Authors: Lorna Lee
While Joe was inside the shack, Meri spoke with Jeannine. “You must listen to me and not ask questions. We don’t have much time.”
“Mamma, you’re scaring me.”
“You should be scared. For reasons I can’t tell you, this place—” Meri shuddered. “This place isn’t safe for us, especially when Joe isn’t here to protect us.”
“I don’t understand. Do you mean his papa? He’s a sickly old—”
“Things in this world are never as they seem, Jeannine. Now stop with your questions and listen to me.”
The wide-eyed girl nodded.
“When Joe comes out, ask him to take us into this town you spoke of. Is there a church in this town?” Meri whispered even though no one but mother and daughter were in the truck.
Jeannine shrugged.
“Ask him. I pray there is. If not, ask him to take us to any church. Then ask him if he knows of any person who can speak both French and English. I need someone who can help us communicate other than you. What I have to say is not for your ears.”
Jeannine put on her pouting face. “Mamma, I’m fourteen now. That makes me an almost woman. You can tell me anything.”
“Not this. Never this. Tell Joe we’re never going back into this pigsty again. He can get our clothes and bring them to us. If he won’t, I’ll leave them behind. Once he finds someone who can act as an interpreter, I’ll explain why. Until then, I don’t care if he thinks I’m crazy.”
Maybe I am crazy….
§
Joe finally came back out to the truck.
“Sorry it took so long. Pa broke a glass and I had to clean it up. He’s okay. That’s one worry off my mind.”
Meri sat staring straight ahead, a monument of willfulness.
Jeannine did her best to communicate to Joe all that her mother had asked of her.
“What in tarnation is goin’ on with her?”
Jeannine shrugged. “Drive to church, Joe. Please?”
“Okay. Pa’s in a wicked bad mood, anyway.”
Father LaFountaine answered nearly all of Meri’s prayers. He hailed from Quebec, Canada—the border only several miles away—so he spoke French and English. He also provided a safe confessor and counselor.
While Jeannine waited patiently in the sanctuary, Joe and Meri met with Father LaFountaine in his office. “Are the two of you having some kind of marital difficulty?” he asked in English.
“I’ll say. She don’t speak English too good. Came from France after the war. That’s where we were married. I think she thought we was goin’ to live in New York City just ʼcause I said I live in New York. She was mad about that from the git-go. Now she’s got a bee in her bonnet over somethin’ she won’t tell me about. All’s I know is she won’t go back home with me. Father, she ain’t let me touch her…in that way…since I brung her home. Now she won’t even look at me.”
Meri heaved a sigh as she uncrossed and crossed her legs. She twisted the hem of her skirt, a hem that had obviously been twisted many times.
“I’ll speak with you in a moment, please be patient, Madame Trottier.” Father addressed Meri in French.
Meri nodded.
Turning back to Joe he asked, “How long have you been living over here?”
“’Bout five weeks. And I found her just walkin’ on the road to town earlier today. She ain’t been outta the house once since I brought her home.”
“Mr. Trottier, war brides often have a difficult time adjusting to a new life in a new country. You must give her time. The language barrier complicates matters. Have you tried to learn French?”
“I’m not so good with learning stuff like that. I’m better with fixin’ things like pipes and gadgets.”
“Perhaps even trying to learn a few words would warm her to you. Little things make big differences to women. Buying them flowers always seems to help, too.”
Joe nodded.
Father LaFountaine turned his attention to Meri. “Madame Trottier, tell me, why are you so upset.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Meri talked about her experiences in Paris, her perception that Joe deceived her, and the inhumane living conditions to which he brought her and her daughter.
Father rubbed his chin as he listened.
“But the worst part happened today. His drunken old father tried to rape me.” She told him all of the details, including Pa’s threat to prey on Jeannine.
“You poor child. No wonder you’re so upset. Am I correct in assuming Joe doesn’t know about what happened today?”
“
Oui
. I couldn’t tell him in French, and I don’t know enough English so he would understand why I refuse to go back to that…that…shack with my daughter. Could you tell him?”
Father’s eyes widened and he sat up straighter in his chair. “Me?”
“You know the right words to say. I don’t.”
“I’ve never done this kind of thing before, but I can see why you are asking me. Lord, give me the right words…”
Father LaFountiane did his best to retell Meri’s encounter with Pa to Joe.
“What? Now lookie here. My old man barely gits up off his couch. She’s tellin’ you he put the moves on her?” Joe got up from the chair and paced around the room. His shoes squeaked out an angry, annoying rhythm.
Meri put her hands to her face and began to cry.
Father stood up, his feet uncomfortably glued to the floor.
Joe finally spoke to no one or to everyone. “That ole coot. I figured he finally drank hisself sick enough to be harmless. He sure acts that way, what with me or Meri havin’ to serve him whatever he asks for. He’s the same ole dog he always was. And he went after my wife the first time I wasn’t lookin’. Bastard! Oh, pardon my French, Father.” He stood behind Meri and put his hands on her shoulders.
She tried to squirm away from him, but he held tight while he asked Father LaFountaine, “Could you tell her I’m real sorry about Pa, and I won’t make her go back? I’ll deal with him alone. We gotta figure out where we gonna live till I can afford a place of our own.”
Father breathed a sigh of relief. “Of course.” He translated. As he spoke, Meri’s tears stopped.
He believes me. I never have to go back there again.
§
Meri and Jeannine stayed in a spare room in Father’s living quarters for the night. The next day, Joe came back with their few belongings and, together, they searched for an apartment. Jeannine asked why they were moving. She received the same answer from Joe and Meri: “It’s time for our own place.” Meri never asked Joe how he dealt with his father. She was not even sure if he maintained a relationship with him. He never mentioned him to her again—not even when or how he died. Meri could not bring herself to thank him for insulating her from his father—Joe had brought the retched man into her life—but she became kinder toward her husband in small ways that mattered to him: learning to cook his favorite meals, learning more English words, and laughing at his jokes even though she did not understand them.
They found a one-bedroom apartment to rent. Meri did not care about the small and shabby apartment, which had a proper floor and no lecherous drunk to deal with. Since Meri withheld her affections from Joe, privacy was not an issue. Meri had decided that, while Joe seemed to be trying his best by moving them into a better living situation, he had still betrayed her by luring her to America.
How many times did I ask him about New York City while Gratien was there to make sure we understood each other?
He could have clarified. I never would’ve married such a homely man if he didn’t hold the promise of New York City in his hands. I’ll never forgive him for his trickery. He ruined my life, and I’ll never let him forget it.
Joe got a job working for a contractor who built houses. He did the plumbing work. Within a year he saved enough money to buy a small plot of land just outside of town and began building them a proper house. She made sure the house had three bedrooms: one for him, one for her, and one for Jeannine. Her bedroom was the largest—she wanted room for a sewing machine and storage for material. Once she learned that Montreal, Canada was approximately an hour’s car ride away from her new home, she insisted on regular visits to the French-speaking metropolis where she could buy fine material from which to fashion dresses for her and now her fifteen year-old daughter.
§
Three years passed when Meri had her first bit of luck in her new country. A neighbor admired one of her dresses and asked Meri if she would sew her daughter’s wedding dress.
“Yes, I to happy do it.”
“How much do you charge?”
“I get back to you.”
Meri asked Joe and Jeannine how much she should charge. She discovered she needed more information.
Will I have to purchase the material? Do I charge extra for alterations? Should I charge by the garment or by the hour?
There’s a great deal of complexity to being a businesswoman!
Meri seemed happy for the first time since she realized New York City was not going to be her home. She devised a pricing list she thought seemed fair with as many contingencies she could imagine and presented it to her neighbor. The woman hired her on the spot.
Perhaps my prices are too low. I’ll change them next time.
The wedding gown garnered a great deal of attention and, with it, so did Meri’s fledgling sewing business. Soon, Meri’s schedule filled with both new women’s garments to make and alterations of both men’s and women’s clothing.
Her bedroom became overrun with garments either waiting for her to sew or waiting for customers to pick up. Having strangers come to her bedroom felt awkward for both Meri and Joe. Something needed to change.
She asked Joe to build her a small shop on their property. She had a business and it needed a name.
La Couture de Meri
was Jeannine’s idea. Meri approved wholeheartedly.
Her dream had been to work for a famous fashion house in Paris. “My dream too small!” She told Jeannine and Joe over supper one evening. “I have
my
fashion house. Paris, no. New York City, no. Here, yes! Papa be proud of his little girl. Joe, you building me shop near house for my sign.”
Jeannine smiled. “Maybe someday you can sew my wedding gown, Mamma. I’d be proud to wear a
La Couture de Meri
original
.
”
Meri grasped her daughter’s hand and squeezed it.
After all my mistakes, I’m a good mother. Not like Mamma. My daughter loves me and wants me.
Joe interrupted the tender moment between mother and daughter. “Aw, Meri. You know I was gonna build me the garage I always wanted next to the house.”
“Joe Trottier, you bringing me here to New York Nowhere. You building me sewing shop.” Meri released her hold on Jeannine and stood up to face the still-seated Joe. She placed both hands on her hips and planted her feet firmly on the floor. Her eyes, however, remained a cool light gray.
Joe looked up at his determined, never-take-no-for-an-answer wife. “Sure, Meri. I know when I’m beat. I saw that look too many times from my Sarge in the Army.”
“Yes, you build shop?”
He still talks too fast. What is this “sarge” he talks about and what does this have to do with building my sewing shop?
“Yes, I build shop.” He smiled his goofy, crooked smile.
At that moment, Meri could have sworn she saw her Papa wink behind the thick spectacles framing Joe’s jovial eyes.
My grandmother, upon whose life this book is based, was a woman with a past worth knowing.
Unfortunately for me she did not make a habit of dwelling in the past. When she talked about her early life, she tip-toed around the details that mattered. Why was her relationship with her mother—my great-grandmother—so contentious? What made her love her seafaring, and mostly absent, father so much? What was life like in Nazi-occupied Paris? Why did she remain in America after she realized she would not be living in New York City, especially since the United States government offered free passage back to disillusioned war brides? I knew more about the big, white dog she looked after for one of her Parisian employers than how she managed to raise her daughter (my mother) in the midst of a war or how she met my step-grandfather and finagled her way to America after the war.
As a young child, I always characterized my grandmother as moody and rather boring, watching her do her daily routines without a smile. Afternoon tea time was when she became more animated, more interesting, more human. My grandmother, my mother, my two sisters and I would all share sugar-sweetened tea she had made. Sometimes, when she felt like it, she would reminisce about her life in Paris or, more rarely, her girlhood days in Finland. The stories she told, however, were the same ones, much like cooks always preparing the same dishes for which they are known or with which they are most comfortable.
When she was in her early eighties and thought she was dying, she revealed the identity of my mother’s real father. For most of my mother’s life and my life, she told us he was a French soldier who died in “the war” (even though my mother was born in 1933, well after World War I and well before World War II). She only revealed that he was a Jewish merchant and never revealed his name. The astonishing revelation that my mother is half Jewish and that she raised her during the occupation of France prompted this book.
This book is a work of fiction based on the puzzle pieces of her life she chose to reveal. I was able to gather those disparate pieces and put them loosely together. I filled in the many holes with my imagination, but the chronology and substance of what you read is true. Many specific events are also true. To preserve my family’s privacy, all names and specific locations in the United States are fictional as well.