Authors: Lorna Lee
She sighed, clearing her fractured heart. She smiled a smile marred by regret, yet infused with gratitude and love for this man who she knew as her generous employer, her Papa incarnate, and her never-to-be-lover. Her tears were all wiped away by the time she returned to the Dorval residence to resign.
§
Meri wanted an apartment easily accommodating both mother and daughter.
Unfortunately, without a job, I must be realistic.
“Realistic” meant thrifty with the money Michel gave her before she left his office.
If I’m smart, I can make this money last several months.
She had the presence of mind to ask Michel about paying for Jeannine’s tuition at the convent when he gave her the cash.
Am I being bold or a good mother?
“Until you find a new job and new place to live with her, I will continue to pay for the convent. I care about Jeannine’s welfare as much as I do yours, Meri.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, but closed it and turned his head away. As he did, Meri saw his normally straight shoulders slump.
His country has won the war, but he looks defeated.
“
Merci
, Michel. With your help, Jeannine and I will live together as mother and child soon. I can’t thank you enough.” She wanted to go over to him and hold him, if only to comfort him, but she knew they were destined to walk different paths.
Hanging on to each other will only deepen the wound and make the scar harder to heal.
“Thank me by letting me know where you end up and how you are doing. Perhaps I might visit you when you are both settled?” His voice was the voice of a little boy pleading with his parents.
“Perhaps.” Meri looked away as she spoke.
Another lie.
Being close to this man is too tempting. When I leave, he will never see me again.
“I will be sure to contact you to let you know when she is out of the convent. The nuns will be sad to see the money go.” They both managed smiles at the thought.
Meri found a boarding house where, for a few Francs a week, she shared a bedroom with two other women. All other facilities—bathroom, kitchen, parlor for entertaining—were all shared by between nine to twelve women, depending on the week.
Next, she needed a job. She gave up on the fashion industry. While she had experience working as a domestic and a cook in a hotel, and hotels were slowly recovering from the German occupation, Meri shied away from applying for those types of jobs. She wanted something different, something new.
Paris is being reborn, and I’m in the mood for a rebirth of my own.
While walking along
Rue
Bonaparte on her way back to the boarding house after a day of looking for work, Meri stopped at
Le Bonaparte
, a bar by night and a café by day. She wanted a coffee and wished her old friend, Siri, could join her.
Is she still in Paris
?
An old man came to her table. She had selected a table under the tattered, dingy red, blue, and almost white canopy. Even with a chilly breeze occasionally lifting the awning—it was early October—Meri preferred the open air tables.
“
Bonjour,
Madame. What may I get for you?” Sparking eyes hid under his heavy gray eyebrows.
“A coffee. Black. A job, too.” Meri could not explain her immediate comfort with this man. His gray moustache looked like the end of a wide and worn broom. He wore round, wire-rimmed spectacles, the frames bent and crooked as his back. The left lens cracked, both he and his glasses were weathered and worn.
He chuckled. “There’s plenty of coffee. I must check in the back to count how many jobs are left. I’ll be right back.”
Meri kicked off her shoes and rubbed her aching feet. The old man returned with her coffee. He also brought her a pastry. She looked up at him. “I…I didn’t order this. I can’t pay for—”
“Today all pretty ladies get a free pastry with their coffee.” The cup rattled in the saucer as he placed it on the table with hands so knotted Meri winced when she saw them. She could not tell if exhaustion or pain caused the shaking, which he tried to mask with his good humor.
Whatever it is, he’s a jolly man—something of a rarity in the bleak landscape of Paris and her survivors.
“
Merci beaucoup,
Monsieur
.
Did you notice any jobs while you back there?”
“It’s quiet here now, Madame, but when the American soldiers come, I’m not so sure this is the place for a proper lady.” He pulled a chair out and sat down, groaning the way people blink or breath: habitually and natural.
“How can you tell I’m a proper lady, Monsieur?” Meri felt as if she was flirting with a man who could be her grandfather.
He smiled. The wrinkles on his face deepened to hills and valleys.
This man has seen too much and still he smiles so easily. I want to work for someone like him.
“I think you’re the kind of woman who’s had a very good life.”
Meri raised one eyebrow, saying without words,
oh, really
?
He chuckled. “You’re the healthiest woman I’ve seen in years, except for some women on the arms of the Germans earlier in the war.” He held up his hand. “Please don’t take offense. I’m not a political man. I serve my customers and don’t ask questions. That’s how I kept my little establishment throughout the war.” He smiled more broadly and lowered his voice. “I’m a Jew and they never knew it!” Then he slapped his hand on the table, nearly spilling Meri’s coffee.
Meri studied him. She understood enough to know he appreciated people who did not sympathize with the Germans. “You’re the owner, then?” Meri took a sip of her coffee.
“
Oui.
Do you like my coffee?”
She nodded gently as she sipped the rich, smooth, dark French roast.
The aroma of good Parisian coffee is just as important as the flavor.
“
Très bon
. Did you make it yourself?”
“
Non.
I have help.” He started the process of getting up, an effort neither graceful nor quiet.
Meri used this as her opportunity to offer her services to him. She stood, took his arm and helped lift him out of his chair.
“
Merci
. You’re stronger than you look, Madame.” He adjusted his spectacles, which had slipped down his nose.
“My name is Meri Vaarsara, Monsieur. I’m experienced with cooking and serving.” She showed him her hands—the ones Jeannine had criticized so many years ago. “Can you tell I’m a hard worker who needs a job?” She only stopped to take a breath, not wanting to give him a chance to turn her down yet. “I’m a single mother, too. My daughter’s name is Jeannine. Her father was a Jew. He’s gone.”
I never thought I’d tell anyone but Siri about Jeannine’s real father.
The old man’s eyes lost their playful glint. “He didn’t make it?”
“
Non.
” Meri hung her head. She hated lying.
It’s probably not a lie….
Meri had no remorse when thinking about Amiel or his probable fate.
He’s just another person, like Jani, Tuula, Elina, or Michel who I had to leave behind for my life to move forward. What’s the use of wasting time on people who are gone when focusing on surviving now is all that matters?
“Where’s your little girl now?” He asked, as concerned as a grandfather.
“She’s in a Catholic convent not too far from here. Who would search for a Jewish girl in a Catholic convent?”
He smiled. Then he laughed. “You’re as cunning as I am, Meri Vaarsara. I like you. Do you know about the Americans? The soldiers? Drunk American soldiers? I would be throwing a rabbit to the hounds by giving you a job here.”
“Monsieur. I’ve dealt with many hounds before.”
“I need another waitress but mostly at night serving drinks. The pay is not so good, but the soldiers, they’re loose with their money if they like the service. It’s hard work. Hectic.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of the job you just offered me?” She laughed and hugged him. “
Merci! Merci beaucoup!
When do I start? I can start tonight. My dream is to save enough money so my daughter and I can finally live together in a place of our own.”
The sparkle returned to his eyes. “I’ve made a pretty lady happy today. It’s a good day. Let me show you inside and introduce you to your new coworkers, at least the ones who are here. We can talk about your duties, uniform, rules, pay—details. You can start tonight. The Americans come every night. I think
Le Bonaparte
is popular with them because it’s one of the only bars they can all pronounce. None of them speak much French. Do you speak any English?”
“
Non,
Monsieur. Is that a problem?”
“It’s not for any other waitress. You’ll learn what you need to learn in time.”
“I’m sure I will, Monsieur.”
“Since you’re now working for me, please call me Gratien. I warn you, those crazy Americans, they call me Groucho. I think it’s because I look like Groucho Marx, and they can’t pronounce my real name when sober, let alone drunk!” He shook his old head of wavy, scattered gray hair and chuckled.
As he escorted her inside, she picked up her own coffee cup and saucer and uneaten pastry. Meri wrapped the pastry and put it in her pocket.
The future looks bright again!
Where will this path lead me? I don’t care! I’m out from under the thumb of Madame Dorval.
Learning a new job will keep me busy so my mind won’t have time to think about Michel and what might have been.
Maybe with this night job, I can spend my days working for another fashion house part-time. This is as much a victory for me as winning the war is for France.
Meri learned about New York City for the first time in the boarding house. She overheard many conversations about endless opportunities in this large, exciting American city. Her housemates repeatedly said, “It’s a place where the streets are paved with gold.” Meri decided Paris had lost its appeal.
This American city seems like the best place for Jeannine and me to find happiness and, perhaps, even some gold of our own. They must have as many or more fashion houses in New York City as we do in Paris.
But Meri had too many unanswered questions to even formulate a plan.
Where is this New York City? How far away is it? How would they get there? How much would it cost? Were people even allowed to travel so soon after the war?
Meri now had a job keeping her busy from mid-afternoon until well after midnight seven days a week, unless Gratien granted her an evening off.
Finding answers to my questions is difficult enough. Formulating a plan is impossible.
Meri quickly gave up the idea of working part-time for a fashion house in Paris. She was exhausted every day.
§
After three months of working at
Le Bonaparte
, Meri became a seasoned and only slightly jaded waitress. She learned enough English to communicate in the most rudimentary way with the patrons of the bar. Rarely did she get a drink order wrong, but she still did not understand the American soldiers’ banter. “Talk too fast. Anyway, no understand.” She would say to a gang of laughing, drunk men who all seemed to want her to pay attention to more than their drink orders.
New Year’s Eve, 1945 proved a particularly chaotic night. The Americans were behaving worse than usual, something Meri did not think possible. She had never seen so many men drink so much hard liquor—not even in Finland.
How are they able to stand up and walk at the end of the night, with or without a French woman on their arm?
Watching them was both comical and alarming.
On this night, the soldiers drank, shouted, and grabbed at the waitresses’ arms, legs, breasts, or derrières more than usual. Slapping away their hungry hands only made them laugh and try harder.
Usually the soldiers went for the younger waitresses. Meri had just celebrated her fortieth birthday without fanfare. For a “middle-aged woman” she still had a pretty face and curvaceous figure, but the tell-tale signs of a hard life filled with worry left their marks on her hands, around her mouth and eyes, and on her forehead. And most of Meri’s money went to the convent, not to a hair dresser, so her hair was not fashionably styled. As a result, the younger, sexier waitresses got the big tips.
I don’t mind.
I know how my co-workers earn their extra money. They stagger away with those drunken soldiers. I could do the same if I wanted to, but my dignity is worth my smaller wages.
On this riotous night at
Le Bonaparte
, however, the American soldiers fondled, grabbed, and harassed Meri along with the rest of the waitresses. The entire bar became an alcohol-fueled pandemonium. Even the waitresses were drinking.
“Here!” Gratien shouted every so often as Meri made her way back to the bar to fill an order. He handed her a shot glass of some amber-colored potion that burned her throat as it went down and warmed her belly.
She smiled at him and nodded. Meri noticed he did the same for all the waitresses and for himself. “Tonight,” he said, “drinking a little is a matter of survival.
Vive la France!
”
The night wore on to almost dawn. Many patrons, mostly American soldiers, had passed out on the floor or were draped over chairs or tables. A few waitresses ended up tangled among the hodgepodge of arms, legs, and torsos. Meri, however, was among the few still standing—wobbling, but upright.
She found herself back at her boarding house room, in her bed with a man she did not recognize. They were naked, except for his brown socks, which had holes where his big toes stuck out. Meri was as befuddled as she was repulsed by him and her apparently indiscrete behavior.
The last thing I remember is being at the bar….
She got up quietly and quickly, trying to get dressed before he woke up. He slept so soundly, she discovered, she could have jumped on the bed without waking him. Now that she was dressed, with a pounding headache to complete her ensemble, she needed to get this stranger out of her room. Having a “gentleman caller” in her room after ten o’clock p.m. violated one of the boarding house rules. Meri looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand: 11:12
a.m.
He did not appear to be a gentleman, either.
Mon Dieu, I came home with an American soldier!
She saw the evidence all around her on her bedroom floor: his cap, trousers, shirt, jacket, and overcoat all in the dreadful olive army color. The one shoe she saw was brown. She looked for the other shoe and found it under one of her roommate’s beds.
My roommates!
On her hands and knees retrieving the shoe, Meri slowly turned her head to see who, if anyone, besides the sleeping soldier occupied the shared room. Only one bed other than her own was still full. The young woman seemed as oblivious to the morning as the man in her bed.
What did she see? Will she report me?
Meri had no time for conjecture. She needed this man out of her bed, her room, and her life as soon as possible. She poked him with his shoe.
He grunted, rolled over from his stomach to his back, and began snoring. She could see his face now and was not pleased.
How much did I drink last night? My taste in Americans is terrible!
The man had the largest nose and ears she had ever seen on a real person. His head was very round and too big for his body, which was compact. Everything about him—except for his head—was economical: short and sinewy arms, abbreviated fingers, hairless chest. Not exactly plump, his belly was only slightly rounded. She stopped there. So did the rumpled blankets and sheets. The only other part of him showing was his big toes covered with his socks.
They seem small for a soldier’s feet.
Meri grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.
He moaned and flailed his arms as if trying to block his “attacker” without much vigor.
“
Réveillez-vous! Vous devez partir!
” Meri whispered, desperate to wake him up and get him out of her bed and room.
“Wha? Hold…hold on. Where am I?” He rubbed his eyes, then his whole face.
Meri, not understanding these English words, repeated her request in French for him to wake up and get out.
“What you sayin’, miss? It sure sounds nice, whatever it is. I need my glasses. You seen my glasses?”
Meri threw her hands up and heaved a monumental sigh.
He understood. “Yeah, I hear you. Ain’t no fun yappin’ at each other and gettin’ nowhere, eh?” He scratched his head and gave Meri a crooked, mischievous grin. “We must’ve spoke the same language last night.” He pulled the sheets up and looked under. “Yup!”
She understood. Meri put her hands over her face, and then on her hips. She glared at him pointing to the door while furtively glancing around the room to make sure her roommate was still sleeping calmly.
Hopefully she’s drunk, too, and won’t wake up easily.
“Okay. Okay. I git it. Actually, this happens a lot. But I gotta find my glasses, so hold yer horses, miss.” He made his forefingers and thumbs into “O’s” and put them up to his eyes.
Meri realized he wanted his spectacles and helped him search. She bent down to look on the floor and spotted them under the bed.
What did we do last night?
As Meri reached for his glasses, she noticed him moving to get out of bed. She raised her hand in the air and said a bit more sharply than she wanted to “
Arrêter!
” She did not want him getting out of bed naked with her in the room.
Maybe I had sex with him last night, maybe not. Either way, I don’t remember and I want to keep things that way.
Meri grasped onto her amnesia—a small comfort—with the might of a person hanging on to the edge of a steep cliff.
She handed him his glasses without looking at him.
“Thanks, miss.” He put them on. “That’s much better.”
Meri glanced at him without turning her head. Her natural curiosity got the better of her.
He smiled and nodded his head in apparent approval as he scanned Meri from top-to-bottom with his corrected vision. “Ain’t you just the perrttiest site I seen in a lifetime? I don’t usually get the pertty girl. I got lucky last night! I bet 1946 is my lucky year!” He settled back on the pillows, his arms folded behind his head.
His smile improves his looks a little
, Meri thought reluctantly. Meri put her palms up and shook her head.
“Je ne parle pas Anglais.”
She did not speak English well enough in the three months Meri had been working as a waitress to converse with a man in her bedroom—in a barroom, however, she managed to communicate in English well enough. Her vocabulary consisted of either single words or very short phrases:
Yes. No. One moment. Nice to see you. Thank you. What would you like? My name is Meri.
What’s your name? Are you hungry?
And the English words for numbers and drinks (
two beers, three whiskeys
). None of her bar-talk English did her any good with this man in her bed.
“No” might come in handy.
Meri began picking up his clothes. She pushed them toward him. Since she figured out he did not understand anything she said, she went on a French rampage, “You’re not welcome here. I was too drunk to make good decisions last night. This is a big mistake and I want you gone before I get into trouble.” She turned and began to walk out of the bedroom, not caring if her roommate woke up or not.
He took his clothes and chuckled. “Hot damn, you talk as pertty as you look. My buddies in New York’ll never believe I landed me a French doll like you.”
Meri, about to close the door, stopped. “New York?” She said with her back to him.
“I come from New York, sure. You know somebody there or somethin’?” Meri could hear the sounds of clothes being put on; still she did not dare turn around.
New York City? Maybe last night is not such a bad mistake after all.
“My name is Meri.” She said in the clearest English she could muster.
“Well, Meri, pleasure to meet you. My name is Joe. Joe Trottier. Hey,” he said, “we finally understand each other.”
“Yes.” She said softly as she closed the door.
Joe Trottier from New York City. I’m glad you didn’t understand me when I was throwing you out.
§
Meri stood outside the door hoping Joe would be efficient.
If he feels the same headache and nausea I do, he probably will be moving slowly.
She did not want to leave her post outside her bedroom because she wanted to make sure he left with a good impression of her and he left without her landlady seeing him. A wave of sickness came up from her stomach. Meri rushed to the bathroom and vomited.
As she cleaned her face and mouth, she noticed several used condoms in the wastebasket. The sight nearly made her sick again. “
Mon Dieu!
Are these all from me?
Non!
Impossible! New Year’s Eve must be a naughty night for lots of girls. At least I hope so. I’m talking to myself. This isn’t good.” Repulsed by the used condoms but more afraid of what might happen if her landlady found them; Meri took a hand towel and scooped them up from the wastebasket.
I’ll get rid of them later—after Joe is safely out of the house.
Too late.
Meri heard voices. Loud, frantic voices.
Her roommate yelled in French. “Who are you? Get out of my room now or I’ll call the police! You pervert!” Then she launched into a series of more vulgar insults and intimidating threats, including cutting off his private parts.
Joe’s voice rose in self-defense. “Hey! Stop flingin’ them shoes at me! I’m tryin’ to git outta here. For cryin’ out loud, I’m sorry. I’m leavin’ as quick as I can….”
Meri heard a bunch of gibberish and then a door slammed. She prayed she did not hear her name. She peeked out of the bathroom. Her landlady labored up the stairs with her heavy cane. The cane was partly the old woman’s helper and partly an intruder’s worst nightmare. So far, Joe could be anyone’s man, not just Meri’s man.
Run past her, Joe, and keep quiet!
“Not another one! Who are you?” The landlady spoke astonishingly clear English.
“Joseph Trottier, Private, First Class. American Army, ma’am.” Joe stood erect, his arms glued to his sides. Meri could see from her bathroom vantage point that his shirt was buttoned improperly, not lining up on the top or the untucked bottom.
The landlady huffed. “I run a respectable house, Mister. If you’re preying on one of my boarders, I’ll have you arrested before you can say ‘American Embassy’ or whoever you think will get you out of trouble. You think we French will be forever at your feet because you came in and saved the day. Think again. We fight our own battles and run our own affairs. Go back home.”