by M. K. Tod
“Maman called to ask us for dinner this Sunday.
“That’s nice.” Francois barely lifted his head from the newspaper.
“She asked Guy and Jean as well but they aren’t able to join us. Jean’s twins are down with the measles and Guy has to travel to Zurich for a Monday meeting.”
“Guy is always travelling. Renault must be expanding again. Did you see this article?” Francois said. “Let me read part of it to you.” He folded the paper into quarters and began to read. “While the Rhineland has been a demilitarized zone since the end of the Great War, Germany’s recent reoccupation of that territory gives them full control of the stretch of land that has acted as a buffer between France and Germany. Hitler took a huge gamble in March, a gamble at the expense of France. Had we shown our willingness to take a stand, many of our military leaders believe Hitler would have backed down. We did not. And now over thirty-two thousand soldiers and armed policemen occupy the Rhineland.
“Have we been sleeping while this restless giant on our eastern front continues to strengthen his hand? Have we forgotten what horror that nation wreaked on the world twenty years ago? With our inaction, Herr Hitler has learned that he can gamble on France doing nothing to stop him. In the opinion of this journalist, Hitler will now turn his attentions to the east of Europe in territories where France and Great Britain are even less likely to involve themselves. This is a sorry turn of events for our country. And a sorry turn of events for the world.”
“What do you think he means by ‘a sorry turn of events for the world’?” Helene asked, half turning to look at her husband.
Francois set the paper aside and got up from the table. He stood behind Helene and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I think he means war.”
“But we won’t let that happen. France and Britain and the United States and others won’t let Hitler do that. Surely you don’t think that’s likely, do you?”
“I’m beginning to think Herr Hitler has ambitions far beyond Germany. And he seems like a fanatic. I’ll ask your father what he thinks when we see him on Sunday.”
*
Lise and Helene remained at the dining room table while Francois and Henri adjourned to the male sanctuary of the library. Lise watched her husband put an arm around their son-in-law’s shoulder.
“He’s very fond of Francois,” she said.
“I know, Maman. It makes me happy to see them together.” Helene sipped her wine.
“He admires his business sense, you know. These days he grumbles about being in government. It’s become so political. I think he wishes he could run a business like Francois. And …”
“And what?”
“He’s worried about Hitler. I can’t bear to think what another war might do to your father, or our country, for that matter.”
“Surely it won’t come to that.”
“That’s what people said the last time.”
After a moment or two of silence, Lise picked up a plate of fruit and offered it to her daughter.
“You seem distracted,” she said. Helene shrugged her shoulders. “Is it Francois?” Helene shook her head. “The children?” Another shake.
Lise cut a pear into small slices, schooling herself to be patient. Helene would tell her in her own way. They were close, closer than most mothers and daughters, a closeness brought about by war and maintained by careful nurturing. Helene shared many thoughts with her mother, the ups and downs of marriage, the trials of young children, the financial strain she and Francois had experienced in the early years of getting a business going. Lise knew Francois adored his wife and loved his children, even the child who looked so much like her real father.
I wonder how Helene feels looking at Claire everyday? Lise had never dared to ask this question. Would he have been the right man for her? She remembered the look of love between Edward and Helene when he came to dinner so many years ago and her daughter’s agonizing despair when his letters stopped coming.
Helene smoothed the folds of her skirt and set her cup down. “I read an article about a memorial the Canadians have built to honour the battle at Vimy Ridge.” Lise nodded. “There’s a dedication ceremony in July. It made me think.”
“Think about what?” Lise asked. “About the years we spent there?”
“No. About Edward. And whatever happened to him.”
“Oh, I see. You don’t really want to stir up those memories, do you?”
Helene slumped in her chair and sighed. “I suppose not.”
“Darling, you and Francois are happy. You have three beautiful children. Old memories can sting, you know. Did you tell him about the memorial?”
“No. I thought I would wait until I made a decision.”
“And you don’t think Francois should be part of that decision?”
“I suppose you’re right. He deserves to know.” Helene took another slice of pear. “I’ve never forgotten, you know.”
“Of course not.”
Lise wondered how she could help. An unspoken pact had evolved between mother and daughter; they never mentioned Edward and never acknowledged in any way, publicly or privately, that Francois was not Claire’s father. But Lise knew with great certainty that going to Beaufort would be a mistake.
*
Helene and Francois walked along Boulevard Saint-Germaine, enjoying the sweet smells of freshly turned earth in nearby gardens, trees sprouting leaves and blossoms, the perfume of sun-drenched flowers. The evening was warm; light lingered as the sun dipped lower and lower.
“You’re distracted,” Francois said.
Helene tilted her head and glanced at him then looked away. “I guess I am.”
“Want to tell me?”
She had asked herself that very question on several occasions and had almost mentioned her thoughts once or twice. Vimy and Beaufort. Would her husband understand? Surely talk of an old lover would not bother him after so many years. When she had first seen the announcement concerning the dedication ceremony, the word Vimy had leapt off the page, whirling inside her head, stirring memories and deeply hidden emotions.
That’s all behind me, she thought. I have three children and a husband who loves me. We’re content, pleasantly married, and financially secure. I’ve made him happy. He doesn’t regret his decision, I’m sure he doesn’t. So why can’t I let this go?
Seeing Edward’s features reflected in Claire’s face every day had always been difficult. When she was little, the resemblance to her father was minimal, but now that she was seventeen, her face had lengthened, her hair darkened and her physique slimmed so that Helene saw him in the set of Claire’s shoulders and the line of her chin and the lift of her eyebrows. In a hundred different ways.
It was all so long ago. Her parents often stayed in Beaufort, but Helene rarely did. When she was there, buried memories and disciplined thoughts unravelled, threatening to break her composed life into fragments. Eventually, Francois stopped pressing her to go. Instead, her parents took the children to Beaufort for holidays under the pretence that Helene and Francois needed time on their own. Maman understood.
Helene held Francois’s hand. “There’s a dedication ceremony taking place near Beaufort. A war memorial to commemorate the battle at Vimy Ridge. I’m thinking of going.” The shock on Francois’s face should have warned her to say nothing more, and yet she stumbled on. “It feels like a chance for closure.”
“Closure? I was unaware that you needed any closure. I thought you were happy.”
“I am happy.”
“Then …”
“I think it’s something I just have to do.”
Francois shook his hand loose. His nostrils flared as he sucked in his breath. “Do you think you’ll see him?”
She heard the harshness. “I don’t think so. I assume he’s dead. You and I have never talked about him. I always thought I shouldn’t bring up his name unless you did. But I think about him.”
Memories of Edward were an invisible cloak, warm and
soothing when she needed comfort, calming her soul when life was difficult. She had never admitted out loud her assumption that he had died in the war. She shivered.
“I thought you put it behind you.”
“That’s not the same as forgetting.”
“What have I done, Helene? I’ve been a good father to Claire. I love her as much as I love Daniel and Juliette. I’ve loved you. Every day of our marriage. Why are you doing this?”
“It’s like a wound that hasn’t healed. I need to go.” Her voice tapered to a thin whisper. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But I need to.” She could no more resist the visit to Vimy than she could stop breathing.
“A wound that hasn’t healed. You make me feel as though I mean nothing to you. As though I’m merely a convenience. The man who gave your bastard child a name.”
“Francois, how can you speak of Claire like that?”
“How can you do this to me? He’s gone, Helene.” Francois’s voice was raised in anger.
“Shhh. People are staring at us,” Helene said.
“He’s gone. He’s either dead or living in Canada. He never came back, never once tried to find you. Can’t you be happy loving me? You do love me, don’t you? Or is that something else you need to tell me?”
“I do love you. You have to believe me.”
“But you’re going to go even if it makes me unhappy? Even if I can’t bear the idea of you keeping him in your thoughts all these years? Be careful what you set in motion, Helene. Be very careful.”
For the next while, Francois stayed late at work, giving Helene no chance to soothe his feelings. Every night, he crept home after midnight and slipped into bed without a word. At breakfast, he focused on the newspaper and avoided Helene’s gaze. He spoke to her brusquely, if at all, refusing to hear anything more about an eighteen-year-old ghost.
“Tell me,” he said one night in bed. “I think I can listen now.”
Helene spooned against him, grateful that Francois had come home to her. She had missed him, the comfort of him, the way he knew her moods, the way he stroked her body, his knowing glance.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You already have. But maybe it’s time for both of us to understand.”
Helene breathed slowly, in through her nose and out through her mouth, just as she had during childbirth. Telling Francois of her feelings for Edward felt like she was betraying not one but two men.
“We met after the Canadians took Vimy Ridge. The mayor had given a party at a nearby farm and urged everyone in Beaufort to attend. Edward asked me to dance, and after that, we saw each other whenever he could get away. At first, I was flattered to have a soldier pay attention to me, but it quickly moved on to something more serious. We could talk about anything. He told me about the war and what it did to men, like the letters you wrote to me.
“We fell in love. He became part of me. I don’t understand it, but I felt like half of me was gone if he wasn’t there. And when he didn’t come back, that part of me vanished with him. He said he wanted to marry me. That’s why I couldn’t give the baby away. I couldn’t imagine telling him if he ever did return. I don’t know what I would have done if you …”
“Didn’t want to marry you?” She drew his arms tighter in response.
“When you and Marie came to visit, I never for a second imagined that you would ask me. But when you did, it felt like a sign that everything would be all right. I didn’t question you. Or ask you why. I just accepted it.” Helene turned over so she could see his face. “I have to find out whether he lived or died.”
“What will you do if you find him?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered so softly he could hardly hear. “I love you. I fell in love with you after we started raising Claire together. You’re a wonderful father. And husband.”
“But.” He stiffened.
“But … it’s been eating away at me ever since I read about the memorial.”
They were silent for a while until Francois pulled her close. He made love to her, gentle at first and then less so. She accepted his body, responding to everything he demanded, and held him tight until he climaxed inside her.
Chapter 42
June 1936
After more than forty years living in the same apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement, Lise felt the need to clear the clutter she and Henri had accumulated and decided to dedicate the first part of June to the task. She began in the dining room, where a set of glassware that had belonged to Henri’s parents was the first item designated for the secondhand shops. The larger of two buffets revealed a crystal decanter missing its stopper, several cracked bowls, broken silver candlesticks, an old carving set Henri no longer used and two boxes full of other items. Feeling pleased, Lise tackled the living room next and then, with Lucy’s help, the kitchen and pantry.
In the small bedroom Henri had used so many years ago when they had been estranged, she sorted through a dresser full of old clothes, musing over formal wear acquired before the war, her husband’s dress army uniform, a few moth-eaten sweaters, two ridiculous-looking swimsuits, his baby shoes and a long white scarf with a cigarette burn at one end. Underneath his riding gear was a cardboard box tied up with string.
Lise sucked in her breath, her mouth forming a small round circle, and sat back on her heels. What kind of secrets had to be hidden away in a place she would never think to look? Did the box contain letters from Henri’s long ago lover or some other woman who had been important to him? Did she want to know? Maybe the best course of action was to throw away the box unopened.
Lise hesitated a long time before lifting the lid. Just as she had expected, the box revealed letters, their edges yellowed with age. But not letters to Henri. Instead, they were letters from Helene to Edward Jamieson and from Edward to Helene, dozens of letters that had never reached their intended destination. Lise placed a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with shock. Slowly she picked up an envelope with narrow, slanting script, and withdrew a folded piece of paper.
My darling Helene,
It’s been thirteen weeks since I heard from you, and I am going mad with worry. Eric assures me that there must be some mix up with the mail, but I no longer believe him. Please write to me even if it is only to tell me that you do not love me anymore. I have to know that you are still alive. I have to know!
My battalion has seen a lot of action these past few months. Captain Earnshaw has heard encouraging news that the Germans are on the run. I will come looking for you as soon as I can, but you must write to me, Helene. I can barely discharge my duties because all I do is worry about you.
I will always love you no matter what your answer is.
Edward
Mon Dieu, she thought. He intercepted their letters when we returned to Paris. How could her husband, who would have sacrificed anything for his children, have done such a thing? Her head throbbed. The letters belonged to Helene. Henri had no right to take them. He had done something despicable, something she could barely imagine him doing. Had he in some terribly misguided way been attempting to protect their daughter? How different would Helene’s life be if he had not interfered? Would anything good come about by confronting Henri or giving the letters to Helene? No, nothing good at all. Lise folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. Slowly and with great care she returned the box to its place beneath her husband’s riding clothes.
*
Four weeks before the dedication ceremony, Helene went to see her mother. Maman will understand, she thought. Perhaps she’ll have some advice, and if not, at least she will listen. Francois had made it clear that the topic of Vimy was taboo.
Late June was warm and sunny, and since the apartment was hot, Helene and her mother sat on the balcony. A streetcar rumbled along followed by the whoosh of a passing taxi. Helene got up from the table and leaned on the wrought-iron railing, observing the antics of two children walking a dog that was clearly too big for them. She and her mother had been talking fo
r almost an hour.
“Why do you feel the need to risk your marriage over a man you haven’t seen in eighteen years? You can’t go back, Helene.”
“I want to know.”
“Know what?”
“What happened to him.” Helene lifted her chin. “If he died, his name will be listed. That’s what the papers said. I need to know. It’s been eighteen years, and I need to know. I have to know, Maman. Ever since I read about the memorial, I’ve been overwhelmed by a sense that I should have done something different. Gone looking for him or found a way to write to his family. I don’t know if that would have made any difference, but I didn’t try hard enough. I let you and Papa and my fears dictate my decisions.” Her voice broke and she swallowed to keep from crying. “I didn’t follow my heart.”
“Circumstances were very difficult then.”
“But I was old enough to act like an adult, and instead I acted like a child.”
Her mother’s face softened with sadness. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Helene turned away. “I’ve already made Francois doubt our marriage. I can’t repair that unless I find some answers.”
Maman tapped her fingers up and down on the small table where they had been sitting then picked up an empty glass and twisted it so that the light of the sun sparked colours on the tabletop. “What difference would it make if you knew he was alive?”
“I don’t know. Why would you ask such a question?”
“Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
When her mother returned with a small box under her arm, she gestured for Helene to sit and put the box on the table between them. Watching her tap her fingers once more, Helene wondered what was in the box and why her mother seemed so nervous.