by Robin Wells
With food so scarce, it was not an uncommon thing for Parisians to do. “What do you trap? Rabbits? Doves? Squirrel?”
He leaned forward as the train jerked to a halt. The motion of the train threw him into an intimate closeness. “Germans,” he whispered, then rose and bounded off the train.
I watched him go. Such boldness was dangerous to us all, yet I could understand the emotion that prompted it. Over the next twenty-four hours, I was almost feverish with excitement, sneaking away to see if the radio was on. I could not believe so many people could keep such a wonderful and momentous secret. I wondered if perhaps Tante Beatrice and the stranger on the train were wrong.
The next morning, the Germans were somber and talking low. I passed by the radio room, and was delighted to see it strewn with coffee cups and beer steins. Straightening it up gave me an excuse to go in and listen.
Several German officers were huddled around the radio, their arms folded, their faces stern. The radio was set to the BBC, which was blaring in English. I, of course, pretended not to understand a word.
One of the junior officers was translating the English broadcast into German for his grave-faced superiors:
Supreme Allied Headquarters have issued an urgent warning to inhabitants of the enemy-occupied countries living near the coast. The warning said that a new phase in the Allied Air Offensive had begun. Shortly before this warning, the Germans reported that Havre, Calais, and Dunkirk were being heavily bombarded and that German naval units were engaged with Allied landing craft.
I carried a tray of dirty glasses to the kitchen, trying hard not to smile.
I went by the radio room again at mid-morning. “D-day has come,” the announcer said. I couldn’t hear the next part because of the hubbub the Germans made following the translation. At length they quieted down, and I heard the following:
Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied naval forces, supported by strong air forces, began landing Allied armies this morning on the northern coast of France.
Again, an uproar obscured the broadcast. I picked up coffee cups that were closer to the radio.
The Allied Commander-in-chief General Eisenhower has issued an order of the day addressed to each individual of the Allied Expeditionary Force. He says, “Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped, and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely. But this is the year 1944. The tide has turned. The free men of the world are marching together to victory. I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty, and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full victory. Good luck, and let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking.”
I scurried from the room, my head down to hide my smile.
“What is going on?” Isolde asked me at lunch. “The Germans are all worried-looking and solemn.”
My mouth itched to spill the news. It should not to come from me, however. I could not risk it.
“Maybe the Allies have landed,” one of the assistant cooks said.
“Oh, do you think?” Isolde asked.
I hurried back to work, not trusting myself to keep my mouth buttoned.
Later that afternoon, I heard some high-ranking German officers talking in a meeting room as I swept the service hallway.
“Where was the führer during this landing?”
“Asleep at the Eagle’s Nest in Berchtesgaden,” said the second officer. “He left orders not to be disturbed, and no one dared wake him.”
“I can understand. I would rather face hell itself than Herr Hitler’s rage.”
“His rage is hell itself.”
“No. I fear hell is what is happening on the north coast—and what we are in for from here on out,” said the third.
“What of Rommel? He’s there on the coast. He could have directed the armored forces into action.”
“He dared not,” the first officer said. “The führer is the only one with that power, and he was asleep.”
“We had units on hand that fought.”
“Yes, but it was not enough. All of the tanks should have rolled into action immediately.”
—
I sent word to Yvette to meet me. She, of course, had already heard the news. We hugged like giddy schoolgirls. “It has finally happened!” she said.
“It is just a matter of time now,” I said.
“Chérie, we must think of what we will do when the war ends.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, do you want to work at the hotel for the rest of your life?”
“Of course not!”
“I have an aunt in America—my mother’s youngest sister. I think we should go live with her.”
“And leave France?” I could not imagine leaving my country, after working so hard to liberate her.
“Just for a while. Until things improve.”
“They will improve once the Nazis leave.”
“I will need a fresh start, Amélie.” She looked at me with somber eyes. “I will need to put this behind me.”
She was right, I realized solemnly. Yvette was likely to suffer reprisals for sharing a Nazi’s bed, even though she had done so to help the Resistance. She would benefit from a long voyage. No doubt I would, as well.
“When the Nazis no longer read our mail, I will write to her, and we will make our plans.” Yvette bounced on the balls of her feet. “Oh, it’s so wonderful that the war is finally, truly about to come to a close!”
“It is not over yet,” I cautioned. “The Allies have only just now landed. Il ne faut pas vendre la peau de l’ours avant de l’avoir tué.”
30
KAT
2016
I cannot help but interrupt her. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Literally, ‘Don’t sell your pelts before the kill.’”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a very old saying from fur traders. It means don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. I frown as hard as my Botox will allow. “Why didn’t you just say that?”
“Because it is my story to tell.” She leans forward and pours more coffee into her cup. “So. What were you doing on D-day?”
“Me? I was saying prayers for Jack. Whom, I would like to point out, you still haven’t mentioned.”
“He wasn’t in France before D-day.”
“I know. I don’t understand why you didn’t start this story with when you met him.”
“You don’t?” She cocks her head to one side like an inquisitive parrot and looks at me in a knowing way that just makes me want to strangle her.
All right—yes. I do know, actually. I have never really thought about the war from her perspective, and if she is telling the truth—and for all I know, she is completely whitewashing her role and dramatizing everything—her life has been significantly rougher than mine. All the same, if she believes that having a tough time during the war made it all right for her to seduce a man pledged to another, she has another think coming.
But patience is the key to getting the truth out of her. I draw a steadying breath and try to steer her back on track. “I gather you went to the north of France soon after D-day?” She must have, from the timing of the baby.
Her smile is like the Mona Lisa’s, slight and enigmatic. “I will tell you in due time. Since you halted my story, however, I would like to hear, please, about your life after Jack left. Did you suspect that he was supporting the Allied landing?”
“Daddy did, when he heard the news.”
June 6, 1944
My father shook me awake from a sound slumber—I had been at my friend Mary’s house until late the night before, me and two other girls. We had played charades and drunk some wine—Mary was a Presbyterian, so it was all right by her religion, and
I was at her house, so I decided when in Rome, do as the Romans.
We were celebrating the liberation of Rome, after all. The Allies had freed it that very day. It seems that everyone has forgotten about that, but the day before D-day was a huge victory for the Allies. We had gotten the Germans to evacuate Rome without destroying the city—really without much resistance at all. The pope had addressed the crowds and greeted the Allied commanders, and all of Rome was celebrating. We’d celebrated, too, by eating spaghetti and drinking wine.
Anyway, when Daddy woke me the morning of D-day, I was confused and a little fuzzy headed—as a Baptist, I wasn’t used to drinking.
“Kat, wake up,” Daddy said. “The radio just announced that the Allies have landed in France. I’ll bet Jack is with them.”
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. I didn’t really understand the significance. “But Jack was sent to England.”
“That’s where the Allies came from,” Daddy said. “They crossed the English Channel in the dark and landed on the north coast of France.”
I got up, pulled on my bathrobe, and joined my parents in the living room, where the radio was on. New Orleans was seven or eight hours behind Europe time, so we were hearing reports of how many thousand troops had landed, and how many had been killed or wounded.
“They’ll need the Medical Corps there right away,” Daddy said. “Jack is probably in the thick of it.”
That was the first time I feared for Jack’s actual safety. “They’ll wait until they stop shooting to send in the Medical Corps, won’t they?” I asked.
“That’s hard to say,” Daddy said. “They’ll set up a little behind the troops, but I bet he’s on one of the ships, just itching to get on land and help.”
“Didn’t the announcer just say there were submarines bombing the Allied ships?”
My father had served in the First World War, mind you. He never talked about it, so I figured it hadn’t been that big of a deal. I assumed that the Medical Corps were kept well out of harm’s way.
But now Daddy looked worried. And the fact that my father was worried made me worried.
“It’s war, Kat. We have to say our prayers and trust God to take care of things.”
Father went to work, and Mother took me to visit my grandmother. She made sure to keep me busy throughout most of the day.
The mayor organized a service in the town square to pray for our servicemen that evening. The high school band played “America the Beautiful” and the national anthem, and a black woman sang “How Great Thou Art” in a way that gave everyone goose bumps. Three different ministers prayed, then everyone went home and listened to their radios. There were several boys from our town whom we suspected had landed on those beaches. One of them, Fred Corrigan, was married to a high school friend of mine—Peggy Hastings. They had dated all through high school and married as soon as he was drafted. They were the kind of couple who just seemed perfect for each other. The kind who seemed to tune out the whole world and only really need each other.
Peggy was crying during the service. “I had a dream last night that Fred came and kissed me good-bye,” she whispered. “When I woke up and heard the news . . . oh, Kat, I’m so afraid it was real!”
“It was just a dream,” I said, but it spooked me all the same.
“Did you dream about Jack?” she asked.
“No more than usual,” I said. But I hadn’t ever dreamed about him—not in the entire time I’d known him. I daydreamed, of course. I suddenly wondered if something was wrong with me—if I were somehow lacking.
If God allowed Jack’s spirit to stop and say good-bye to just one person as it left the earth, would he come to visit me? He might go to see his mother—or my father. I hated to think it, but I wasn’t sure if Jack and I were all that spiritually connected.
But then, I rationalized, Peggy and Fred were married. Once you were married and not just engaged, that’s when the two-people-become-one thing would happen.
Like my parents. They were like that, weren’t they?
Once again, I was suddenly unsure of something I had never doubted. Now that I thought about it, my father acted more like an indulgent parent toward my mother than a soul mate. He seemed to have more to say to Jack. They had in-depth discussions and laughed at the same things and, of course, had all the medical stuff in common.
I went home and wrote Jack a letter, telling him that I loved him and I was praying for his safety and that I’d had a dream about our wedding, and I just knew it was a sign from God that he would come home safe and sound. I thought that little white lie might reassure him.
When I knelt down by my bed that night, I asked God to watch over Jack and to bring him home soon. And I asked for a dream of Jack, and for Jack to have a dream of me.
I was disappointed the next morning when I could not recall a single dream. But when a dreaded telegram came for Peggy in July—it took weeks for word to reach us about the casualties—I was more than happy that the dream angel had skipped my bedpost.
31
AMÉLIE
June 6–August 1944
All through Paris that June, the French celebrated the Allied landing. As Brits and Americans fought their way through France over the next few weeks, Parisians who had suffered silently under German repression became emboldened. Street violence increased. Young people tossed Molotov cocktails into Nazi cars. Lone soldiers were shot or beaten on the street. A crowd would spontaneously erupt into rounds of “La Marseillaise.”
The Germans were in no mood to humor us—but they seemed baffled as to how to respond. Reprisals were harsh but sporadic. They might do nothing, or they might open fire on a crowd. Life was chaotic, tense, and uncertain.
June stretched into July. On Bastille Day, everyone wore the blue, red, and white of the French flag. More than a thousand citizens gathered in the Place Maubert down the Boulevard Saint-Germain from the Sorbonne, singing and waving improvised French flags. The Nazis did nothing.
A week later we heard that a high-ranking Nazi had made an attempt on Hitler’s life, convinced he was the reason the Germans were losing the war. There were whispers it was a conspiracy. As a result, many of the officers in charge of Paris were reshuffled.
German lorries increasingly rolled through the streets, carrying grim-looking German troops and officers to the front or back to Germany.
Incredibly, the roundup of Jews continued. At the hotel, I found orders for seizures of property, plans for raids of neighborhoods, and schedules for convoys to carry Jews from Drancy and Bobigny to Auschwitz, which I immediately reported.
As August arrived, all of Paris seemed stretched on tenterhooks, waiting for what would happen next. Parisians, already restive, grew increasingly violent.
I waited in vain for Yvette to meet me at our usual place, Terrasse du Bord de l’Eau, the last two Tuesdays in July and the first one in August. When she finally showed at our meeting place, she looked pale and sad. “Dierk is leaving,” she told me.
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. He said he would get me a job at the hotel restaurant, but even if they hire me, they are sure to fire me as soon as the city is liberated.” She drew a cigarette out of her bag. “They despise me for la collaboration horizontale. Are there any jobs at your hotel?”
“They’re not hiring right now. When Paris is liberated, perhaps they will.”
She gave a derisive snort and put the cigarette to her lips. “When Paris is liberated, I’m likely to be shot as a collaborateur.”
My brow knitted in worry. Already, people were spitting at women known to have been mistresses of the Wehrmacht.
“It’s not so much that they sleep with the Boches,” I’d overheard the laundry supervisor say the previous week at lunch. “I don’t really care about that. What I hate is that their tummies are full and fat and happy while my own children
are starving.” The other people at the table had nodded in agreement.
“Have you encountered much trouble?” I asked Yvette.
She lifted her shoulders. “Some.”
I brushed a lock of her hair out of her eyes. “And that is why you are so sad?”
She shook her head. “That is only a small part of it.”
My heart stood still for a minute. “Oh, Yvette—you’re in love with your Boche after all!”
“No.” She lifted her gaze, and I finally saw the depth of her worry. “But I am pregnant by him.”
I reflexively clutched my own stomach. “Mon Dieu! Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I just missed my monthly, and last week I started throwing up. I can’t even smoke anymore, although I still play with cigarettes.” She pulled the unlit cigarette from between her lips and put it back in her purse, the end stained red with lipstick. “Dierk had a doctor check me, and he declared me officially enceinte.”
“Oh, la! And what does Dierk say?”
“He said he makes pretty babies. He showed me photos of his children.” Yvette gave a bittersweet smile. “He is right. They are beautiful.”
She sat down heavily on a bench. “I thought about seeing one of the women who do the special operation, but I cannot do it.”
“Oh, Yvette.” The gravity of her situation pressed down on me. I sank beside her on the bench. “What will you do?”
“After the city is freed and the mail runs again, I will write my aunt. I will see if she can loan us money to go to America.”
“That would be so wonderful for you!”
“And you. I will not go without you. Can I give her your address to write back? I have no idea where I will be living a few weeks from now.”
“Certainly. But what will you do for food and money and living arrangements in the meantime?” Hildie was no longer an option; she had taken in a boarder to help make ends meet.
“My baby will eat; Dierk has given me a stockpile of powdered formula. And he said he will leave me some money, but he can’t leave me much, because his wife needs it, too. He also said he will pay for me to stay at the hotel through the end of the month.”