The French War Bride

by Robin Wells

  “Oh, that won’t happen,” I said. “Hitler offered us peace.”

  He made a derisive sound. “He only wants France off high alert so he can catch you unawares. They will attack, you can be sure.”

  Our conversation paused as we entered a shabby café. We sat at a small table by the window and ordered two coffees. “How come you’re so certain Germany will attack?”

  “Because Hitler is ruthless. He wants to conquer the whole world.”

  “No one can conquer the whole world!”

  “Ah, but he thinks he can. That’s what makes him so dangerous. He’s a madman—brilliant, but mad. And because he believes it is doable, he will stop at nothing.”

  It was easy to believe that Hitler could, indeed, be crazy. But that didn’t explain the German army. “How has one madman gotten his entire country to go mad along with him?”

  “It happened slowly, over many years. Germany had a very hard time after the Great War. The Germans were beaten down, defeated, humiliated. He’s offering them a sense of pride and purpose. After years of being the underdog, the Germans are eager to buy the message he’s selling.”

  “Which is?”

  “That they are conquerors, rather than the conquered. That they deserve to be in charge.”

  “Even if they attack, everyone says there’s no way the Germans can get through the Maginot Line,” I said. “France has been fortifying it since the Great War.”

  “I hope you are right, but I fear you are not.”

  “Then why did you come to Paris, if you think France will also be invaded?”

  He took a sip of coffee. “We had nowhere else to go.”

  “Who is we?”

  “My mother and myself. The Germans murdered my father as we were about to leave.”

  It sounded like something that happened in a movie, not something that happened to someone I knew. “Oh, I am so sorry! Why did they kill him?”

  “We are Jewish.”

  He looked at me with those clear, brown eyes, and I sensed he was reading how this news would affect me. I knew little about the Jewish people, other than that the Germans hated them and that my parents sympathized with their plight.

  “So was Jesus,” I said.

  He laughed. “Quite so. The Germans seem to have forgotten that.”

  “Were you there? When your father . . .”

  “Please.” He raised his hand, interrupting me. “I don’t want to discuss this.”

  This was one of the great mysteries that Yvette and I had pondered over and over—what should a girl talk about with boys? Apparently, one shouldn’t pry into sore subjects.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, sincerely chagrined. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

  “It’s okay.” He took a sip of coffee. “So—tell me about your family and your friendship with the Chaussants.”

  So I did. I talked about my mother, my father, and my brothers, and I babbled about my close friendship with Yvette.

  He leaned forward. “Yvette was the one dancing with Herman Beck?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope she has the sense not to see him again.”

  I set down my coffee, rattling the saucer. “Why? Is he one of the spies you warned me about?”

  He spoke in a low tone. “I only know he’s connected to all kinds of unsavory men, and many of them will sell anything—information, stolen goods, people—for the right amount of money.”

  “What do you mean, they will sell people?”

  “Prostitutes. Unsuspecting women. Young girls such as yourself. Sometimes children.”

  “Why?”

  He frowned at me. “You have to ask?”

  I hesitated, not wanting to appear naive, but honestly not sure.

  His mouth tightened. He leaned closer to me and spoke barely above a whisper. “There are men who enjoy inflicting pain, or worse. There are men who want to do depraved things to children.”

  “No,” I breathed. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I had never heard, never thought of such things.

  “I am afraid it is true.” He looked at me. “I can tell from your face that Yvette is planning to meet him. When?”

  “Tonight,” I found myself confessing. “He’s—he’s sending a car for her.”

  “Does she want to have sex with him?”

  Sex? “Of course not!” My face heated. “She wants to dance and flirt and . . . and maybe share a kiss.” Just saying the word kiss embarrassed me.

  “He is not a man to just flirt and kiss. You must tell her not to go.”

  My skin felt as if a cockroach had crawled over it. “But he seemed so nice, so respectful . . .”

  “What do you think evil people look like? They don’t have horns, like devils. They look perfectly normal, perfectly nice—maybe even nicer than average.”

  “Are you certain Herman is evil?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “I only know there are many rumors about him. In my experience, rumors are like flies; whenever they’re buzzing around, they’re usually circling something rotten.”

  “I’ll warn her to stay home tonight.”

  “Do more than warn,” Joshua said. “You must stop her.”

  —

  We quickly finished our coffees, and he walked me to the corner. “This is where I turn.”

  “Can I see you again?” he asked.

  “I would like that very much.”

  “I have class tomorrow afternoon, but the day after, I am free until five. Can you meet me again at the same place, same time?”

  I nodded and leaned in for la bise, but he just stood there awkwardly. I straightened and waggled my fingers. “À bientôt,” I said, and hurried away.

  —

  I went straight to Yvette’s flat. Her mother let me in, and I headed to Yvette’s bedroom, where she was fixing her hair for her rendezvous.

  I quickly told her what Joshua had said.

  She fell on her bed, clutching a pillow to her chest. “Oh, mon Dieu!”

  “You can’t go.”

  “But—how do we know Joshua’s right? Maybe he’s just being melodramatic.”

  “Yvette, you can’t risk it. You can’t go off in a car with a man who may be mixed up in prostitution or worse.”

  “But he seemed so nice!”

  “Yvette, think about it. What does a man his age want with a young girl like you?”

  “I don’t look that all that young. I told him I’m twenty-two.”

  “I doubt he believes that. You were with a table of girls who look like me.”

  She gazed at me for a long moment, then exhaled a resigned sigh. “I suppose you’re right.” She plopped down across her mattress. “But I was so excited about going!”

  “I know, Yvette, but you can’t.”

  She stared up at the ceiling. “I am just so bored! I would almost rather get into trouble than be so bored!”

  “Not this kind of trouble, Yvette.”

  “No.” She blew out another sigh and rolled over on her stomach. “No, you are right.”

  I rolled over beside her. “Do you want me to see if Joshua knows some other boys?”

  She shook her head. “I have no real interest in boys. Herman intrigued me because he is a fully grown man.” She plucked at a thread on her bedspread, then cast me a sidelong glance. “Do you know who I really wish was here?”

  “Who?”

  “Pierre.”

  “My brother Pierre?” My eyebrows flew upward.

  She seemed fascinated by a thread on her coverlet. “Yes.”

  Surprise and dismay swept through me.

  “I’ve been writing him,” she said.

  “You have?”

  She nodded. “And he’s writing back. Two letters this
week.”

  “Two letters! That’s one more than he sent us!”

  She smiled and lifted her shoulders.

  “What does he say?”

  “The same things he writes to your family.” She kept her gaze fixed on her coverlet. “Plus he tells me his thoughts and feelings.”

  “Pierre has thoughts and feelings?”

  “Of course he does. He’s a very sensitive man.”

  A man? Since when was Pierre a man? “So you . . . like him?”

  “Yes. Yes, I believe I do.”

  This turn of events stunned me, and not in a happy way. “Was something going on before he left?”

  “No.” Her voice held a tentative quality that made me push for more information.

  “No, but . . . ?”

  She still wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Well, the last few months before he left, I developed a little crush on him.”

  Why didn’t I know this? Maybe because I didn’t want to know. I didn’t like the idea of my best friend and my brother. And she must have sensed that, because she hadn’t told me.

  “So . . . is something going on now?”

  “No. Maybe. Sort of.” She smiled. “He says he thinks I’m pretty, but he hasn’t really thought of me as girlfriend material because I’m your friend and so much younger.”

  Right, I thought.

  “I wrote him there’s only two years’ age difference between us, which isn’t very much. And just because I’m your friend is no reason I can’t be his friend, too.” She twirled a strand of hair. “I told him you wouldn’t mind. You don’t, do you?”

  I did, but I couldn’t say why. “It—it’s odd, is all.” I didn’t know how I felt. Strangely pushed aside, mostly. Maybe displaced. Definitely off-balance.

  Another thought occurred to me. “Do you write him about me? Did you write about the other night?”

  “No, of course not! I can’t risk him telling your mother.”

  Thank heavens she hadn’t completely lost her head. “Please, please, please don’t tell him about Joshua!”

  “Oh, I won’t. Don’t worry.” She grinned. “Your secrets are safe with me. And I hope mine still are with you?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, I would hate for you to lead him on and break his heart.”

  She laughed as if this were wildly funny. “As if I could!”

  “Well, I don’t think you should try.”

  “I wouldn’t! It’s nothing like that. It’s just a little long-distance flirtation, that is all. So tell me about your date with Joshua.”

  “It wasn’t really a date. We met at the library and went for coffee.”

  “Did he pay for your coffee?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then it was a date! Tell me all about it.”

  So I did.

  “Do you think you will introduce him to your parents so you can truly date?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think they will say?”

  She gazed thoughtfully at the wall. “Your mother will not like that he’s an immigrant.”

  It was worse than that. I was fairly certain my mother would not take kindly to me seeing someone who wasn’t our religion. “My father would not think it matters. He would be impressed that Joshua speaks French very well even though Yiddish and German are his native languages. I think he would be impressed that Joshua is an engineering student with a bright future.”

  “Yes, but your mother will want to know all about his family.” She gave me a wry grin. “You have met your mother, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.” I sighed. Yvette was right; my mother could be a snob.

  —

  I sneaked out and met Joshua two days later—and continued to meet him two or three times a week as the winter wore on. We fell into a pattern of walking and talking. He would hold my hand and he would give a quick peck on the cheek hello and good-bye, but he never really kissed me.

  Yvette peppered me about it after every outing. “Did it happen?”

  “No. But he gazes at my lips, and he smells my hair.”

  “Oh, that’s so romantic! He must be shy, though. You need to prompt him to make the first move.”

  After a couple of months of this, I made sure we were on a deserted side street when it was time to say good-bye, and I turned my face toward him as he went to kiss my cheek. His lips met mine. He stiffened, and I thought I had made a terrible miscalculation—but then his mouth moved over mine with an ardor that left me breathless. It was everything I had dreamed of, and more. It was a chocolate soufflé of a kiss—hot and melting and sweet.

  Too soon, Joshua groaned and pulled away.

  “Don’t stop,” I whispered.

  “I don’t want to start down a path where I may disrespect you.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “I will probably try. A man’s desires—they are not honorable. It will become more and more difficult to stop, and before I know it, I might compromise you.”

  “You wouldn’t,” I repeated.

  “You might want me to.”

  “I just want you to kiss me again,” I murmured.

  I watched his Adam’s apple move. “I want that, too. You have no idea how much. Sometimes at night, I think about you, and . . .” He blew out a harsh breath. A thrill chased through me.

  But his next words were like a bucket of cold water. “Romance is not something we should even consider in a time of war.”

  “We’re not really at war,” I said. “There’s no actual fighting.” Everyone called it la drôle de guerre—the joke of war. The Americans called it “the phony war.”

  “It will come,” he said, “and when it does, it will be brutal. It is best for us just to stay friends for now.”

  The thought of being something more in the future emboldened me. I stepped closer and put my hands on his chest. “Our friendship would be more special if you would kiss me again.”

  He took my hands, removed them from his chest, and stepped back. “Do not persist in tempting my baser nature, or I will not see you anymore.”

  “You would quit seeing me rather than kiss me?”

  “Yes. I do not want to ever harm you.”

  If his kisses were a prelude to how it would feel, I very much longed to be harmed.

  —

  I did not want him to stop seeing me, so I followed his rules. Rather than kissing, we talked at great length about politics, about Hitler, about the impending German attack. I asked about his family, and learned that he had distant aunts and uncles and cousins flooding into Paris, and that many of them were temporarily staying with him and his mother. I also learned that he’d had a younger sister who had died. He would not tell me how. Every time I broached the subject, he would come up with a reason to leave.

  I did learn that his father had owned a fine leather-goods store. The family had lived in a lovely house in Vienna, but now lived in a squalid apartment in the eleventh arrondissement. His mother took in ironing to help pay the rent, much to his shame and chagrin.

  “She says she does not mind, but it is probably a good thing my father is dead,” he said bitterly. “It would kill him to see her reduced to this. I want to quit school and fully support her, but she says my education is the key to the future, and hope for the future is all she has to cling to.”

  —

  On my own, I learned all that I could about what had happened in Austria in 1938—mainly by questioning my father. He was delighted that I was taking such interest in world affairs, and would give long, boring explanations involving Poland and other countries I didn’t care about, talking in such detail that my eyes glazed like a Christmas ham.

  As for Joshua, I learned that if I asked about political history, he would talk freely
. If I asked about his personal history, he would shut down. Little by little, though, I broke through his defenses.

  We were at a deserted student café on a cold afternoon, sitting at a table by the fireplace, when he finally told me what happened.

  “I know that Germany annexed Austria a year and a half ago,” I said. “Why didn’t Austria fight the takeover?”

  “We had a very weak leader. The Nazis presented annexation as a wonderful thing for our country, and most Austrians did not mind. But the Jewish population . . . oh, that is another story.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Nazis started a hate campaign against us almost immediately. Posters went up on every lamppost, along with awful comics in the newspapers calling us thieves and crooks and the scourge of the world. They made it difficult for Jews to travel or operate businesses. But it became untenable after Kristallnacht.”

  “‘The night of broken glass.’ My father told me about this. It was started by a murder here in Paris, right?”

  He nodded. “A German diplomat was assassinated. The Nazis claimed it was conspiracy masterminded by Jews. They used it as a reason to attack Jews in Austria and Germany. The windows at our home, at my father’s business, at our neighbors’ homes were all broken that night. And afterward, the military relentlessly preyed on the Jewish community. They would stop us and make us do stupid things.”

  “Like what?”

  “They made an elderly woman who lived across the street hop on one leg while carrying water. They made an old man crawl down the street.”

  I put my hand over my mouth.

  “They repeatedly vandalized our property and looted my father’s store. They confiscated insurance payments for the damage they had inflicted, saying we were responsible for the destruction. We decided to emigrate. Father thought Paris would be the best location to open another store. But the Germans did not make it easy for Jews to travel. We had to get a visa and have documents approved, and to do so, we had to pay bribe after bribe. Delay piled upon delay.”

  Joshua’s hand curled tight around his coffee cup. “In order to emigrate, we had to agree to leave everything behind and to pay extraordinarily high ‘taxes.’ In the end, we had only a little money—maybe enough for a few weeks of food, but not enough to start over. But by then, it didn’t matter. The situation was so bad that it was impossible to stay. We were so glad that at last we had all the required papers.”