by Hazel Gaynor
Not caring that I looked like a drowned animal, I caught the next bus back into town and, after stopping at a hotel to place a phone call home, hurried on to the restaurant to find Clara and Daniel already there.
Daniel laughed when he saw me, and took off his jacket, insisting I swap it for my sodden coat.
“Well?” Clara said as I sat down. “Was it worth it? Did you find him?”
“No.” I reached for the bread basket, taking a crusty piece and dipping it in the bowl of steaming rabbit stew that arrived within seconds of me sitting down. “But I did find some information that might help us.” I took a few hungry mouthfuls of the stew. “You weren’t wrong, Daniel. This is delicious.”
He smiled. “I told you so. It’s an old family recipe, dating back to . . .”
“Never mind the stew,” Clara interrupted. “What did you find out?”
“We were at the wrong cemetery, in the wrong town,” I explained. “Violet sent us to the wrong place.”
“What? How do you know?” Clara asked.
Daniel looked confused. “The wrong cemetery? How many are there?”
“I spoke to a groundskeeper. Apparently there are dozens of cemeteries and war memorials in different towns in the area, and listen to this! The cemeteries in Amiens are dedicated to British soldiers and those from the Commonwealth, or France. Not Americans. The groundskeeper was something of an expert. He gave me the names of several American cemeteries not far from here.”
Clara looked impressed but refused to say as much as she put down her spoon. “But how could Violet get it wrong? She’s usually so careful and organized.”
“Grandpa Frank’s death was almost twenty years ago, and let’s face it, she hasn’t been herself lately.”
We both fell silent a moment, thinking of how ill Violet was and remembering why we were here in the first place.
Daniel remained respectfully silent and refilled our wineglasses.
“Anyway,” I continued, “I stopped into a hotel in town and put a telephone call through to Mother. She was still half asleep and I spent an absolute fortune on the call while I waited for her to check Violet’s memory box where she keeps all of Grandpa Frank’s things.”
“And?” Daniel and Clara prompted at the same time.
“Sure enough, Frank Bell was buried in the Somme American Cemetery. He was billeted here in Amiens but was killed while his unit was on the march to assist at a field hospital closer to the front line. The hotel concierge said we can get to a town called Saint-Quentin easily enough by train and take a bus from there. The journey should take less than two hours, but unfortunately trains don’t run there on a Monday from Amiens, so we can’t go today. Oh, and the graves are arranged in alphabetical order. We should be able to find him easily.”
Clara ran her finger over the rim of her glass, making it sing. “Your prying turned out to be useful after all.”
“I prefer to think of it as investigating rather than prying,” I countered.
“Will you return to Paris tonight and go tomorrow?” Daniel asked.
I’d almost forgotten he was there, I was so caught up in relaying what I’d discovered. “I think we should stay here for the night,” I volunteered, looking at Clara for agreement. “We could leave on the first train tomorrow. Give us the full day.”
“Stay? Here?” Clara’s mouth fell open in shock. “But where? And we have nothing with us. No change of clothes. Nothing!”
I took a long sip of wine and smiled at her. “Exactly. We’re changing our plans, Clara. Rethinking and adjusting. You didn’t really expect everything to go perfectly according to Violet’s schedule, did you?”
She looked thoroughly miserable. “I did, actually. If anything had to fall by the wayside, I was hoping it might be the balloon ride.”
“Balloon ride?” Daniel looked intrigued.
“Something Violet did when she was here,” I explained. “She’s arranged for us to visit a ballooning factory outside Paris, for a tethered ascent. Clara is terrified by the idea.”
“It’s perfectly safe, Miss Sommers,” Daniel assured her. “I’ve been ballooning several times, at various festivals and world fairs and the like. It’s tremendous fun. I’d be happy to go with you, if it would help to calm the nerves.”
Clara agreed to the idea, reassured by the thought of having someone else there besides me, who, she remarked, “enjoys putting us in danger.”
She was also persuaded, after a little prodding, to stay overnight in Amiens, especially with us both already soaked and preferring not to stay in our damp clothes all the way back to Paris. Without much difficulty, we found a room at a charming little pension near the center of town. A ladies’ clothing shop nearby had plenty for us to choose from, although Clara muttered about the way all of the styles were in dark colors, and I grumbled about their apparent lack of knowledge that it was now 1937 and women could wear slacks.
Daniel returned to Paris to catch the show he was reviewing that evening. I was a little sorry I hadn’t given him more attention, but I had more important things on my mind. He’d wished us good luck and said he hoped to see us at the hotel when we returned to Paris.
Without the usual distraction of our books, sketch pads, and writing journals, we were left with only each other for entertainment for what remained of the afternoon and the evening. When the rain let up, we walked along the Somme, which curved through town and shimmered in the fire of the setting sun, winding up at the famous cathedral. We stopped to admire the High Gothic style so similar to that of Notre-Dame de Paris with its stained glass windows and breathtaking statuettes carved into the ancient stone. We continued, drifting along the streets, taking in the beautiful homes in stucco or stone with slate roofs, and storefronts overlooking the canals. We even stumbled across Jules Verne’s old house, which made us both smile. The town felt so intimate compared to the bustle of Paris, and a million miles away from the chaos of New York. Surprisingly, we didn’t argue, though neither did we pretend to be the best of friends.
As the light fell, we returned to our cramped room and changed into our newly purchased nightclothes. A frumpy-looking nightdress for Clara, and pajama pants and shirt for me. I wondered what tomorrow would bring. Even with the new information about the American cemetery, I worried we might not find Grandpa Frank, or the other people Violet wanted us to find in Venice and Vienna. I hated to think we would return home without success, and that my relationship with Clara would remain as fractured as ever.
I hoped our trip wouldn’t prove to be a waste of time.
I hoped, like Violet, it would be a journey I still thought about many decades later.
Clara
Our unscheduled overnight stay in Amiens wasn’t as terrible as I’d thought it would be, and a small part of me was proud to have coped so well with the last-minute change of plans and impromptu change of clothes. Madeleine lived for such impulsive chaos, while I found it deeply unsettling. I hadn’t realized just how much I needed order and routine until we’d set out on this trip. Perhaps a small part of me was beginning to enjoy the sense of unpredictability, of not quite knowing what the day would bring.
We rose and breakfasted early, and although I wasn’t the tidiest or cleanest I’d ever been, I was at least dry, and full of renewed hope of finding Frank. It was unlike Violet to make a mistake, and it only emphasized how fragile her memories had become. We were the custodians of those memories now. The importance of our journey had never felt clearer.
Fortunately, there was a morning train to Saint-Quentin and a warm spring sun warmed my face as I enjoyed the gentle sway of the locomotive. Madeleine scrutinized the morning newspaper she’d picked up in Amiens, scribbling furiously in her journal as she found another report about the Nazi Party. I didn’t understand her obsession with politics. It was almost as if she was looking for trouble, seeking out the very worst of the day’s news. I left her to it and relaxed in my small puddle of sunlight.
After a shor
t bus journey from the station in Saint-Quentin, we arrived at the cemetery outside of town where we believed—and hoped—Frank was laid to rest. This time, we were graced with blue skies, and a sunny warmth flirted with the cool spring air. This time, Madeleine and I agreed to search with a strategy; we made our way to the rows of pristine white crosses where the surnames of the fallen began with a B and started at opposite ends of each row, meeting, eventually, in the middle.
After only a few minutes, I glanced up to see Madeleine waving from a dozen or so crosses away. I took a deep breath and made my way over to her.
“Frank?”
She nodded and pointed to the simple white cross in front of her.
DOCTOR FRANK DAVID BELL
American Red Cross
1872–1918
We bowed our heads in silent respect, each of us lost in memories of Grandpa Frank: the way he always carried cherry lollipops in his jacket pocket; how he’d bounce us on his knee until we’d squealed. Doctor Bell, renowned surgeon, had felt it his duty to help at the Front and volunteered for the American Red Cross. Violet—strong, loving, vibrant Violet—had wept quietly on the day he left, while Madeleine and I held hands under the shade of the apple tree in the garden, not fully understanding what was happening, but knowing, somehow, things would never be the same.
“We found him,” I whispered. I laid a bundle of dried rosemary next to the cross. “Rosemary, for remembrance.”
Madeleine placed a bunch of violets beside the rosemary. “Violets, for your best girl,” she added. “She misses you so very much. We brought a letter for you, too. She wanted to say farewell.”
I noticed Madeleine’s eyes were misty and felt my own begin to fill with tears. The number of graves—of men lost—and the beautiful solitude of the cemetery affected us both.
“Go on then,” Madeleine whispered. “It’s your turn to read it.”
My eyes blurred with tears as I opened Violet’s letter and began to read her words.
My darling Frankie,
How can you possibly have been gone for so long? How have so many sunrises and sunsets passed without you by my side? But it won’t be long now until we meet again. In that, I take comfort from my last months. Whenever I feel any pain, I think of you, and I am soothed.
It’s my greatest wish that the girls have found your final resting place and can leave this small token with you. Do you remember sending it to me? A poppy from the roadside? I kept it all this time, pressed between the pages of my Bible. It is fragile now, and yet its beauty remains.
I was fragile once. Lost and alone after I returned from Venice. When everyone else turned their backs on me, you offered nothing but love and compassion. You took me—us—into your life without question, and the years I spent with you, although far too brief, were the happiest of my life.
You told me when you left for France that it wasn’t goodbye, but au revoir. “Until we meet again.”
Until we meet again, sweet Frank.
Au revoir.
Your best girl,
Violet
I placed the dried poppy against the marble cross, and we both stood in silent thought as a bird sang his lament on the branch of a hawthorn tree behind us.
Madeleine tentatively looped her arm through mine, just as she used to when we were little girls tucked up together on a blanket on the sand while Mother, or Violet, or sometimes Auntie Nellie, read us a story. The made-up stories were always the best, the wildest adventures that sent our imaginations racing. In that moment, I realized I’d missed that closeness to Madeleine, the sense of completeness that came from being beside her. It was a gentle moment of togetherness, when everything felt at peace: us, and the world. I think Madeleine sensed it, too.
We took our time, but eventually I suggested we make our way to the train station and begin our journey back to Paris. Saying goodbye to Grandpa Frank had been more emotional than we’d expected, and I found myself lost in memories of him as we boarded the train. Soon, my thoughts turned to Violet’s letter, the love she still felt for Frank after all these years.
“What do you think Violet meant by people turning their backs on her when she returned from Venice?” I asked.
“I wondered the same,” Madeleine said, staring out the window. “And what did she mean by ‘you took us into your life’? Who was ‘us’?”
Whatever it meant, I felt a sense of quiet contentment as the train raced across the verdant countryside. Our time in France was almost at an end, and Venice beckoned.
Maddie
Upon our return to Paris, we drifted to our own rooms, this time not out of frustration with each other, but for space to think about the last two days, and to rest after our extended travel. Grandpa Frank had brought Clara and me together, and it felt surprisingly good to have my sister at my side for now, even if our truce was tentative. Seeing the impact of war in such a tangible way as we’d gazed at the rows of white crosses had changed my perspective. It was difficult to comprehend loss on such a scale, especially knowing there were so many cemeteries like it all across France. The possibility of another war with Germany suddenly felt more immediate, more real somehow, and not just a distant threat.
With only three days left in Paris and still a long list of things I wanted to see and do, I cut my rest short and set out for Les Halles, a famed marketplace dating to medieval times. It wasn’t the safest area of Paris, or so I’d read, and that was precisely why I wanted to go. On the main thoroughfare, as I browsed the stalls of colorful fruit and vegetables, clothing, soaps and lotions, a riot of smells filled the air, from roasted lamb to heady spices to pungent cheeses. After a couple of hours, I took the Métro to Montparnasse to visit the Café du Dôme, made famous by Hemingway and Fitzgerald. I ordered a vin rouge and a crepe drizzled with chocolate.
Thoroughly exhausted but happy, I returned to the hotel, stopping by the desk for any messages that may have come while I was away. There was only one note, from Daniel.
Maddie,
I hope you were able to find what you were looking for on your trip, and that all went smoothly on your return. If you’re still ballooning tomorrow, I’d be glad to join you. I’ll meet you in the lobby at eight?
Thank you for the invitation.
Daniel
I was surprised he’d remembered, let alone thought to leave a note. Truthfully, I was surprised by Daniel Miller, period.
“Ballooning tomorrow,” I said as Clara and I dined together that evening. “I bet you can’t wait!”
She groaned and left her steak unfinished. “Must we? Really?”
I nodded and said yes, we must, and finished her steak for her.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, I rose with the birds and felt refreshed, enjoying a coffee on the narrow little balcony off the study window before I dressed for the day ahead. I chose a heavy sweater and overcoat, and a pair of leather gloves. Though I was practically on the verge of heatstroke, I knew I’d need warm clothes when we ascended into the clouds where the air became thinner and colder with each additional foot climbed. I couldn’t wait! For all intents and purposes, we were going to fly, free as birds in the sky.
“Clara!” I called, deciding she’d been in the bathroom long enough. “It’s time to go. Are you ready?” I double-checked my handbag, making sure I had my journal to capture the experience on the page.
Clara eventually emerged, her face washed of all color and none too happy about the day’s excursion.
“Let’s get this over with.” She sighed.
“Cheer up,” I said, nudging her playfully. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”
Daniel met us in the lobby, as arranged, and we rode a taxicab together to the balloon factory in Vaugirard. The journey passed almost entirely in silence, Daniel and I exchanging the occasional playful grimace about Clara’s palpable nerves. It didn’t feel odd to have Daniel with us, and with Clara so anxious, I was glad of his company. I watched him occasionally pen something in a small leat
her-bound notebook and return it to a pocket inside his jacket. I wondered what he was writing, if he was sending letters to a lady friend at home, or if he was merely, like me, taking notes in a travel journal. Clara, on the other hand, looked thoroughly miserable. Her lips were tight, her features drawn, and in spite of myself, I almost felt sorry for her.
When we arrived, we pulled up to a large wooden building that looked more like a barn than a factory, and threaded our way through a rough-and-tumble lawn to the main door. It was deliciously rustic. I knew Clara hated it the minute she saw it.
“I hope this is the right place,” Daniel said, sliding the large door aside.
“I hope it isn’t,” Clara countered.
It was the right place.
“Welcome! Entrez-vous!” A young man waved us inside, a jovial smile at his lips. “You must be the Miss Sommers? I am Monsieur Malraux. Your grandmother told me to expect you. Have you had an agreeable trip so far?”
Clara and I exchanged a look.
I tempered my reply. “Paris is beautiful.” There was no need to tell him about our squabbles, about going to the wrong cemetery, or fighting over which sights in Paris were the most important. “We’ve both enjoyed the sights.”
It was the truth. We’d just enjoyed the sights separately.
“Shall I take you on a tour of the factory before we go for our ascent?” Monsieur Malraux continued. He reminded me of a fox with his piercing blue eyes, sharp smile, and red hair that waved over his forehead.
“That’d be just dandy,” I said at exactly the same time Clara said we didn’t want him to go to any trouble for us.
He laughed and said it was no trouble at all.
The factory really was an enormous barn. Large swathes of multicolored silk, designed with an appealing array of stripes and polka dots, floated from the rafters. I grabbed Clara’s arm as I pointed at the beautifully detailed animal balloons; tigers with stripes and monkeys with smiles, and even a bright green crocodile that hovered overhead. Several pirates, and what looked to be a collection of court jesters, lay strewn across a worktable. On the far side of the room, two men worked diligently on some sort of motorized mechanism. In the opposite corner, a woman sat behind an industrial-sized sewing machine, where she carefully stitched pieces of balloon fabric together. When we reached the back door, Monsieur Malraux led us outside. A magnificent balloon made of bright yellow silk was tethered to several pegs in the ground.