The French War Bride

by Robin Wells

  “Amélie is very smart and brave,” Joshua said. “I believe in her.”

  —

  Joshua’s words echoed in my mind frequently in the months ahead. I was installed at the Hotel Palais, in a tiny bunk bed in a room with twelve other women. I was given a uniform—a black dress with a white apron and cap—and told to provide my own black shoes and stockings. At first, as I worked solely in les arrières-salles, I wore a plain apron and cap with no frills; later on, when I was promoted to chambermaid, my apron and cap had ruffles, which were excruciatingly difficult to iron.

  As promised, as the newest hire, I had the worst jobs. I worked incredibly long hours, sweeping and mopping and scouring the kitchen and employee areas. At first I seldom came into contact with hotel guests. I was friendly with my bunkmates and coworkers, but I did not grow close to them.

  On my first day off, I took Maman to sign up for a ration card at the local police prefecture. The Nazis had instituted rationing for food as well as clothes, shoes, and just about everything else in September. My ration card was stamped at the hotel, where I ate at the employee cafeteria.

  I saw Maman briefly three times a week—on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Fridays—and I gave her half my salary. At Hildie’s urging, she started taking in mending for the building’s tenants. From what Maman told me, she was making enough cash to pay for her own groceries, but she never seemed to have enough money. I feared that Hildie was taking advantage of her, eating up everything that Maman bought, because Maman was losing weight. She didn’t style her hair or press her clothes or take any of her usual care about her appearance. She’d lost all interest in life since Papa had died. She went to church and prayed for Thomas and Pierre. That seemed to be all she cared about—her sons coming home safely.

  I, too, prayed for them, although my faith no longer felt strong. I prayed for Papa’s soul, Maman’s health, for Yvette and her family, for the war to end, and for Joshua’s safety. I did not really believe that my prayers did any good, but I feared that not praying might cause harm. I prayed as if prayers were a magical incantation that held up the sky, as if it were my responsibility to continue shouldering my part.

  Every Thursday night, I went to the address M. Henri had given to me, about fifteen blocks from the hotel. Mme Dupard was an attractive woman who arranged her silver hair in a well-styled chignon and always wore the same black sweater. Her apartment was large but sparsely appointed.

  My training was varied. At first she talked to me. She was very interested in my calligraphy skills, and gave me samples of handwriting to imitate. Then she made me walk across the room. She taught me to hunch my shoulders and make no eye contact so as to appear nonthreatening and invisible; she also taught me how to command a room, with my shoulders held back, my head high, my eyes flashing.

  “You will need this someday,” she said with a smile.

  I particularly liked that lesson, because it strengthened my secret weapon.

  Most evenings, though, she made me sit in her kitchen and listen to a story, which I then had to repeat to another person in the living room. That person would be playing a role—a hotel manager, a Nazi officer, a friend, a coworker . . . even my own mother. I then had to endure an inquisition about the story, making up parts that were lacking to make it sound credible. I was critiqued on things like eye contact, hand gestures, even the rate of my breathing. Then I was sent to the bedroom to tell the story to yet another person all over again. Sometimes I had to repeat it once more. I never knew if the people at the apartment were trainers or fellow trainees.

  I could not understand how so many people could gather in Mme Dupard’s apartment without being noticed by the Nazis. Later, I realized she had two secret doors connecting her apartment to adjacent ones. She even had a hidden opening in a closet ceiling that led to the apartment on the upper story. People appeared to be coming and going from several apartments in the same building.

  During some of my early training sessions, I simply listened to conversations. I was supposed to detect who was telling the truth, and who was lying. I was told to take notes and write a report in English.

  I became, over several months, very good at dissembling—and even better at determining when someone was lying to me. I also became proficient at summarizing conversations, picking up important nuances, and conveying the information in concise, correct reports.

  The interest in my calligraphy skills intensified. A man with a heavy mustache gave me lessons and helped me refine my skills. I wrote the name of a police prefecture official over and over, and was finally entrusted to write it on travel documents. Every week thereafter, I spent at least half an hour of every session forging signatures on official papers.

  —

  After a few weeks at the hotel, my responsibilities—but not my pay—increased. I still worked all day, but now I was also on call at night to tend to emergencies for hotel guests.

  I was awakened from a deep sleep to clean up the vomit of drunken German officers or their whores. I was called to clean up bloody and urine-soaked sheets or carpets. I was called to sit at the bedside of an ill fräulein’s child, to wash and press Nazi uniforms, to bring ice, to polish Nazi boots. I cleaned up dog feces and once, I removed a strangled cat from a room.

  I nodded and smiled and mimed, pretending not to understand when I was spoken to in German. M. Henri was right; it was very difficult not to respond, especially when the Boches made rude comments and conjectures.

  I kept my expression vacant when they guessed what I was wearing under my skirt, commented on my small breasts or made lewd comments about my backside. I pretended to be oblivious when they wagered about whether or not I sucked men’s organs like my little rug vacuum, or if I rode my boyfriend like a horse. I kept my hair pulled tightly back in a severe bun and I kept my shoulders hunched up, my eyes downcast. I thanked God for my olive complexion, which helped disguise the flames that licked my cheeks.

  —

  As the weeks went by, my training at Mme Dupard’s shifted along with my responsibilities at the hotel. As I started cleaning officers’ bedrooms during the day, the lessons at Mme Dupard’s began focusing on searching for information. I was taught to look through papers that were openly lying about, and to search for papers that were concealed in officers’ clothing and bags or stealthily hidden in the room, behind baseboards or loosened floorboards. I learned to pick locks on briefcases and luggage. I learned to search under rugs, under mattresses, under shoe insoles, and in the lining of jackets. The Nazis, I learned, were very fond of hiding papers in the lining of their jackets. Some even had zippers installed for that purpose.

  I was trained to pay special attention to maps, engineering plans, notes in pockets, and scrawls on matchbooks. I was taught to look for things like hairs or threads placed over papers or briefcases so that the owner could detect if anything had been moved. I learned to put things back exactly as I found them.

  I was finally deemed fit to be fully deployed into action, and at last I received my instructions—as well as a small camera and a roll of tape. I was to summarize everything found onto onionskin paper, then fold it into quarters and tuck it into my brassiere. If I ran across maps or engineering plans, I was to take a photograph. And every time I went to see my mother, I was to stop at a church on rue des Gallois, where I knelt in the fifth row on the left and taped my paper—and the roll of film, if I had taken any photos—to the bottom of the pew in front of me.

  I had some close calls. One afternoon I was in the middle of searching a briefcase when I heard a key in the door. I quickly shoved the contents back inside and locked it, just as the door opened and the officer walked in, accompanied by a prostitute.

  Another time I was going through a jacket, and the room’s occupant actually caught me. I said I was checking to see which clothes needed to be pressed. The end result was that I had to iron his clothing every day for the rest of his
stay at the hotel.

  I dutifully recorded everything I found. I wrote reports on things that seemed of no consequence, because I’d been told that I had no way of knowing what was important.

  Apparently that was true. I reported a hand-scrawled note: 7 p.m., Café du Bois, rue de Charonne. I thought it was a reservation for dinner; it turned out to be a meeting of Nazi intelligentsia.

  I was thrilled when Mme Dupard told me that. It was the only inkling I ever received that what I was doing had any merit. I can only assume she was allowed to tell me because I had been complaining that my efforts were of no account.

  —

  Fall stretched into winter. Since we had fled Paris in late spring, all of the clothes in my and Maman’s suitcases were lightweight; I spent a fortune buying each of us winter coats. It was ironic that as the weather grew cold, the numbness that had protected me from the pain of Papa’s death began to melt away. I awoke at night, sobbing, the blast of the Nazi’s gun echoing in my head. I cried when I entered the church to leave my messages. Music of any sort would cause tears to flow down my cheeks. More than once I had to pretend I had a cold when a song on the radio caused me to dissolve into tears while working at the hotel.

  I grieved Papa. I grieved the life I used to have and the things I had taken for granted—a full stomach, warm socks, a hot bath, privacy. I missed my brothers, Yvette and her family, and Maman as she used to be.

  And I missed Joshua. When I learned in November that one of the bellboys ran a personal courier service on the side—for a few centimes and Métro passage, he would deliver notes or packages anywhere—I sent a note to Joshua, asking to see him. My heart leapt when he sent word back that I should meet him at our old spot in the Jardin des Plantes by the river, before the nine o’clock curfew.

  We embraced. He did not kiss me, but his eyes caressed my face, and it was nearly the same.

  “I have missed you,” I told him.

  “And I, you,” he said. “But we must not make a habit of this.”

  His face looked thinner, older. I dared not ask what he had been doing—Mme Dupard and the others had drilled into me the importance of ignorance; what I did not know, I could not betray.

  We walked away from the Seine—the wind off the water was like a knife—deep into the garden. Joshua talked about the Nazis. He saw ominous patterns and purpose in German behavior.

  “They started out treating the citizens of Paris relatively gently, to suppress our desire to rebel. Besides, they want Paris to continue to be Paris, to be the ultimate R & R center for the Wehrmacht. They even have a slogan for their soldiers: Everyone gets a day in Paris. That’s why they encourage French citizens to go about their business as usual.”

  That did, indeed, seem to be the case. Stores, pubs, and restaurants reopened—but they had little business from Parisians. French citizens had no money.

  Joshua told me about the increasingly harsh treatment of the Jews. Much of this I did not know, although I had seen anti-Semitic articles in the newspapers.

  He told me that in October, a census had been taken of the Jews. The Schutzstaffel, or SS, had visited Joshua’s apartment and demanded to see passports and papers of everyone there. Joshua, I was relieved to hear, had not been at home—but the Nazis had taken his mother’s name, and the names of everyone staying there.

  “Why did they not lie about being Jewish?” I asked.

  “You have met my mother,” Joshua said. “She speaks only Yiddish.”

  I felt very foolish. “Of course.”

  “Besides, practically everyone in our neighborhood is Jewish, and the Nazis know this. They try to bribe us to report on our neighbors.”

  “How horrible!”

  “Yes. They want to turn us against each other. And it will be the same here as in Austria; some will betray their neighbor if they think it will help their own family.”

  And that was not all. Jews were now prohibited from working in certain professions, such as banking or law or civil service. Jewish-owned businesses were forced to place a placard in the window, stating:

  THIS BUSINESS IS MANAGED BY AN ARYAN STEWARD APPOINTED IN ACCORDANCE TO THE TERMS OF THE GERMAN ORDINANCE OF OCTOBER 18, 1940.

  “The stewards pocket all the money,” Joshua said bitterly. “It is like Austria all over again.”

  He abruptly grabbed me and drew me into a kiss. I was bewildered by the timing and the force of it, but I melted against him, savoring the warmth of his lips on mine, the strength of his arms around me. I hated that we wore coats; I ached to feel more of his body against mine.

  Just as suddenly as it began, he pulled away. “I am sorry,” he murmured. “Two Boches were walking by, and I thought it would be less suspicious if we were kissing instead of talking.” His breathing was harsh, and his voice sounded like sandpaper.

  “I didn’t mind,” I said. “In fact, I wish they would come back.”

  “Oh, Amélie, Amélie—how you torture me!”

  “In a good way, I hope.”

  “Oh, it is an exquisite torture, to be sure—but it is torture all the same.” Something close to despair darkened his eyes. “It is not wise for you to see me. You would be punished if you were caught with a Jew.”

  “I do not care.”

  “Well, then, I must care for both of us. You would lose your job if either la Résistance or the Nazis discovered us—and I might lose my life. Go—it is getting late.”

  “When can I see you again?”

  “I do not know. Do not ask. Do not send me messages. We must not meet again for at least several months.”

  “But . . .”

  “If you care for me, you must abide by this.”

  “I must know that I will see you again, Joshua. I must have something to live for.”

  It took a moment, but then he sighed. “I, too, need a light in the dark. You are that light to me. We will meet again after the first of the year. I will contact you.”

  The holidays were abysmal. I had to work on Christmas Day. I saw Germans eating Christmas goose and stuffing and giving each other holiday greetings, while my stomach rumbled with hunger. The sight fueled that bitter, black part of me, the part that felt like the dark center of Papa’s gunshot wound. Surely Christ had not come and died so that such men could feast while the rest of us starved. Surely God would not allow this to continue.

  But he did. It continued, and it grew worse. The winter was the coldest in Paris’s history, as far as anyone could remember. It snowed six inches on New Year’s Day. Food became even scarcer, because supplies were cut off due to the road conditions. The soup that was a staple for the employees at the hotel became thinner and thinner.

  So, alas, did all the hungry residents of Paris.

  15

  KAT

  2016

  Amélie pauses for a moment, and I can’t resist speaking up. “I have been here for hours, and your story is still years away from the time you met Jack.”

  “Eh, alors.”

  I don’t know what that means, but from her expression, I guess it is, So what? Irritation rises in my chest. “So when will you get to the part I care about?”

  “After I get through telling you the part you need to hear.”

  “Well it’s certainly taking a while. I need to use your ladies’ room.”

  “Of course. It is the door on the left.”

  I could hardly miss it in such a tiny apartment. I rise from the couch less gracefully than I want, then use my cane as I make my way to the bathroom. I close and lock the door, and then, of course, I snoop. I look in the drawers, expecting them to be bulging with makeup and beauty creams. To my surprise, I find only a good dermatologist-grade skin cream, an inexpensive eye cream, and three lipsticks. I open each one. There is a coral, a bright pink, and a blue-red. Really? This is all of her beauty products?

&nbs
p; Her medicine chest strikes me as ridiculously spare, as well. There is dental floss, mouthwash, and three extra toothbrushes. Who are they for? Gentlemen callers who stay the night?

  Or maybe family; I know that she and Jack had two other children, a boy and a girl. Both of them became doctors, and they each have families of their own. Amélie has a slew of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

  She has very few medicines for a woman her age—only some Tylenol, a blood pressure medication, and prescription sleeping pills. I shake out three of the Ambien and put them in my pocket. She owes me at least a few nights’ good sleep.

  I use the toilet, flush, and wash my hands.

  “Find everything okay?”

  I don’t know if she asks because she knows I have looked through her things or not. Her smile is pleasant and unruffled. Her face never gives away a thing. “Yes, thank you.” I resume my seat.

  “Would you like some lunch?”

  “Why, yes, I would.”

  “We can order something in or we can go to the dining room,” she says.

  “Here, please. I would like to continue our talk.”

  “Of course.” She pulls a menu from a drawer and hands it to me. I expect to see hospital-type fare, but the choices are those one might find in a nice restaurant.

  “The quiche is always good. It comes with fresh fruit.”

  “That’s fine,” I say.

  She picks up the phone and calls in an order.

  “Now.” She folds her hands in her lap and looks at me. “Tell me how your romance developed with Jack.”

  “I told you how it began.”

  “Yes, but I want to know the course of it. Was your first kiss at the picnic?”

  I am about to say that is none of her business, but she stops me with a pointed look.

  “I assume you will want to know the same from me.”

  Of course I do. And while I resent her not-too-subtle attempt at coercion, I want her to burn with the same jealousy I feel. I will take my time telling her, so she can experience some of my irritation, as well. “We went to the Fourth of July celebration together.”