Sisters of Night and Fog, page 6
Virginia purses her lips. Mum touches Virginia’s arm and smiles at her.
“They don’t understand your love,” Mum says. “Or Philippe’s disposition, for that matter.”
The women laugh, and Virginia feels the prick of tears behind her eyes. How fortunate she is to have a mother-in-law she loves as deeply as her own mother, one who can even transcend the role to be a friend. Virginia swallows the lump in her throat and continues reading.
“‘I have some good news for you. The St. Petersburg Times is going to publish the letters you mailed earlier this summer. I took the liberty of sending them to a writer there, and she was so taken with your descriptions of life as the Germans pressed in that she immediately asked if we could get your permission. I gave it on your behalf. I hope you won’t mind.’”
Mind? Virginia thinks. Published letters. In the Times. Heavens, no! I’ll be the talk of the town.
The good cheer of the women evaporates the moment the German officer rounds the corner. Virginia folds her mother’s letter and tucks it in her pocket, as if hiding it away will protect her privacy from a man bent on invading it. At least he doesn’t speak French, so he can’t have understood whatever he overheard. He throws up his hands as if to look surprised to find the women there and has the audacity to point to an empty chair next to Virginia—the last in the row—gesturing to it as if asking permission to join them, as if he won’t just do what he wants. Mum gives him a stiff nod, and he takes the chair. He gestures toward the sky and starts jabbering.
“Schön,” he says, leaning across Virginia, for Mum to translate.
Virginia shrinks from him, trying to contract into herself.
“Ah, bella?” he says. “Belle?”
Mum nods.
Virginia keeps her eyes fixed ahead on the sunset, but he touches her arm, demanding her attention. When she turns to him, his face is inches from hers.
“Belle,” he says, no longer looking at the sky.
As Mum shifts closer in her chair toward Virginia, she can feel the soldier’s aggression crashing up against Mum’s protective instinct. Virginia turns her gaze back to the sunset, doing her best to control the heat she feels rising in her neck. How can she mute her emotions? She doesn’t know. She’s never before had to do so under such circumstances.
After a few moments, the officer leans away from her and settles in his chair. He speaks in German, eyes moving between Mum and Virginia, impatiently awaiting Mum’s translations.
Are they pleased that his men manured the garden? Did the women see, they fixed the missing boards in the stable? Did they enjoy the fish they caught for the women?
It’s as if he’s desperate for them to think well of him, especially Virginia. The more blank Virginia keeps her face, the more it appears to drive him crazy. He shifts in his chair, rubs his hands together, even reaches for Virginia to touch her arm, looking for her approval. As he rambles, she finds that his agitation is a source of strength for her. The more ill at ease he behaves, the more power she feels, and this power gives her a certain measure of control over her emotions. The heat leaves her neck, her skin cooling like the air from the swiftly falling sun.
When the women sit like marble statues, unresponsive to him, he gets the message. Almost midsentence, he stands, gives them a curt bow, and leaves. But the next night, he and his soldiers edge their way into the house.
“Just for billiards,” he says.
Which becomes coffee in the mornings, on the garden patio, occupying the chairs in which the women used to sit. Then the soldiers start drinking champagne at night on the terrace. They take excursions in the boats, inviting Nicole and Virginia each time.
“Nein,” the women say, over and over, refusing them, always.
One morning, Nicole and Virginia are on the beach catching shrimp, their skirts tied up between their legs. Virginia is surprised how much she’s come to enjoy this smelly task, which she never would have tried before the war. The women make a competition of seeing who can grab the most critters, and Virginia’s bucket is filling at a fantastic rate. Her attention is taken, however, when she hears a frantic whinny. She shields her eyes with her hand and sees one of the Germans’ horses running along the seawall, frightened and unsure where to go. Virginia hurries toward him. She takes the stairs two at a time, and when the horse catches sight of her, she slows and holds up her hands.
“Easy,” she says. “You’re a handsome boy.”
The horse becomes still, regarding Virginia with suspicion, but as she gets closer, he bucks and tries to dodge past her up the lawn. She reaches out and grabs the rope flying loose beside him, getting jerked, but she’s soon able to slow him. Once he’s under control, Virginia looks up and sees the German officer running toward her, the worry on his face changing into delight. He laughs, claps his hands, and bows to Virginia. Before she remembers to check herself, she smiles in response.
From his beaming, triumphant face, Virginia knows she’s been unwise to let down her guard. When she looks over her shoulder and sees how Nicole glares at her, Virginia is filled with shame.
9
ALDERSHOT, ENGLAND
VIOLETTE
“WHAT JUST HAPPENED?” says Papa as the Bushell family poses for the reporter’s photographer.
Moments after the civil ceremony—five weeks after they met—Violette and Étienne are in a giddy, if somewhat bewildered, line outside the registrar’s office, with Maman and Papa, Roy, and the esteemed captain Marie-Pierre Koenig, who’s standing in as a father for Étienne. Just promoted by de Gaulle, Koenig has known Étienne for many years, and commanded his unit in the north. Koenig was also a soldier in the Great War. Between Koenig’s and Étienne’s decorations, and the emerald-and-diamond rock on Violette’s finger, Papa is starstruck.
The local paper heard an English girl was marrying a French soldier, and now calls them the toast of two countries, brought together in war. With the flash of camera bulbs, the laughter, and the chatter of a dozen men from Étienne’s unit, it takes the group a moment to hear the air raid siren. The unmistakable blasts from the antiaircraft battery, however, leave no confusion, and Captain Koenig leads as the men form a tight ring around Violette and Maman, herding them to the shelter across the street.
They rush down the stairs and into the bunker—a long, dark tunnel, with crude wooden benches running along either side. The door is pulled shut, and though only a few seconds pass before lighters flicker and candles are inflamed, Violette feels suffocated by the total blackness and being crammed underground with so many bodies. As the minutes tick by, the new thought rising in Violette’s mind is that she’d rather not die before she’s consummated her marriage. She whispers her desire in Étienne’s ear, and he throws back his head and laughs, exposing that sexy neck, sending shivers all over his bride. He kisses the side of Violette’s head and pulls her close.
The men are a rowdy, raucous lot. They sing “La Madelon,” a French song even Papa knows, about a group of soldiers in love with a young waitress. Roy reaches for Maman’s hand and dances her around the cramped space. Étienne does the same with Violette. Papa takes Roy’s place with Maman. They bump one another and laugh their way through song after song, passing two hours belowground as best they can.
When the guns cease and the all-clear siren sounds, they stumble out—hot and disoriented—and head to the restaurant for the reception. The party continues with shepherd’s pie, sea bass, and ale. The group grows quite drunk, and Violette and Étienne feed each other strawberry cake, and there are many sloppy kisses on cheeks before the newlyweds rush out through a tunnel of men holding their arms together overhead.
When they say their goodbyes, Maman and Papa are the last to wish the newlyweds well. Maman showers them with blessings and praise. While she tells Étienne how much she loves him already and to take good care of her daughter, Violette turns to Papa.
The day went better with Papa than Violette expected. Two weeks ago, when Étienne had stumbled through an awkward meeting with Papa to ask for her hand, her father had been outraged by the speed of the courtship, not to mention the eleven-year age difference. Maman tried to reason with Papa, drawing connections to their own wartime romance, and citing how well suited the French-British marriage could be. But for the first time in their lives, Maman couldn’t persuade Papa to relent. Violette had left home to stay with her best childhood friend, Vera Maidment, and when Papa didn’t go after Violette, she marched Étienne back the next day and told Papa it was the last time he’d see either of them if he didn’t give his blessing.
What could Papa say to that?
“I don’t know why you protested in the slightest,” Violette says, reaching up to straighten Papa’s tie. “You’re finally going to get rid of me. At least, once we’ve won the war.”
“Right you are,” he says, giving her a strange look.
“Why’re you ogling me like that?” she says.
“You just look so pretty and grown up. I hadn’t realized.”
Violette beams. It might be the first time Papa has recognized Violette is an adult.
“Maybe Étienne will have more luck reining you in than I have,” says Papa.
“Unlikely,” says Violette.
“Knowing how Étienne’s moving up through the ranks, at least someday you’ll have a cushy, luxurious life. Maman and I’ll visit you in your château in France or your villa in Casablanca.”
“I’ll see if we can squeeze you in. The life of a major’s wife is quite full.”
He grins and pulls Violette into a rough, drunken hug. She enjoys it while it lasts. It’s rare to get this level of affection from Papa, and she knows it’s only a matter of time before they’ll be arguing.
Captain Koenig interrupts them to kiss Violette on both cheeks, followed by Étienne, Maman, and then Papa. Amid the laughter, the newlyweds leave the reception, the shouts and well-wishes warming them all the way to the hotel.
And they can’t get there fast enough.
After five weeks of courtship, the long day—including two hours underground—and the slow check-in process, they’re practically at a run to the hotel room, the door barely shut before they come together, kissing and pulling off each other’s clothes. Once Violette is down to her slip and Étienne to his undershirt and pants, Violette pushes back against his chest.
“Wait,” she says.
She leads him to a chair, slides his legs open, and forces his hands on his knees.
“From the first day I saw you in our garden,” she says, “I’ve wanted to do this.”
Violette straddles Étienne and places his hands on the backs of her legs. She pushes back his head, exposing his neck, and kisses it slowly. When he can stand it no more, Étienne lifts Violette into his arms, and takes her to bed.
* * *
—
THE DAYS OF their honeymoon take on a dreamlike quality.
The music of the army marching band, parading through the streets of Aldershot, seems very far away from where Violette and Étienne hold hands, walking along the road, gazing at each other in wonder, silly grins on their faces.
When the heat and the people become too much, they slip away, walking the country lanes that lead to sunflower fields. They cut a path through the stalks, taller than they stand, floral heads heavy with yellow petals and seeds over them. Violette and Étienne come together in the shade and shelter of the flowers, wishing they could forever hide from everyone and everything in the private, earthy kingdom of which Étienne crowns Violette queen with a chain of yellow moonbeam flowers.
When night falls, they beg the guard at the observatory to let them in to look through the telescope. Under the dome, in the womb of the little tower, they lean their heads together, taking turns looking through the eyepiece at the magnified heavens, the shimmering constellations, the startling white waning gibbous moon.
Étienne takes Violette’s face in his hands.
“Every night we’re apart,” he says. “Look at the moon and know I do, too, and send your love to me as I send mine to you.”
Violette didn’t know a man like Étienne could exist. He’s of another mold entirely from the men in her family and the boys she has grown up with and dated. Étienne is a gentleman. He’s strong, powerful, and in control, but he’s not a bully. He’s not crass or aloof. He doesn’t lord his strength over or dominate others. He uses it to support them, to support her. Yet she doesn’t feel subordinate to him. Étienne looks up to her. He respects her. He defers to her. In the gaze of his admiration, she feels herself growing in stature, becoming the best version of herself.
She doesn’t know what she did to deserve love like this, but she will drink every drop from it, every day that she can.
* * *
—
A WEEK LATER, on the docks at Liverpool, Violette feels a cold like a kind of frostbite, spreading over her skin and her heart the smaller Étienne’s waving form grows on the decks of the SS Pennland. Étienne travels on a Dutch ship, one of a large convoy, including General de Gaulle, on their way through U-boat-infested waters to West Africa, where they’ll try to persuade the Vichy French traitors to join the Free French.
Once Étienne is gone, Violette travels back to Burnley Road, to her parents’ house. Standing before it, she feels as if she had a cancer she lived with many years that was removed for a time but has returned. Maybe she shouldn’t have married Étienne so quickly. To have tasted love like that only to have it torn away is unbearable.
That first night home, Violette doesn’t say much. She can’t bear the awkwardness of how Maman and Papa look at her, trying not to think of the nights she spent with her husband. After dinner, in her bedroom, Violette looks over her pink coverlet while flashes of memory of the things she has done with Étienne in bed—and how much she loved them—come at her. Tiny ballet slippers hang from her mirror, and a shelf of dolls with glass eyes stares at her. She shivers when her thoughts turn to the little girl the Nazis murdered on the dock at Calais.
Violette looks away from her girlish things with disgust, flops on her bed, and stares at the ceiling, thinking, What just happened?
10
PLEURTUIT
VIRGINIA
IT TAKES MANY cuts before she comprehends the truth: France is bleeding out—sliced with a mortal blow—and with it, Virginia’s old life is dying.
Like the early days of grieving a loved one, Virginia awakens each morning not knowing, but rather having to remember. That remembering brings fresh pain with each wave, and the waves are drowning her. She thinks it will be better when she simply knows the world has turned upside down—to have the thing dead and buried and not have to recollect. Then maybe she can move on. But there’s no knowing, at least not now. There is no certainty and no timetable, and that’s the hardest part. Though she knows it’s not for her ultimate good, Virginia continues to grasp the ever-vanishing vapors of the memories of before, but they’re getting increasingly hard to hold.
The armistice was the beginning of the end, the gate opening to Nazi infestation. Now, as restrictions on everything from travel to eating and drinking are added by the day, the death of the old life becomes final. The conquering enemy has stopped asking before plundering the cupboards. They’re no longer shy about reaching out to grasp arms, no longer polite about trying to fumble with the French language, instead telling the women to learn German.
Virginia finds Mum’s old French-German dictionary in the library. Virginia feels an urgent need to master a particular set of words, not to obey the enemy but so she can speak plainly to the officer who’s always looming. The opportunity comes almost as soon as she has perfected them.
“I have a husband I love,” she says to the officer in German. “He will be home soon.”
The officer’s expression turns cold. She feels a chill from the draft he leaves in his wake.
Virginia wants what she says to be true, but she doesn’t know if Philippe is alive. If he saw combat. If he’s injured or a POW. Every day that passes without word of his well-being is agony, and she doesn’t know how much longer she can endure.
When Nicole receives a letter from Michel, the women rejoice. Michel is being demobilized and is heading to Paris. Nicole will join him as soon as he sends word of his arrival. Virginia forces a smile for Nicole, but at night, Virginia weeps. Michel didn’t have news of Philippe’s regiment.
And the Germans press in.
Virginia and Nicole have to register at the town hall, presumably for German slave labor, somewhere at some future time. By decree, Azeline, not from this region, must return to Marseille, her place of origin, breaking all their hearts. The Nazis have taken over the house entirely, pushing the women to the farmer’s cottage. Grandmère and Mum have been forced into peasants’ quarters. As they are too well-mannered to complain, Virginia only knows their discomfort when they rub their aching backs upon awakening in the mornings from sleeping in such poor beds. Virginia tries to learn from them, but her bitterness overwhelms her, a scowl ever on her face.
It rains nearly every day. Leaks in the cottage roof drip into metal buckets. Hair refuses to lie smooth. Clothes cling, damp and musty, never drying. The Nazis strut about, splashing through puddles in their black boots, tracking mud over the Aubusson rugs in the house, complaining about such unfortunate weather. If it had been any other summer or any other guests, Virginia would have apologized for the rain, but it’s a summer of mourning, and these men are not guests, they’re thieves. They are invaders and murderers. And God is weeping over all of them.
Since Nicole has such life back in her, she hardly notices the miserable weather, and pulls the heaviest weight with the chores. Virginia can see that Nicole is doing all she can not to gloat. Though Virginia knows it’s wrong, she secretly resents Nicole’s happiness. Virginia had to wait so long to find love, and now it has been taken from her. Her husband and their baby—gone. She’s never believed in a punishing God, but now the thought plagues her, a torturous temptation to doubt she’s having a hard time ignoring.
