by Ellen Butler
This brought a slight smirk. “Yes, ma’am, I did.”
I paused, debating whether or not to ask my next question. “Did you jump on D-Day?”
The smirk vanished. “Yes, ma’am, I did.”
“I see.” My first assignment had been dropping behind enemy lines into France a few weeks before the invasion of Normandy, something I trained for with British SOE agents and French Resistance fighters. Though my middle-of-the-night jump had luckily been onto a quiet pasture with two other agents, it had been nerve-racking to say the least. Not an adventure I wished to repeat. I couldn’t imagine witnessing the chaos and fear during the actual invasion as men jumped from planes pelleted by antiaircraft fire. At the time of the incursion, I’d moved farther inland to help French Resistance fighters blow up important railway supply lines. Absentmindedly, I stroked a scar on my left wrist, a memento of the day.
“Did you parachute into Holland?”
“Yes, I did. It was a perfect day for a jump.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Unfortunately, the mission didn’t turn out quite like we’d hoped.”
I could tell he was one of the types who enjoyed the rush of jumping, so I encouraged him. “Tell me what it’s like to jump out of an airplane flying hundreds of miles per hour.”
Pushing his book away, he leaned back to ponder the question. “Well ... you see, it starts out with all this noise. The plane engines roaring, the wind buffeting through the open door, and men lined up ready to pile out, one after another. Your heart is racing and blood pumping. It is noisy chaos.” His gaze flicked up to the fluffy clouds above. “Then it’s your turn, and before you know it, you’re out the door with the plane zooming away. We jump using a static line, so the chute is pulled when you leave the plane. When that chute deploys, it’s as if someone suddenly turned a switch.” Snap went his fingers. “It’s silent ... that is, if you don’t have antiaircraft fire shooting up your ass.” He cleared his throat. “Pardon my language.”
I waved away the expletive. I couldn’t have explained it better. He captured the moment perfectly ... well, except for the utter fear that you might lose your breakfast on your way out of the plane.
“Your heart slows, and for a few short minutes, you float carelessly in the breeze, enjoying a view only seen by the birds. On a perfect, sunny day there’s nothing to compare it to.”
I found myself poised, sandwich suspended in the air, and my mouth half-open as he spoke. Charlie’s gaze returned to mine and I returned to earth.
I laughed and shook my head. “You almost had me going there for a moment, Captain. I was actually thinking it would be fun to jump out of a plane strapped to nothing but a thin silk chute.”
Finally, my tablemate cracked a full-on smile, his even, white teeth flashed, and I skipped a breath. “Call me Charlie, and it is fun. Someday, I’ll take you.”
Knowing someday was unlikely to happen, I humored him. “Sure, Charlie, maybe someday.”
A patron from behind rammed his chair into mine, jostling my arm and spilling my coffee.
Charlie passed me a napkin. “Are you all right?”
Wiping the drink off my hand, I nodded. “Yes, the coffee’s cooled. I’ll be fine.”
He looked to the offending perpetrator and with firm command spoke. “Corporal, I believe you owe the lady an apology.”
The corporal glanced up. “Huh?”
“That’s, huh, Captain.”
Immediately, the corporal stood and saluted. “Sorry, Captain, what’s the problem?”
Charlie pointed to the mess. “You owe the lady an apology.”
The corporal did a double take and let out a whistle between his teeth. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, did I do that?” he said in a thick southern drawl. “I am such a klutz. Here, let me help you clean that.” He pulled out a red handkerchief from his pocket and began ineffectually patting at my arm.
His other two companions decided to get in on the act. “Nice move, Billy Ray, we bring you to a ritzy joint like this and you spill the dame’s drink.”
“Why don’t you come on over here and let us buy you a fresh one to make up for our friend’s clumsiness?” the other private suggested.
As a young, attractive female in a dense male population, I’d gotten used to being propositioned by servicemen from all walks of life. Deflecting passes was a skill I’d mastered, but this time I didn’t have to.
“Gentlemen, the lady is with me. Corporal, now that you’ve apologized, I suggest you stop manhandling her and return to your seat.” Charlie frowned and crossed his arms.
The corporal’s ears flamed red. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket, mumbled another apology, and shuffled back to the table.
Charlie resumed his seat. “Now where were we?”
“I believe I was about to ask what you are doing in Paris. Is the 101st stationed nearby?”
“In Mourmelon. I’m on a forty-eight-hour pass.”
“First time in Paris?”
He nodded.
“And are you enjoying it?”
He shrugged. “I arrived only a few hours ago. But since Lily Saint James sat down, the day is looking up.”
“So you haven’t walked the Champs-Elysées? Or seen the Eiffel Tower? Notre Dame? Non?”
“Non.”
“Then when I’m finished, I’ll take you to see them.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense.” I flicked my hand in dismissal. “I’m waiting on a new assignment, so my workload is light, and I’ve got some time on my hands. Besides, I feel honor bound to show a distinguished officer such as yourself the highlights of gay Paree.”
“Well ... if you insist...”
“I insist.”
Due to fuel rationing, there were few cars on the road that weren’t military vehicles. Many of the civilians still used horse carts, and bicycles were prevalent. The occupying Allied forces were working hard to restore all train services. Luckily, the Métro, within the city, remained operational and was used heavily by everyone. The subway covered a large portion of Paris, was in good running condition, and it had stops close to many of the tourist sites. Unlike London, Paris had come through the war relatively unscathed, never having felt the full force of the Luftwaffe bombs. The major sights remained untouched in their glory, and it wasn’t much different from I’d when visited with my mother in the spring of 1938. We took the Métro to the Eiffel Tower, and I pointed out a few of the buildings that sustained machine gun and mortar damage from the skirmishes between French Resistance fighters and the German army.
As we crossed the bridge over the Seine to see the Cathédrale Notre Dame, I explained Paris’s eighteen arrondissements or neighborhoods.
“So this is the famous Notre Dame.” He pronounced it no-ter dame like the college, as he took in the crenellated Romanesque architecture.
“Careful, the Parisians will turn up their noses at you for saying it that way.” I repeated the proper French pronunciation.
He rubbed his chin. “How about I let you do all the talking.”
I grinned at his boyish charm. “Deal.”
“Do you think they have a resident hunchback living in the bell tower?”
“I’m not sure. Shall we go find out?”
He offered me his arm and we climbed the steps together.
Afterwards, we found ourselves strolling the Champs-Elysées; my hand rested lightly on Charlie’s arm while we enjoyed the beauty of the waning fall sun. It was almost surreal how normal and comfortable I felt with him. For a few hours, we allowed ourselves to forget that a war raged not far away, and men at the front were dying.
“Where did you learn French?”
I shrugged and answered with nonchalance, “My father was a foreign service officer for the State Department. We moved around a lot. I spent most of my childhood living around Europe.”
“Do you speak any other languages?”
Gazing down the street at the distant Arc de Triomphe, I
weighed my answer. It wasn’t so long ago my life had been an open book. Since the war, I’d gotten used to watching every word, and it took a moment to realize that I was in Allied-occupied Paris. Charlie was one of us, and I wasn’t on a mission behind enemy lines. Even though I’d lied about my purpose for being in France, today I wanted to just be the girl of yore and share the truth with someone. “In addition to French, I speak German and Italian, and I can probably get along in Spanish. Although my Spanish gets jumbled up with Italian.”
“Where are your parents now?”
“My father lives in D.C. My mother passed away before the war.”
“I’m sorry.”
I shrugged, chewing my lower lip. Time had tempered the terrible ache of missing her. However, the loss remained a weight on my heart. She was a difficult subject for me to speak about.
He came to a halt, my hand dropped away, and I turned to see the lines of his face, serious with sincerity. “I’m sorry. It’s difficult to lose a loved one.”
It had been a long time since I’d thought about my mother’s death, even longer since receiving another’s sympathy over the loss. “Yes, I miss her. My biggest regret ... I wasn’t there when she passed away.” I sniffed, pulling a handkerchief from my coat pocket to dab at the unexpected tears.
Charlie offered his arm again and we continued walking. His silence spoke volumes; he wouldn’t push for answers but was ready to listen if I was willing to talk.
The story came easier than expected.
“I was at a finishing school in Geneva. My parents were back in Washington. I had wanted to return to the States as well, but my mother insisted I complete my education. She hoped I would return to D.C. to marry a senator or congressman and take my place among Washington society. She was preparing me for a political life not much different from her own.”
“She wanted what was best for you.”
“I suppose. But that type of life was never for me, flower arranging, table settings, serving afternoon tea, etiquette lessons ... bah.” I sighed. “Oh, I suppose it wasn’t all bad. I met some nice girls, kept my languages sharp ... but life as a pretty little doll on the arm of a politician never held much of a draw. Though I did love the sports ... riding, golf, tennis ... and the dancing. Did you know I once danced with Laurence Olivier?”
Charlie raised his brows in disbelief.
“It’s the truth. We took an outing to Geneva for the weekend and he was there.”
The gloaming sun threw pinky-orange streaks across the clouds, and I paused to admire Mother Nature’s beauty. “They kept it from me ... her illness.”
“What did she have?”
“Tuberculosis. She was infected with it in Africa, at my stepfather’s last embassy station. I should have known. She was so thin and frail when they came to pick me up from the English boarding school where they’d left me. By the time my stepfather summoned me home, it was too late.” I shrugged.
Charlie’s warm hand curled around my fingers gripping his bicep, and we ambled wordlessly down the pathway toward the Triumphal Arch, an architectural monument affiliated with important military parades throughout history. A few years ago, German troops proudly paraded through, establishing their dominance over France. It was only a few months ago, Allied and French forces, along with French Resistance fighters, marched through the mammoth monument celebrating the release of Paris and its people. The joyful day had branded itself into my memory.
“I was furious at Edward for waiting so long to tell me she was sick. I blamed him for her death. Sick with despair, I lashed out at him. Said awful things. Later, I realized there wasn’t anything he could’ve done. He got her the best medical care money can buy. We didn’t speak for months. Then the war came, and I left.” I sighed at my childishness.
“Have you forgiven him?”
“Yes, I suppose I have.”
“Are you on speaking terms?”
I nodded. “After my first assignment, the harsh realities of war were brought home. I have grown up enough to know now that he is all I have left. We cannot continue to be at odds. He worries and keeps telling me that I don’t need to be here. He threatens to have me returned Stateside.”
“Could he do that?”
“Oh, I think he could. There is a legend in our family that General Eisenhower once dandled me on his knee. And of course, my father knows the vice-president. I imagine one phone call could have me shipped back home like that.” I snapped my fingers. “But ... it’s more now. I have a real chance to serve my country and help the cause ... help these people. To make a difference. I think when he realized I was serving my country, not just behaving like a petulant child, he stopped arguing. I know he doesn’t want to lose me but”—I shrugged my shoulders—“he understands. We all have to make sacrifices for the war effort.”
“Aren’t there other photojournalists that your newspaper could send over? Let you go home for a holiday? How long have you been here?”
My steps paused, and Charlie’s innocent gaze turned to me. Immediately, I realized my mistake. I’d told him my cover story when I sat down at his table, but just now I’d been speaking the truth, referring to my job with the OSS.
“A while,” I hedged, not wishing to add more lies.
“Why you?”
“The languages. I can speak to everyone.”
“Of course.”
“What about you? Who did you leave back at home? Do you have other brothers serving?”
“No. I have two younger sisters. One got a job in the factory. The youngest sister works at my parents’ general store.”
“So, you’re the prodigal son. You have family that worries about you.”
“I suppose.”
“Of course they worry. They just don’t want you to know they worry.” I kicked at a stone. “Do you miss them?”
“Every day.”
The smile had disappeared, and his face took on a melancholy frown, as though he looked at Paris through different eyes, no longer a fun tourist destination but a city forced upon him. I blamed myself for allowing the conversation to turn gloomy. I’d never told anyone about my mom and strained relationship with my stepfather. Charlie had made it so easy. As a matter of fact, it was too easy to be myself around him, and as much as I enjoyed not watching every word, it was also dangerous—bad spy craft, as the Brits would say.
I opened my mouth to suggest parting ways.
“How would you like to join me for dinner? A gesture of appreciation ... for showing me the sights.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.”
“Nonsense.” He turned those beautiful peepers on me. “It’s the least I can do.”
My will melted beneath his gaze.
He took me to the officers’ club, and following dinner, I took him to a dance club where GIs with money were welcomed.
Prostitutes lined the bar, and I steered Charlie away to one of the tables on the far side. Smoke hung heavily in the air, the floor crowded with young French girls flirting mercilessly with soldiers, many looking for more than a free drink—the possibility of catching themselves a wealthy American serviceman. We danced for hours. Charlie spun me around with fast swings and pulled me close for the slow, gliding waltzes.
At one point he whispered in my ear, “How do I compare to Laurence Olivier?”
“Your moves are matchless.” It wasn’t a lie. On the dance floor, Charlie and I fit like puzzle pieces.
Charlie allowed no other man to dance with me until a lieutenant colonel asked to cut in. With reluctance, he handed me over. The lieutenant colonel gazed down at me with hungry eyes and leaned in a little too close for comfort. His breath reeked of liquor and his feet stumbled unsteadily.
“Bonjour.” I smiled at him and proceeded to speak nothing but French. All of his come-ons were deflected with an innocent raise of my brows and another spate of French. At one point he tried some bad German. To which I laughed and shook my head. “Non, je ne parle pas Allemand.” No, I do
n’t speak German. It was perhaps not nice manners on my part; however, I had no interest in spending more than the required dance with this man, wishing only to return to the arms of my captain.
The clock tower rang two in the morning by the time we left. Charlie insisted on escorting me back to my apartment in the fifteenth arrondissement.
“Come up for a nightcap?”
He hesitated, looking up at the old stone apartment building with its wrought iron balconies jutting out in a random pattern. “I shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
He removed his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and plopped it back on his head, then gave a heavy sigh. “I won’t want to leave.”
Since dropping into France, I’d been put into positions where I had to behave like a flirtatious hussy to get past checkpoints and misdirect inquisitive soldiers. That wasn’t how I wanted it to be with Charlie, but something in my gut warned me—I’d never see him again if he left now.
I was not ready to have this man walk out of my life.
I drew in a breath and took his hand. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”
He trailed me up the stairs.
I lost my innocence to my captain that night. The act went against everything that had been drilled into me by my parents, the Church, and instructors at my finishing school. I recalled lectures about loose women and sleeping with men who were not your husband. Somehow, in the midst of war, when life could easily be stolen in the exhalation of one breath, none of the lectures mattered. Intuition told me my life would likely end at a young age, and the homilies seemed insignificant. With every caress, Charlie touched something deep inside me. Joy, an emotion so simple yet so far removed from my state of being that I hadn’t experienced it in years, flowed through me like the swift waters of the Danube.
The next morning, we shared eggs and toast in the tiny kitchenette. And, the smell of strong coffee steeping in a percolator always reminds me how I watched him sip from the chipped rosewood china cup. I snapped a profile of him with my camera. When I pulled the viewfinder down, Charlie met my searching green gaze, replaced the cup on its saucer, and pulled me onto his lap. We spent the morning making love, obsessed with each other. He explored every inch of my body, stroking the pale skin with gentle fingers.