to me.
First I ducked into my suite and retrieved my diary, which I would not want to be found by soldiers.
With the diary secure, I continued to our visitors.
I made my way to the second floor of the east wing on quiet feet, planning a route in my head. I knew which room Gilles had taken the woman and her children to, so I made my way there. When I stepped through the door, though, I could see no one.
So I spoke up, saying that I was the daughter of the house, that there were soldiers, and that they needed to come with me to safety.
The wardrobe cracked open, and a hand emerged, followed by the full form of the woman. She pulled her daughters out; I picked the youngest up and led them to the servants’ staircase that ran the vertical length of the house. We moved swiftly up the stairs, and then I led them to the entrance to the secret passageway on that floor.
Cécile waited with the girls; her eyes widened for a moment when she saw that I’d brought the woman and her two children.
The children, I should probably mention, were about three and six, the older one a girl and the younger a boy. Though they might have been older; they were nearly skin and bones.
Cécile passed Gabrielle to me; her eyes were red, her face damp, and she’d clearly changed her mind about how much fun she found the entire escapade. I held her close until I felt her body relax, and a moment later shifted her sleeping form in my arms.
Alice, on the other hand, had enjoyed the company of her mother all along, and now felt content to unwind thread from a bobbin.
I tried to lay Gabrielle down on a mattress roll, but she clung to me in her sleep, so I made a comfortable place for myself with one of the mattress rolls and attempted to make conversation with our guests.
The mother’s name is Tovah, her daughter’s name Adina, and her son’s Samuel. They spoke an Alsatian dialect I could only partly understand, but we managed enough to exchange names and for me to tell her that we were as safely hidden away in the chateau as possible.
Hours have passed. Gilles has yet to come.
Dearest Gabriel,
It has been a day, and neither Gilles nor Richard nor my father has come for any of us. The children are restless; Cécile and I have tried to invent simple games—hide-and-seek with the blankets, watching tops spin, simply running from one side of the landing to the other with our hands in the air.
Yes, I feel quite ridiculous, but the alternative—wailing children—is unacceptable. The nights have been cold enough that we are only just warm enough if we huddle together, though Cécile declares it the ideal temperature.
I peered out of the greenhouse windows very carefully. There are two military vehicles parked outside the door, with enough frost on the hood, I believe, for me to think they’ve been there since their arrival.
I fear for Gilles. I fear that I have not told him that I love him. The feelings have been there, but the words have not come. Je t’aime.
Gilles, je t’aime.
I will say the words. I must say them, when I see him.
Dearest Gabriel,
Two days. Today is cold to the point that the children have simply decided to stay together under the blankets.
Dearest Gabriel,
Third day, morning. Cécile and I left the children with Tovah and discussed how long to wait before going to Armand’s cottage.
It’s possible it might no longer be safe to go to Armand’s. We don’t know if they came looking for Tovah here because they’ve already found Armand. So if we didn’t go to his cottage, we wouldn’t know where to go.
And it is winter, and the girls are young.
So for now we stay.
Dearest,
Late last night, Gilles and Richard came through the third-floor entryway after the children were asleep.
They called out quickly so that we would know it was them.
Cécile and Richard embraced, and carried a sleeping Alice to bed.
Gilles placed a kiss on my forehead before taking Tovah, Adina, and Samuel back to the east wing, though he did so with Gabrielle’s arms looped around his neck, her head pressed against his collarbone.
She would not be parted from him until I put her down to bed. Once she was in bed and settled, Gilles and I returned to our room. I could wait no longer—I held him in my arms and kissed him, and said the words I feared I might never be able to say.
He held me close and told me that he knew, but that he appreciated hearing the words. And then he kissed me back, reminding me that we had been apart for far too long.
Dearest,
Germans arrived at the door again. This time, Tante Joséphine rose from her seat in the drawing room. Did you know she speaks fluent German? She does.
The soldiers were on our doorstep with plans to use the chateau for their own purposes. Joséphine marched past Gilles and Father and proceeded to tell the soldiers to leave the property and the chateau in peace. And she continued in such a fashion for several minutes.
I felt certain that she would be arrested or executed on sight. But instead the strangest thing happened: they left.
Richard went to town a week later. According to the locals, the Germans believe that Tante Joséphine must be very well connected in order to speak so forcefully.
She may have connections, but not to any that count. No, it was simply Tante Joséphine being imperious.
But it’s been two weeks, and there have been no new visits from soldiers or attempts to take over the chateau.
To feel safe and warm on a cold wet night, all you really need is soup.
—LAURIE COLWIN
“How much is left?” Sandrine asked Caterina.
Caterina flipped a few pages. “Not much.”
Sandrine reached out her hand. “Let us continue. I will read. Your voice sounds tired.”
Dearest,
The days have been busy; I have not written here in quite some time. Gabrielle is growing. The greenhouse garden is struggling at the moment, but our stores still have enough, and it will be April in two months.
I tried to help with breakfast this morning, but the scent of food cooking turned my stomach. It turned my stomach in such a specific way that I sat down and thought back to the last time I’d had my courses.
I believe I’m expecting. And I never expected to be expecting. For some reason, these past few months with Gilles, it never occurred to me that in this time of war, so many new things might grow—a love for Gilles, and a child.
A child with Gilles.
I love Gilles. Am I ready for a child with him? We haven’t been married for long, and truly married for less. I feel as though I’m turning the pages of my life faster than I can read.
I haven’t told him yet. I haven’t told anyone yet.
That’s probably something I should do.
Dearest,
I told Gilles. A giant, foolish smile spread across his face before he remembered to worry, but I saw it. He’s delighted.
He asked if I knew how far along I was, and I thought about it. The last time I remembered having my time was during the Christmas holidays (of course). Which meant that it’s very likely that we made this child together after I told Gilles I loved him for the first time.
There’s a rightness about that, I think. Perhaps Gilles and I have somehow managed to stumble onto the correct page together.
June 1943
Dearest Gabriel,
Cécile had her baby early this morning, a tiny ruddy little girl. The baby is Suzette—
Sandrine abruptly stopped reading, lifting the diary closer to her face, her eyes running over the text again.
Caterina gasped; Sophie sat up straight.
“What is it?” Letizia asked.
I glanced at Sandrine before answering. “Suzette. She is Sandrine’s younger sister.”
Sandrine couldn’t look away from the diary. “I don’t understand. The rest of the sentence reads, “ ‘She and Alice, Cécile, and Richard make a lovely family tableau.’ ”
I nodded; the pieces had been clacking together in my mind for days. “In the beginning, she wrote that they changed Alice’s name.”
Sandrine closed the book and set it down as though she’d been burned. “That is not possible. How would that be possible? How could— I don’t understand.”
Letizia looked from me to Sandrine, eyes wide. “Sandrine— She is Alice?”
“No,” Sandrine said, her voice sharp. “My parents were Richard and Cécile Caron. There must be…This cannot be.”
My father took the book gently, his hand resting on the cover. “Your parents were Richard and Cécile, of course. But it is possible that they were not your biological parents.”
“People always said how much I looked like my mother— Auguste, you heard them!”
“Oui,” he said. “But your mother and your aunt looked very much alike. And the book does say that Gabriel had darker coloring.”
“Non,” she said, shaking her head with vehemence. “My mother would have told me. She would not have hidden such a thing.”
But we knew that Mireille had hidden as much and more. Was it any stretch to imagine that Cécile might have done the same?
Sandrine stood up. “It is late. I have chores to do. You must excuse me.”
Auguste followed her out of the room with an apologetic wave toward the rest of us. Mireille’s diary remained on the sofa.
None of us dared touch it.
Auguste and Sandrine left the chateau for the day, leaving the rest of us behind, feeling bewildered.
“Is she mad at us?” Chloé asked her mother.
“No, honey,” Sophie answered, smoothing Chloé’s fair blond hair. “She just received a shock—or the possibility of one. She needs some time, but she’s still our Sandrine.”
I wished for Sophie’s confidence. It didn’t help that the weather turned, sending storm clouds our direction. Rain pummeled the windows and winds whipped around the chateau.
So I retreated to the kitchen, opening cans of San Marzano tomatoes and methodically seeding them before roasting them with brown sugar.
I felt a hand at the small of my back, then heard Neil’s voice near my ear. “What are you making?”
“It’s raining,” I said, “and awful outside. And everyone is stressed. I’m making tomato soup and grilled cheese.”
“If I hadn’t already married you,” he said, sweeping my hair from my face, “I would propose just for that.”
“You could propose again,” I told him, my eyes creasing.
“Juliette,” he said, “would you do me the honor of becoming my wife and eating tomato soup and grilled cheese with me?”
I lifted myself up on my toes to kiss him. “Done.”
“Can I help?”
I passed him some shallots to sauté in butter, and within moments the kitchen began to smell truly wonderful. The shallots cooked on the stove while the tomatoes roasted in the oven, and soon enough they were simmering away together.
While the soup cooked, I sliced provolone cheese and white bread, buttering the bread in preparation. Rather than ask who’d be joining us, I planned on feeding everyone. I baked the sandwiches in the oven, flipping them over once to brown on the other side.
The family gathered around the farmhouse table, but the lack of Sandrine’s and Auguste’s presence created an uncomfortable tension. Still, the soup warmed us through, and I chuckled to watch Caterina instruct Letizia on the essential points of dipping her triangle of sandwich into her soup.
Alex and Nico began work on the evening meal, with Damian and me helping with the prep work, and my father alternately giving directions and singing Dean Martin while he stirred a pot of béchamel on the stove.
That was the scene Sandrine and Auguste found upon their return.
I raised a hand in greeting and gave her my easiest smile.
She raised a hand in greeting as well, uncoiling her scarf from her neck before going first to my father. “Je regrette,” she said, holding him in a hug. “I do not know if you were married to my cousin or my sister, but that shouldn’t matter, not really.”
There were hugs all around, followed by gratitude that we had supper well in hand and assurances on our part that we were more than happy to pitch in. There were, after all, six trained chefs among us.
We ate lasagna that night, made from the last of the pasta dough. As the meal wound down, the table grew increasingly quiet.
“Auguste and I brought cake back from town. If I’m going to find out about my biological origins,” she said, “I would like to have cake.”
~ ROASTED TOMATO-BASIL SOUP ~
2 28-ounce cans whole tomatoes
3 tablespoons dark brown sugar
4 tablespoons butter
4 large shallots, chopped fine
1 tablespoon tomato paste
Pinch ground allspice
1¾ cups chicken stock
½ cup cream
¼ teaspoon hot sauce
½ cup fresh basil, chopped fine, plus more for garnish
Salt and cracked black pepper to taste
Grated parmesan, to serve
Line a large rimmed baking sheet with two layers of aluminum foil (one heavy-duty layer is fine).
Place a fine-mesh strainer over a large bowl. Pour contents of the first tomato can over the strainer and into a bowl carefully, holding back tomatoes with a spoon or spatula. Press juices through with the back of a spoon, if necessary. Reserve the tomato liquids.
With your hands, carefully open each tomato and push the seeds out and into the strainer. Alternately, you can use a tomato corer/strawberry huller tool to scrape the seeds out. Place each seeded tomato onto the baking sheet in a single layer. Discard the seeds.
Place oven rack in the second to topmost position, and preheat to 450°F before repeating the process with the second can of tomatoes. Sprinkle the brown sugar over the tomatoes. Bake until the tomatoes have grown dark red in color, about 20–30 minutes. Allow them to cool a bit, and then scrape them from the foil into a bowl.
Melt butter over medium heat in a large saucepan or soup pot. Add the minced shallots, tomato paste, and allspice. Sprinkle a bit of salt over the top, and reduce the heat to low. Cover and cook, stirring occasionally, for 8–10 minutes.
Whisk in chicken stock, followed by the tomato juices and roasted tomatoes. Increase heat to medium and bring to a simmer, then simmer on low for about 10 minutes.
Remove soup from heat. Purée soup in batches, or use an immersion blender, until soup is smooth. Add the cream, hot sauce, and basil, taste, and adjust seasonings. Rewarm if necessary. Serve with lots of parmesan cheese.
Kitchen tip: Low-acidity tomatoes make a lower-acidity soup. If the soup seems acidic, temper it with a little extra brown sugar.
Serves 4–6.
My love is pizza shaped. Won’t you have a slice? It’s circular, so there’s enough to go around.
—DORA J. AROD
>
“I can read,” my father said, once everyone had a slice of chocolate cake in hand. “Let me take a turn.” He pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and arranged them on the bridge of his nose. A clearing of the throat, and he began to read.
Our own baby is growing; I’ve been terribly ill much of the time. But the springtime is returning, and Gabrielle seems ever taller.
There are days when my only worry is the war, and when I’m not contemplating the fact that in fields across France, men die and crops rot in the ground—in the moments when Gabrielle laughs and Gilles smiles and I can feel the baby turn—I feel happy again. I used to think I might not feel happy again. Sometimes those moments are short, but for now I cherish them.
So much has changed, but it feels like a moment ago; something will happen, Gabrielle will say something (yes, she has things to say), and I’ll want to tell you. Or I’ll make something in the kitchen and want you to taste it (this was, admittedly, well before the pregnancy), and the fact that I can’t share something with you takes my breath away.
July 1943
My father paused in his reading. “There is another date here, but it seems significant.”
Dearest Gabriel,
One year ago, you were killed by soldiers in an alleyway.
I sat by your grave today, cross legged on the ground. For several moments, I felt like the most disloyal widow, sitting there carrying another man’s baby in my womb, one of our own daughters settled in a new family.
My heart feels split in two. I feel disloyal to you if I feel happy, and disloyal to Gilles if I feel sad. There are days when I wish life hadn’t happened so swiftly.
And then I tick back over the last year…and I wouldn’t have done anything differently. The decisions I made, we made—they protected the girls. And then I fell in love with the man who stepped forward to protect them, and protect me. This baby nestled inside of me is the natural product of that.
Together at the Table Page 29