The French War Bride

by Robin Wells

  “Oh. At the mess tent, the morning after he’d arrived. He went right to work that day. Did your friends make it back okay?”

  Oh, my—so many things I did not know! I hedged my bets. “Not all of them.”

  “Hell.” Jack blew out a hard sigh. “He was worried about an ambush or a mine. He so appreciated being shown the way to the hospital.”

  “One of them never returned,” I ventured.

  “I am so sorry. Doug worked at the hospital while he waited for transport back to his platoon,” Jack said. “Our commanding officer requested to keep him, because we were shorthanded and Doug was an excellent medic. It still wasn’t settled if he was going to stay with us or go back to the front.”

  I dabbed my eyes. “How did he die?”

  “Doug and I had gone to the edge of the hospital grounds to meet a truck carrying wounded from the front. We’d heard that some of them were barely hanging onto life. A German soldier—I think he was shell-shocked; he didn’t walk steadily, and he seemed so surprised to see us—lurched out of the woods. He had a machine gun. He pointed it right at me.”

  He stared at the floor, then ran a hand across his jaw. “I think it was my white jacket. It had a medical insignia, and it must have looked like a target. He raised his gun and pointed right at it. And Doug . . .”

  I couldn’t help it; I burst into a little sob.

  “He jumped right in front of me, pushing me to the ground. He pulled out a revolver—it wasn’t military issue. He’d said he’d traded his for a smaller one from of one of his Resistance escorts.”

  “From one of my friends,” I murmured. “That was so kind of Doug, to give him a better gun.”

  “They fired at exactly the same time. The German’s gun shot off several rounds. The German fell as Doug collapsed on top of me.”

  I put my hand to my mouth, my horror real.

  “I scrambled out from under him and immediately checked him over. He had a huge hole in his chest. It was a fatal wound; he could not be saved.”

  My tears fell on the baby’s hat. My sorrow was genuine.

  “He knew he was dying. He asked for a priest so he could give a final confession. He was worried about you. He said . . .”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he had done wrong by you. That he wanted to marry you.”

  “Oh, mon Dieu. Mon Dieu!”

  “He cared very much for you.”

  “Oh, mon Dieu,” I cried.

  His eyes were full of sympathy. “I am so sorry I don’t have better news to report.”

  “So . . . where is he?”

  “His body was shipped home to his parents.”

  “To Whitefish, Montana?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Doug saved your life,” I murmured.

  “Yes.”

  Tears ran down my face as I gazed at Elise. “So you are alive, and he is not.”

  His brow creased. He looked very troubled. “Yes.”

  “And his child has no father.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  I sat still for several heartbeats. “Can you help me get to America? My mother’s sister and her family live in New York. That is the only family I have left.”

  “I will be glad to see what I can do.”

  “I am hoping that you will have some influence. I have checked on my own, and there are so many people wanting to go to America that I was told it might take years.” My eyes welled up again. “Things are very harsh here in France, and I hear they may be difficult for many years to come. Doug wanted his child to be raised in America.”

  “I will see if I can help. How can I reach you?”

  “I do not have a phone. However, I will write down my address.” He handed me a piece of paper and a pen. I handed Elise to him to hold while I wrote. He held her as if she were spun glass and might break at the slightest bump.

  “I work as a chambermaid at the Hotel du Chateau, so I can be reached there in an emergency, although they frown on employees getting phone calls. I will write down the name and address of the hotel, as well.”

  He nodded and gazed down at Elise. “What do you do with the baby all day?”

  “I live with a widow and pay her rent, and she watches the baby for me. But we are three people in a one-bedroom flat, and it is very small. I dare not continue to impose indefinitely.”

  “I will check into things, and I will send word.”

  I rose. “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” He stood as well, then reached in the back pocket of his pants. He pulled out his wallet. “I would like to give you some money.”

  “Oh, no. No!” I shook my head. “That would not be proper.”

  “I would like to help you. Please.”

  “You can best help me if you can find a way—any way at all—to get me and Elise to America.”

  He nodded, his eyes somber. “I will do what I can.”

  I thanked him and left the hospital, buoyed by the hope that this handsome young doctor could pull some strings. I believed that he had the power to do so. After all, German officers had exercised the power of life and death over us. Surely an American officer—especially one who was a doctor, who was highly educated—could do the same.

  38

  AMÉLIE

  1945

  I did not hear from Jack for a week. And then I got a package with wine, cheese, chocolate, and a dozen diapers. It contained a note: I am still working on your request.

  More weeks went by. I received another packet, similar to the first, with the same message: I am working on your request.

  November became December. On Christmas Eve, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it—and there stood Jack O’Connor.

  My hand immediately went to my hair, which was in a kerchief. “Oh! Bonsoir,” I said.

  He held out two big boxes. “Bonsoir. And Merry Christmas.”

  “Oh, my! I—I didn’t expect you!”

  “I just wanted to drop off a Christmas gift for you and the baby.”

  “How—how thoughtful! Come in, come in!”

  Nora came out of the kitchen, wiping her hand. She looked at me, and then at Jack, her eyes questioning. I had not told her about my visit to the hospital; she thought the gifts were from a gentleman I had met at work.

  “Nora, this is Dr. Jack O’Connor—the man I told you about.” I hoped she would pick up the clue to pretend she knew about him. “And this is my friend, Nora Saurent.”

  They exchanged greetings. Nora looked from Jack to me and back again. “It is a pleasure to meet you. You speak excellent French for an American!”

  He gave a modest smile. “When I was young, I learned French from a Cajun nanny.”

  “Well, you learned very well!” Nora motioned to the small dining table. “We are readying le réveillon. We would be delighted if you would join us.”

  My heart pounded. If Jack stayed for Christmas Eve dinner, I would die of worry that Nora might inadvertently expose my lies.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I’m on my way to a dinner commitment. I just wanted to drop off the gifts on my way.”

  “That is very kind. We are honored to have you here. Let me get you a glass of wine. Sit, sit, both of you.” Nora gestured to the sofa. Jack and I both sat on it, at opposites ends, as Nora bustled into the kitchen.

  “Where is the baby?”

  “She is asleep. Would you like to see her?”

  “Yes.”

  I led him into the bedroom. The single bed, the cot where I slept, and the little crib were crowded into the tiny room. I felt embarrassed at how shabby the place looked.

  Jack did not seem to notice. He went to the crib and bent down. Elise was sleeping like an angel. He stroked a finger across her forehead. “She is beau
tiful.”

  “Yes. I mean, thank you.”

  We went back into the living room and resettled on the sofa. Nora bustled in with two glasses. Jack stood. She handed a glass to Jack and the other to me.

  “Won’t you join us?” Jack asked.

  “Oh, no, no. I best get back to the kitchen. You two visit.” She disappeared around the corner.

  I lifted my glass, feeling oddly embarrassed. “Well—joyeux Nöel.”

  He leaned forward and clinked his glass against mine in that American way. “Joyeux Nöel and bonne année!”

  “Bonne année,” I repeated, and took a sip.

  I watched his lips as he fit them on the glass. He had wonderful lips. I watched the wine slide down his glass. It was hard to pull my eyes away. “Have you any news about a visa?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve used every connection I can find. The immigration quotas are very tight, and they favor displaced persons.”

  “But I am a displaced person!”

  “Yes, I would agree, but the government defines displaced persons as people who were forcibly removed or forced to flee their home countries. You’re a Frenchwoman, still in France.”

  “Oh.” My spirits sank.

  “But.” He set down his glass. “There might be something that will benefit you on the horizon. I understand that Congress is going to pass a War Brides Act in just a few days.”

  “A War Brides Act? What is that?”

  “It is legislation that will clear the way for the wives and children and possibly the fiancées of American servicemen to come to the United States.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful!”

  “Yes. Since you have Doug’s child, hopefully you will be included.”

  I practically vibrated with joy. This was exactly what Yvette would have wanted.

  “I assume you have Doug listed as the father on the child’s birth certificate?”

  My spirits nosedived. “I—I do not have a birth certificate.” My mouth was dry. My palms were suddenly damp. “Elise was delivered by midwife.”

  “I see.” He took a sip of wine and looked thoughtful. “Well, I will find out what the requirements are. I should know in a few days.”

  “So there is hope.”

  “Yes.” He took a sip of wine. “What about you? Do you have identification and a passport?”

  “Yes.” Yvette and I had applied for a passport at the local prefecture soon after Paris was liberated.

  “That is good. If you didn’t, I was going to offer to help you get them.”

  “That is kind.”

  “Yes, well . . . I wanted to let you know that I am shipping out in January.”

  Next month! I had only a few weeks before my only hope of help would be gone.

  “I—I see.” I forced a smile. “Do you have family in the United States?” I wondered if this was something I should know. I decided to clear the air on that. “Doug didn’t write me about where you were from or your family—just that you were a wonderful doctor, very wise and capable, and how much he admired you.”

  His eyes took on a pained look. “I am so sorry Doug is gone.”

  “Yes.” I looked down at my lap.

  “To answer your question, yes, I have family—my mother, a sister, and a brother-in-law. They all live in a small town in Louisiana called Wedding Tree. L’arbre du mariage.”

  “How lovely.”

  “I also have a fiancée.”

  “Oh. I see.” For some reason, this depressed me immensely.

  “Her father is a doctor. I plan to go into practice with him.”

  “In Wedding Tree?”

  “Yes. He is the reason I became a doctor.”

  “He must be very special.”

  “He is. He cares a great deal about the people he treats. I hope to be as good a doctor as he someday.”

  “I am sure you already are.”

  “Oh, no. It will take a lifetime of practice.” He took a sip of wine. “Will you open your gift?”

  “But I have nothing to give you.”

  “Oh, I want nothing from you. But I wanted to give you something.”

  “I don’t know that is it proper for me to . . .”

  “Please,” he interrupted. “I want to do it for Doug.”

  “Oh.” My eyes inexplicably filled with tears. I was always on the verge of tears these days. “Oh, that is very kind of you.”

  “Here.” He placed a large package on my lap.

  I untied the big red bow and opened the box. Inside was a pair of black low-heeled shoes, made of the softest leather. “Oh, these are wonderful!”

  “I guessed at your size. If they don’t fit, I can exchange them.”

  I slid off my wooden-soled shoes and pulled the new ones on. They fit better than any shoes I had worn since I was sixteen—six long years ago.

  “They are perfect!” I said.

  “I noticed that your shoes looked uncomfortable the other day.”

  “Oh.” My face heated. And here I’d thought I was dressed so well. I had painted the soles black, but the sound of wood on the hard floor had no doubt given me away. “Thank you. Thank you very much!”

  “Will you open the gift for the baby?”

  “Yes, of course.” I opened the other box, and pulled out a pacifier, a blanket, and a little blue dress with buttons shaped like daisies. “Oh, it is so lovely!”

  “You like it?”

  “It’s beautiful!”

  Jack looked at his watch, then gazed up, his eyes regretful. “I must be going.”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “I will let you know in a week or two if we can get you to America through the War Brides Act.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much. Thanks for me, and on behalf of Elise.” And, especially, on behalf of Yvette, I added silently.

  “You are welcome.” He looked at me, and his eyes were like the blue part of a flame. “Well, Merry Christmas.”

  I leaned in for la bise. His lips brushed one cheek, and then the other. A jolt of electricity shot through me. “Bonsoir,” I murmured.

  “À bientôt.” Until later. Oh, how I hoped to see him again—and how I feared he would leave for America without helping me. He straightened and walked off into the night, his broad shoulders squared, taking with him all my hopes of fulfilling my promise to Yvette.

  39

  AMÉLIE

  1946

  Ten days later, I received a note from Jack that he would like to come by on Tuesday night.

  I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to look my best. Monday evening I washed my hair and Nora helped me roll it. The next morning, she helped me arrange it in loose curls. It was finally getting long enough that I no longer looked like a poodle.

  After his visit on Christmas Eve, I had told Nora all about Jack. Her breath had caught at the boldness of my lie. Her hands had folded across her heart. “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu,” she had muttered, pausing to make the sign of the cross—but she understood that keeping my promise to Yvette was of tantamount importance. “Ma chérie, I pray that this is a case where la fin justifie les moyens”—the end justifies the means.

  I put Elise in the dress Jack had given her for Christmas. She was still awake when a knock sounded on the door at seven.

  Jack brought a bottle of wine, a bottle of olive oil—oh, how wonderful! Cooking oil was still very scarce—some formula, and some American chocolate. We exchanged la bise. He smelled good—like soap and shaving cream—and I felt a disconcerting little jump of my stomach.

  Nora greeted him warmly and exclaimed over his gifts. She carried them to the kitchen, then returned to hand us each a glass of wine. She took the baby, freeing me to focus on Jack.

  We settled on the sofa once again, each of us with a glass
of wine.

  “You have news?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He put down his glass, and I could immediately tell that the news was not good. “I am so sorry, but without a birth certificate, we cannot prove that the baby is Doug’s. Without proof, she does not qualify under the War Brides Act to enter the U.S. And I am afraid that since you and Doug were not married, you are not qualified, either.”

  The words stung. I felt as if I were being judged by the entire U.S.A. and found lacking.

  “But we were engaged!”

  “I understand. But unfortunately, there are no provisions at this time for fiancées.”

  “But there may be in the future?”

  “Yes, but . . .” He looked away. “My understanding is that they will only apply to servicemen who will marry the women within three months’ time. There are no provisions for the fiancées or the . . .” He broke off and hesitated.

  “What?”

  “I know no gentle way to say this.”

  “So just say it.”

  I watched his Adam’s apple bob. “There are no provisions for the illegitimate children of dead servicemen.”

  Elise was not mine—I knew that, logically; I knew it was all a lie. And yet I felt a powerful sense of shame at the word. Tears sprang to my eyes.

  “I am so sorry,” he said.

  “I am, too.” I swiped my face with hand. He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to me. It smelled of starch and soap and man, and it was warm from his pocket. “When do you leave for America?”

  “Next week.”

  “Next week,” I repeated. “So soon!”

  “I want to leave you some money.”

  “I do not want your money. I want your help getting Elise to America.”

  “I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  His eyebrows quirked up. “There is?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, then, just name it.”

  I drew a deep breath and said the most daring words I have ever uttered, before or since, even bolder than my lie about being Doug’s fiancée. “You can marry me.”

  40

  KAT