by M. K. Tod
“I’ve been cleaning house, clearing out the clutter your father and I have. Tucked away in an old dresser, I found this box. I haven’t told your father what I found, but I think you deserve to know. Perhaps it will help. Before you open it, remember that your father did what he thought was in your best interest, and remember how much he loves you.”
Helene’s body tensed at her mother’s sombre tone. There was nothing remarkable on the box, nothing to suggest its contents, nothing except her mother’s obvious anxiety to indicate caution. She pulled the box closer. It was smaller than a shoebox, square, the edges worn. Nothing to indicate its contents but she had a feeling that it contained something ominous. Helene fingered the lid for a moment then slowly lifted it off revealing a thick stack of letters. When she pulled one out and saw the achingly familiar writing, she closed her eyes and shook her head from side to side.
“No. No. No. Maman, tell me these aren’t what I think they are. Papa would never have done that to me.”
Lise reached for Helene’s hand. “Darling, remember what I said. Papa loves you.”
Helene’s fingers shook as she lifted the envelope, its edges brittle with age, to find another behind it, and another, and another. When she found one in her own handwriting, tears slipped down her cheeks, and deep sobs wrenched her body as if it might break apart. Still sobbing, Helene replaced the lid and held the box to her chest.
“He was writing to me all that time,” she whispered.
“But now you know he’s alive,” her mother said.
“I can’t believe this is happening. I have to go.”
“Sweetheart, don’t go. Talk to me. Please talk to me.”
Helene stood up. She ignored her mother’s voice calling her to come back and left the apartment without a word.
The front door banged shut behind her. All she could think of was the need to be alone. Her head spun at the enormity of her father’s deception, lurching forward one moment to consider why he made that decision, leaping back the next moment to block the thoughts hammering in her brain. “Papa,” she moaned, “how could you?” Helene was not aware she had spoken out loud.
Hurrying along Rue de Grenelle, she passed a bookstore and newspaper stand, small grocery stores, a cart brimming with oranges, an old woman minding buckets full of roses. Every sight and sound receded as she headed towards the Champs de Mars, where she remembered a bench amongst the shrubs and trees that might offer refuge, a place where she and Marie used to share confidences after school.
The Champs was ripe with greenery and warm in the afternoon sun, narrow paths arcing in various directions. Helene stopped to get her bearings before heading left around a pond bordered by a stone bridge and two weeping willows. It’s still here, she thought, sinking onto the bench, clutching the cardboard box of letters to her chest. Eyes closed, she waited for her heart to stop pounding.
Eighteen years of not knowing, and all that time, her father knew. Helene was so stunned she could hardly breathe. Her mind tumbled in disorder. Why would her father intercept their letters? Why would he be willing to lose his first grandchild rather than tell her? “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” She covered her mouth with her hand and rocked back and forth, the pain of discovery once again overwhelming.
As the sun eased west, the air freshened, lifting a few tendrils of hair. Helene brushed the tears from her cheeks and opened the box for the second time. Pulling the first letter out of its envelope and unfolding the pages, she began to read.
Dearest Helene,
I am south of Beaufort now, more than 100 miles away, and all I can think of is your beautiful face and the joy of being with you in our favourite place. I am safe and well behind the lines, so you need not worry about me. Captain Earnshaw has been given a special training assignment and has chosen me and Bill Simpson to accompany him. I don’t know how long we will stay.
We are billeted with a French family who are very generous to us, offering delicious meals and taking care of our laundry. I share a room in the attic with Bill, where we have proper beds to sleep in. Such a luxury. The countryside is rolling with wide hills in the distance, and although spring is only just beginning, I can see that it will be very lush in a few weeks’ time. Our host maintains a small vineyard and urges us to have a glass of wine with dinner, which makes me think of the wine we had at Tante Camille’s.
Each day we ride off to camp in a dilapidated car to conduct training sessions. The car we use lurches and sputters so much I am amazed that it still runs.
Darling, I’m sorry for the delay in writing to you; however, we travelled very quickly to get here and our workload has been enormous. Please give my best wishes to your mother and Jean. Remember your promise to me.
I love you,
Edward
A large tear dripped onto the page as Helene lifted her head and looked into the distance. He loved me. He would have honoured his promise. I would have honoured mine. My life would have been completely different.
Wrapped in a cacophony of thoughts, Helene heard nothing of the people passing along the path or the gardeners trimming nearby bushes, nor did she hear the chestnut vendor calling for customers. She paid no attention to the shifting breezes and changing angle of the sun. Her mind became consumed with when and how to confront her father and the rage building inside her.
She read no more of Edward’s letters that afternoon. She would save them for her trip to Beaufort.
*
“Your daughter is here to see you, Monsieur.”
Henri looked at his secretary with raised eyebrows before consulting his gold-rimmed pocket watch. He had no recollection of arranging to see Helene. Perhaps she intended to take him to lunch.
“Send her in.”
He pushed his chair away from the large mahogany desk and stood up. A visit with Helene always gave him great pleasure, but as soon as he saw her rigid posture and barely controlled emotion, the smile on his face dropped away. What on earth is the matter? He crossed the room to close the door before coming to stand beside her.
“What is it? Aren’t you going to give your father a hug?” Henri reached out his arms.
Her eyes flashed. “Does this look familiar?” She withdrew a letter from her handbag and threw it on his desk.
Henri was rarely surprised. His entire career depended on his ability to anticipate circumstances and the reactions of others. That ability had secured many promotions over the years and been instrumental in his wartime dealings with the United States and Britain. He had no idea what his daughter was so angry about.
He played for time. “Are you going to tell me who the letter is from?”
Helene said nothing. Henri waited a moment or two longer before picking up the letter. When he saw the slanting scrawl and address on the envelope, the colour drained from his face.
“Where did you get this?”
“That’s not the right question, Papa. The question is why didn’t I get this eighteen years ago?”
“Did your mother give it to you?”
“Wrong question again, Papa. It doesn’t matter how I have this letter. What matters is your despicable conduct.”
Henri flinched at her choice of words. “It was a wartime romance. A low-ranking soldier. I thought it best—”
“You thought it best. I was twenty years old. Old enough to make decisions for myself. I loved him. We promised to wait for each other.”
“But he wasn’t French.”
“You. Had. No. Right.” Helene spit each word at him.
Henri decided to change tactics. He had to find a way to calm his daughter. “You’re happy with Francois.”
“Yes, I am. He saved the day, didn’t he? It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that you put him up to it.”
Henri shook his head to deny her accusation. “Please, chérie. It’s a long time ago. I was doing what I thought best for you.”
“Best for me.” Helene snorted. “And you also thought it best that I give Claire up
for adoption. Imagine, Papa, not having Claire in our lives. Imagine it. You would rather do that to me than give me the letters from Edward. I thought he was dead or had deserted me. Don’t you know what that did to me? Didn’t Maman tell you?”
Henri could tell that sadness was beginning to quell her fury. I’m a fool, he thought. I should have destroyed those letters long ago. He remembered the elaborate mechanisms used to intercept each letter. He had told his family that letters sent from the War Ministry had better delivery success, and every morning had asked Helene if she had anything she wanted taken to his office. When travelling, he had arranged for his driver to drop by the house each morning. Since the family had a post office box, Edward’s letters had been easier to intercept. Henri merely extracted them before bringing the rest of the mail home.
From time to time he had experienced a twinge of conscience, but for the most part had justified his actions by imagining that Helene would be better off without a poor Canadian soldier and that she was too young to know about love.
And Francois was an excellent husband. His son-in-law was just the right sort of man for Helene. Dedicated, full of integrity, savvy in business. They had a very good marriage and Helene was happy. My actions might have been a little bit unethical, but things had worked out for the best.
“Chérie, perhaps I made a mistake. But I remember how chaotic it was, the suffering we experienced, how many soldiers were killed or maimed for life. I wanted to protect you. My family was back in Paris where I could look after you all again. You were still my little girl.”
He watched her face soften for a moment and hoped she might understand his motives, or at least see them in a different light. Instead, she picked up the letter and made for the door, turning to fling one last comment.
“And what about Edward? He was fighting for France, risking his life for our country. Imagine what you did to him. You took away the only thing that kept him going. He said that to me one day, that I was the only thing that gave him hope. How do you think he felt when my letters no longer came?”
“I was thinking of your happiness, Helene. Your long-term happiness. Believe me, sweetheart, I only did what I thought best. I’m very sorry. Won’t you forgive me?”
“You’re going to have lots of time to regret what you did, Papa. I won’t forgive you. And I don’t want to see you or speak to you.”
Helene did not wait for his reply. She opened the door, walked out and slammed it behind her.
Chapter 43
July 1936
For the next few weeks, Helene tried to contain her anger, to find some way to bottle it up so she could cope with her everyday world. Francois was already so upset she decided that burdening him further with letters from long ago might cause irreparable damage. Claire, Juliette and Daniel depended on her calm support to steady their teenage ups and downs. Her mother called frequently; however, Helene deflected any discussion of the letters or her trip to Vimy. She permitted no contact whatsoever with her father despite his telephone calls and a handwritten letter begging for forgiveness.
On the Friday before the memorial dedication, she slipped out of bed early in order to bathe before Francois got up. Sunlight streamed through the bathroom window while the tub filled with hot water, as hot as she could stand. She added a capful of bath salts that always made her skin feel smooth. Lifting her nightgown over her head, she paused to consider her figure in the mirror, smoothing her hands over the curve of her waist and hips, examining the slope between neck and shoulders, turning this way and that, noting the small bulge of a tummy stretched by childbirth and the slight droop of breasts that used to sit higher. When steam covered the mirror, she stepped into the bath. Heat soothed her muscles and the quiet of a sleeping house allowed her mind to wander.
“Are you finished in the bath?”
Francois’s voice pulled her away from memories of Beaufort. “Just about.”
Dressing quickly in a simple skirt and blouse laid out the night before, Helene made a mental checklist of things to do before her taxi arrived. Packing was the priority. With each item she placed in her suitcase, she wondered what the next few days would hold, imagining glittering uniforms, emotional speeches, stirring music and fluttering flags. She imagined looking for Edward, wondering whether finding him would be more distressing than not finding him. At least I know he was alive when the war ended.
She told herself the crowds would be too dense to penetrate, that he wouldn’t remember her, or that he would be happily married and she no longer mattered to him. She told herself that he might not be there, that he might not want to stir painful memories of war.
Eighteen years felt like an eternity, and yet she could still see him, touch him, hear the deep silk of his voice. She could picture them together dancing, laughing, walking the hills, making love. She imagined telling him about Claire, and in the next breath, told herself that she could never divulge that secret. Claire is Francois’s daughter, not Edward’s.
Helene dismissed any thoughts of guilt; her father’s actions justified this visit to Vimy and the search for Edward. She continued to pack, comfortable shoes next to high heels, casual slacks on top of a clinging black skirt.
Out on the sidewalk, pedestrians jostled past the Delancey family, some on their way to work, others walking tiny dogs or hurrying home with a baguette and newspaper under one arm. A blanket of clouds made Helene feel confined, impatient to escape to the open skies and countryside around Beaufort.
“When will you be back, Maman?” Juliette said.
“A week from today, chérie. Look after Papa for me. All of you. And do as he says.”
Francois stood back as their three children kissed her good-bye. She knew he resented the tension that had grown between them and that even now he hoped she would change her mind or give him the reassurance he needed.
Helene laid her cheek against his. “I’ll telephone to let you know when I’ve arrived,” she said and then climbed into the taxi.
*
Every chug of the train and blast of steam brought her closer to Beaufort. Anticipation grew along with agitation. Her suitcase was on the overhead rack, but the letters were in her handbag on the seat beside her, and every so often she reached in to feel their reassuring presence.
How would it feel to be in Beaufort after so long? Paris had been home for her entire life except those four years, and yet so much of what happened in Beaufort defined her adult life and relationships. She could see the main square, Doctor Valdane’s striped awning, St. Jerome’s with its wide stone steps and narrow spire, geraniums on window ledges framed by blue or green shutters, red roofs atop simple limestone houses, the town hall with its ornate clock. And Café Pitou where they spent so many hours gathering news, listening to gossip, hearing about tragedies near and far.
She wondered how this new generation of citizens would look. Would they reflect past traditions or the changes in fashion and outlook she was familiar with in Paris? Regardless of superficial matters, she was sure they would still esteem generosity and dedication to family and God.
On the ride into town, she saw evidence of growth in new houses built of brick rather than stone, and a furniture factory not far from the station. Rue Principale opened onto the main square, which looked different without uniforms and military vehicles, and smelled different without the sweat of exhausted men caked in mud and the faint whiff of cordite that could drift for kilometres and lingered on a soldier’s clothes.
The calm of everyday life filled the square: a group of women chatting by the post office, pots of flowers nestled in front of the flower shop, men going in and out of the café, a woman wheeling a large black carriage outside the patisserie, children laughing as they splashed in the fountain. Paris fashion hasn’t come this far north, she thought, smiling a little and stopping to set her suitcase down while she decided how to get to Tante Camille’s. Funny that we still call it Tante Camille’s, even though she’s been dead for ages.
T
he square felt the same and yet different, subtle changes like modern signs and paved roads, more colour and less grey, manufactured brooms instead of handmade, small trucks instead of horse-drawn wagons. More men and laughter.
She stopped at the café and prevailed upon a pert young waitress to call for a taxi, and soon she was whisking down the familiar road past the cemetery, the turnoff towards their hillside hut, Monsieur Garnier’s. Nostalgia crept into her soul with the sweep of hills and scents of summer.
“Are you here for the dedication, Madame?”
“Yes. I lived here during the war.”
“Lost this at Verdun,” he said, thrusting his left arm in the air so she could see he had no hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Happened in ’15, so I missed the rest of it. Lucky really.”
Lucky, she thought, lapsing into silence. She wanted to be alone, without obligation or the demands of conversation. As soon as she settled in, she would read Edward’s letters and hear his voice once again. She planned to savour every word, cherish them while she was here because once she returned to Paris, she would have to hide them away. But for this week, they would be hers.
“There it is.”
Excitement rose with her first glimpse of the house. Helene remembered arriving in 1914 with Gaston driving the red Tonneau, her mother angry and unhappy, her father trying to make conversation, Jean eager to get there, Grandmere dressed in black. From a distance, Tante Camille’s looked peaceful, perched on a small hill, exuding contentment. Tall trees framed either side of the house, and tidy stone fences marked the property’s boundaries. As the taxi rumbled along, she saw the pond and the Doucet farm and a large group of black and white cows. I wonder if they still keep rabbits.
After the taxi left, Helene drifted through the house touching familiar items. Maman hasn’t changed much, she thought, although the woodstove was gone and different chairs flanked the fireplace. She remembered winter nights, knitting beside her mother, thin wisps of heat vanishing as the fire died, and summer nights on the porch, hoping for a little breeze. She shivered at the thought of exploding shells booming in the distance and the whine of airplanes high in the sky.