The Soldier's Girl: A gripping, heartbreaking World War 2 historical novel

by Sharon Maas

  ‘I didn’t find him like that, thank goodness. His secretary did. At the office. He tied a rope around the curtain rail and jumped from the window ledge, into the room. That’s how she found him. At least he didn’t do it at home. Imagine if one of the girls had found him!’

  ‘Awful. Horrible! But why? Do you know the reason? Had you suspected? Did you know he was thinking of suicide? Had he ever tried before, hinted that he wanted to end his life?’

  ‘Not a word, Margaux, not a single word! That’s the very worst of it. He never let it show, never hinted that he had a problem. He was always the wonderful husband and father to me and the girls. It was out of the blue. The girls were devastated. And so was I. I never… I never…’

  The tears came then, and she faltered. Margaux reached out and took her hand. She sipped at her wine. It was delicious. Liquid gold, Margaux had said, and indeed it was.

  ‘I never imagined he could do such a thing to us. He loved us, loved us all. We were his whole life, I know it. He adored the girls. We had a good, strong marriage. And all the time he was pretending, pretending everything was fine and life could just go on the way it was. Living the good life in a lovely riverside house in Kingston, a perfect intact family. And it was all a lie.’

  ‘But… but do you know why? Why would he do such a thing? Why would he ruin everything?’

  ‘Because it was already ruined, Margaux. It was all a sham. We were in deep, deep trouble but he never let on. I still don’t understand what exactly it was. You know he was in finance – investment and that sort of thing. And you know me and numbers. I never asked what he did because it was his world and I just don’t get it. I let him get on with it. Signed things he told me to sign. He did things, Margaux; took some big risks. Our money, his clients’ money. He re-mortgaged our lovely house – that was the thing I signed. I suppose he thought he would get it all back. I don’t know what he thought; we never talked about his work or his investments because it all just bores me. Maybe I should have taken more interest, read the papers I signed. But I trusted him. And then, ten days ago, the London Stock Exchange crashed. We lost everything, Margaux, everything. The house, everything. I suppose he couldn’t handle it.’

  ‘So he just left you to deal with it! That makes me so angry!’

  ‘It makes me angry too but in a way I understand. Apparently, so I’m told, there wasn’t a solution. He was ruined. We were ruined. No way out. So he chose this way. Thankfully, apart from losing the house, I’m not compromised. He made sure of that.’

  ‘Did he at least leave a note? Apologise? Explain?’

  Kathleen took another sip and nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, he did. He did say sorry, and that it was the only way out he could see. He told me to go and live with his mother. His mother! Ha!’

  ‘I remember you told me you can’t stand her!’

  ‘But only because she hates me. She’s a bitch.’

  ‘How could anyone hate you? You’re the nicest person I know!’

  ‘It’s not so much me she hates but my background. You know my mother’s half-Jewish. She’s Austrian, and she and my dad fell in love and he whisked her off to British Guiana to live on a sugar plantation. That’s where I grew up. So those are two strikes against me. Bad blood, bad background. She wanted a different kind of girl for her precious son, her only child. An English thoroughbred, with a perfect English upbringing. I didn’t have that. Growing up on a sugar plantation, in a distant colony – well, even my own grandparents found me too crude, too unpolished, for high society, unable to make a good marriage. That’s why they packed me off to Montrouge. Thank goodness for that, at least. I couldn’t stand living with them either, though I liked them well enough.’

  ‘But how did you end up living with them anyway? Why did you come to England? Why weren’t you with your parents?’

  ‘When I was seventeen my mother fell ill. It wasn’t a physical illness. I think she was depressed about some things. A baby died and her husband, my dad… well, it’s a long story, I won’t go into it now. And she was homesick for Austria, winter, snow, and didn’t like the tropics. Anyway, she and everyone thought it best she return to Austria to get better. You heard of someone called Sigmund Freud?’

  ‘The mind-doctor? Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, she went to him to be treated… but anyway she was out of reach for us girls for a few years, and then she went back to British Guiana. She did pass through England on her way back and we do write, but, well, she can’t help. And my father. You know what happened to him. I wrote to you all about it.’

  ‘Yes, convicted of manslaughter!’

  ‘Yes, over in British Guiana. He got life imprisonment which he was supposed to serve in England but he died in prison. So for my dear mother-in-law, that was strike three against me, the last straw. And Mervyn wanted me to go and live with her! Imagine!’

  ‘So where are you going to live then? And what about the financial mess Mervyn left behind? Who’s taking care of that?’

  ‘One of my uncles is a lawyer, Dad’s youngest brother. I put everything in his hands. He’s trustworthy. He’s dealing with the whole chaos, making sure I have nothing to worry about. But also, nothing to go back to. No job. No income. If only I’d taken my education seriously, back then. Got a degree like my teachers encouraged me to!’

  ‘It was just all fun and games, wasn’t it, for us girls? Looking pretty to get a good husband!’

  ‘And I did get a good husband and I was happy enough until it all tumbled down on me.’

  ‘So what will you do? Go and live with your English grandparents?’

  ‘I can’t. They’re old and frail and their eldest son and his family lives with them and they certainly don’t want to take on responsibility for me and the girls.’

  Margaux refilled both of their glasses. ‘Well, what I think is this. First you’ve got to get yourself healed. Recover from the shock. Get back on your feet, emotionally. You shouldn’t have to worry about your future while that is happening. You’ll do that here. You’ll stay with me, for as long as it takes.’

  ‘But – what’ll Jean-Pierre say about that?’

  ‘Jean-Pierre will agree. He agrees with everything I decide. I’m that kind of a woman – very wise. He makes the decisions concerning the business, but domestic decisions? I make those, all of them. And he will agree. And anyway, this is my house and I get to say who can stay here.’

  ‘Oh Margaux! If only! But I don’t want to be a burden. And I’m not quite empty-handed. I do have some jewellery, quite a lot in fact, Mervyn loved buying me jewellery. I’m going to sell it. It’s not enough to keep me and the girls in London forever, but…’

  ‘You’ll stay here. The girls will go to the local school. They will soon be perfect in French – children learn so easily, don’t they?’

  ‘They are both good. And they know German fairly well, too. They had a German governess for a while and I helped them learn. I’m fluent in three languages, you know. Languages are my one skill. And my mother always spoke to us in German.’

  ‘Excellent! French and German are the languages of Alsace. And you will all learn Alcasien, as well, a fourth language! You must now speak more French, become more fluent. It’s something to think about for the future because one day you will be strong and stand on your own two feet and it is good to know many languages. Languages are bridges to whole new worlds and you are fortunate. In the meantime, you’ll stay here. You’re most welcome.’

  ‘I’m thinking, Margaux; maybe, later on, I could be a translator or something? With German, French and English. It’s something to build on, isn’t it?’

  ‘Later. It’s a thought, but a thought that must be saved for the future. In the meantime, you’re here, with me, at long last. And I want to put a smile back on your face.’

  Kathleen’s lips twitched, and she raised her glass.

  ‘I’ll drink to that! S’gilt!’ Margaux raised her own glass; the very chink as their glasses touched seemed to b
e a harbinger of better days to come.

  Chapter 3

  It all happened so quickly. One minute she was in the car with Elena and Mama and Auntie Margaux and the car had come to stop before a big ivy-covered house; the next minute somebody had grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the sunshine. The somebody was a tall girl with long dark hair that was not in neat plaits, like Elena’s, but falling all over her shoulders and even across her face; and the girl was smiling – no, laughing – and once she had scrambled upright on the gravel in the sunshine, feeling a bit dazed, the girl was kissing her on both cheeks and chattering away in French. She understood every word, of course.

  ‘You are Sibyl!’ said the girl. ‘I know it because you are the smaller one. I am Marie-Claire and I am so glad you have come! I’m ten and I’ve been dying to meet you. And you’re Elena and you’re about nine, and I’m so glad to have another girl my age because I am surrounded by boys and boys are so méchant aren’t they! You are lucky to have a sister and not a brother. But they are not so bad, really. This is Leon, and Lucien. Boys, you must be kind to Sibyl because I think she is a little sad.’

  Un peu triste. A little sad! What did this girl, this Marie-Claire, know about sadness, or what was in her, Sibyl’s, heart! She had obviously never known a day of sadness in her life, whereas her own heart was nothing more than a red-hot bundle of pain, a little ball of agony, and she didn’t know what to do about it. Somebody she adored had been ripped out of her life and the pain was devouring her from the inside; she couldn’t even think a proper thought because of it. Papa! Oh, Papa! Where are you? Come back!

  Marie-Claire was still chattering, looking from Elena to her and back again. Obviously, she had taken control of the entire situation, installed herself as leader. ‘… and this is Jacques. He is not our brother but he pretends to be. He is here all the time and he is the most méchant of them all, and the oldest and biggest so he thinks he is the boss but he isn’t, because I am the very oldest. And my little sister Victoire, she is the very youngest. She is only three but she likes to be with us and I take care of her. And Elena! Let me welcome you too, I am so glad you are here! Welcome to Château Gauthier!’

  Victoire had already flung her little arms around Sibyl’s waist, and then the boys were grabbing her hands and grinning; three of them when she had been expecting two. Sibyl didn’t know much about boys. She had encountered few of them in her short life; one or two cousins, Papa’s nephews, but younger than herself. There were no boys at her school in Kingston. It was a girls’ school. Boys were strange creatures, but they couldn’t be all bad because Papa had once been a boy and Papa was the most wonderful man on earth. Had been! Had been! Papa was gone!

  Boys were loud and boisterous; that much she knew and indeed, that was what these three boys were being, very loud and very boisterous, knocking into each other, cuffing each other, bending each other’s limbs backwards (or so it seemed) and loud! Deafening! It sounded even as if they were arguing. What on earth were they speaking? It sounded familiar but she didn’t understand a word of it. It sounded like German, but it definitely wasn’t – Sibyl knew enough German to tell the difference – and were they arguing or not? It sounded like it, and they were almost fighting, it seemed, but laughing at the same time! Boisterous, indeed!

  ‘Leon, Lucien, Jacques! You must speak French now, because we have visitors! Mama said we have to speak French! And you have not greeted Sibyl and Elena properly!’

  Hands were grabbing at hers now, boy-hands, and boy-lips were kissing her cheek, and boy-voices, shrill and loud and incomprehensible, filled the air – it was pandemonium, so much so that she couldn’t even feel that red-hot ball of fire that had replaced her heart.

  Aunt Margaux was speaking now, telling Marie-Claire to take her inside, to their room, and then to show her around the place, and now Marie-Claire had taken her hand and Elena’s and was pulling them away towards the house. The boys were still prancing around and speaking – no, shouting – in that bizarre language. Was it some kind of secret code, like you read about in books? Everyone in France spoke French. That was simply a fact. But these boys seemed to have a language of their own, a boisterous boy-language that nobody else could understand. It wasn’t fair, and they were still hopping around and bouncing off each other and shouting so she could hardly hear Marie-Claire speak. Victoire had taken her other hand and so they entered through the huge heavy front door, into the cool darkness of the house, and then up a staircase – oh! She had forgotten her bag with the books and she needed it because she intended to do a lot of reading in France. Reading was the only thing that stopped the pain or at least kept it in abeyance, at least for a while. A parson had come to visit Mama several times in the last week and he had asked her if there was anything he could bring her and she had said books; and he had brought a whole box full. She had taken her pick, and brought as many as Mama had allowed to France, and she would read them all to dull the pain.

  The boys tumbled backwards up the staircase, ahead of them, behind them, all around them, falling over the banister and still shouting in gobbledygook. Marie-Claire still held her hand but had let go of Elena’s and they walked up together. She liked having that hand in hers. It felt steady and strong, sending a message that said, it’s all right. You are here, I am here; you are in good hands. Everything will be fine. Thought it couldn’t possibly be fine, ever again. Not without Papa.

  ‘This is your room, and Elena’s. Come in, Elena, see, this is your room. I wanted you both to stay in my room, it’s big enough for three beds! But Mama said you would want to be together, at least at first, but later when we become best friends you can move in with me, Elena – and you too, Sibyl! And we will have such fun. I always wanted a sister – I mean, I do have a sister, but I mean a sister my age because those brothers… well! And two of them! And Jacques, who thinks he is a third brother and everyone thinks so too. I am buried in boys so you can’t imagine how happy I am that you have come, you are like two new sisters. And we will go to school together, on Monday, and I will be able to show you off to all my friends and we will have such fun together! Do you like ponies? My friend Amelie who lives not far away, she has a pony of her own and I’m sure she will let you ride him, she let me! Look, I will show you Amelie’s house. It’s not far. Come.’

  Marie-Claire pulled her over to the window and there they stood, all three of them –the boys had momentarily disappeared – gazing out over the valley. And she couldn’t help it; she sighed at the sheer gloriousness of it. Gently rolling hills spread out before her, each one of them covered in the neat rows that she knew were vines, golden-and-green vines, bathed in golden sunshine, rolling away from her in wide undulating folds. Dotted here and there among the hills, a building, a rooftop; and in the distance, a village, a church tower. Clusters of trees, a field of cows. Not a road to be seen, not a car. After the piercing noisy grey streets of London, the stuffy claustrophobia of Grandma’s place, this seemed like – well, like a piece of heaven. She could breathe again – a long, deep breath. And it seemed, though she couldn’t be quite sure, that the searing ache at the centre of her being seemed to heave a huge sigh and release one of the bands that had held her so tightly in the terrible last ten days.

  ‘That is Amelie’s house,’ Marie-Claire said, pointing, but Sibyl hardly heard her; she was too busy breathing in the splendour of the sight spread out before her. And for the first time since arriving, she spoke the one word, the only word, worthy of the vista spread out before her:

  ‘Magnifique!’

  Chapter 4

  The boy they called Jacques was rude. Maybe it was just because he wasn’t a family member and so didn’t feel obliged to greet her and Elena; but mostly because he was the one that insisted on speaking that strange language. While the others at least made an effort to speak French, Jacques spoke stubbornly in that strange tongue and all the others followed suit, except for Marie-Claire. Everything Jacques said or did seemed to cause disruption.
/>
  ‘Where shall we go first?’ Marie-Claire said now. ‘To see Gigi’s puppies, or to the vines? Gigi’s one of our dogs,’ she explained, as if that wasn’t obvious.

  At the word ‘puppies’ Sibyl’s head jerked up, and at ‘dogs’ she smiled fleetingly and a sparkle leapt into her eyes. As far back as she could remember she had begged for a dog, and just as far back Mama had said no. A dog had been the one thing missing in an otherwise perfect life; the one family member whose absence she had felt day and night. Now, of course, it was different.

  Papa! The wail came from deep inside and once again she collapsed internally. Gigi and her pups evaporated, the sparkle in her eyes snuffed out. But Jacques, once again, was shouting something loud and brash in his gibberish, and Marie-Claire arguing back, the two of them in a violent verbal battle. Jacques stormed off, followed by the boys. One moment they were there, in the room with them, the next, Jacques was out the door with Leon and Lucien behind him, thundering down the stairs, while Marie-Claire was still in mid-speech.

  Sibyl turned back to the window, to the view, so that no-one would see the tears gathering in her eyes. Papa! The boys came into view beneath her, racing out the door, across the driveway and disappearing around the corner of a building that looked like a huge stone barn.

  ‘They have gone to see the puppies,’ Marie-Claire said. ‘They are four weeks old and so mignon! Jacques is besotted with them. He thinks he owns them. It is strange because Jacques is such a wild boy and he likes doing wild and naughty things but those puppies – oh la la! He thinks Gigi needs him to help take care of them but she doesn’t. He’s such a nuisance, that Jacques. I was going to take you to see them but now he is there, he’s so bossy about those pups, so I don’t want to go. I will take you to see them later when he’s gone. We can go now to look at the vines. We also have a nanny goat. And two more dogs, but they like to go off to hunt rabbits. They are called Milou and Paris. Come, let’s go. Come, Victoire, take my hand.’