Authors: Mary Christian Payne
Besides the terror associated with learning that she was expecting a baby, the war became more frightening and real. In June, Paris had fallen to the Germans. Elise found it nearly impossible to imagine the German flag flying over the Place de la Concorde. She was so pleased about having made the decision to escape France. It was hard to picture the village of Bergues, so near their little farm, under Nazi occupation. She wondered if the monsters who’d stormed the house now held positions of authority in the area that she and her brother had once considered a haven of peace.
In midsummer, terrible air battles began. English and German planes fought for supremacy in the skies over the English Channel and eventually London itself. What became known as the Blitz turned the capital city into a nightmare of carnage. Whole blocks were completely destroyed. Businesses and homes became piles of rubble, and streets were filled with shattered glass. On Sunday, December 29
th
, there was intense firebombing in the East of London. St. Paul’s Cathedral stood in the midst of the wreckage, but amazingly, it escaped severe damage and became an inspiration to residents of the besieged city. Lives were lost, and hospitals overflowed with the wounded. The stories filtering back to Brighton were heartbreaking. Citizens lived in constant fear, and Anderson shelters became their second homes. Air raids often began as soon as darkness fell and continued throughout the long, dark nights, until dawn appeared in the eastern sky. The odor of cordite filled the air, and no one was allowed to venture out of doors without a gas mask draped over their shoulder. Elise read every line in the newspapers. It was ghastly and terrifying. She wondered if her brother, Josef, was a part of it.
Other cities in England also experienced horror. Only fifty miles from Brighton
,
where Elise suffered her own anxiety and despair, Southampton was struck. The entire High Street was completely obliterated. The worst came at the end of November, when fires from detonated bombs were easily seen at
Maison de Violette
. It was said that the flames were visible as far away as the coast of France.
As months rolled by, Elise’s pregnancy advanced. She wore a gold wedding band and held her head high. She also changed her surname to one sounding more French. She called herself Elise de Baier. The people of Brighton grew to know her, and everyone was instantly attracted to her beauty and sweetness. She became involved with the war effort, knitting socks and jumpers for soldiers. In addition, she was active in her local parish, taking part in jumble sales and helping prepare meals for the poor. People admired Elise’s obvious kindness and compassion. No one questioned that she was a grieving widow, facing motherhood alone. The tale was told so many times, Elise began to believe it herself. The first time she felt the baby move, she knew she couldn’t give it up for adoption. The circumstances surrounding the child’s conception became more and more insignificant. Elise believed that although the rape was the worst nightmare she could have imagined, God had created the tiny life in her womb as a reward for such terrible degradation.
Deep inside, she wondered if she could ever stand the touch of a man again. There was no question that the awful, physical attack had left deep scars on her psyche. She had no desire to ever marry, nor to feel the warmth of a decent man’s embrace. She was wary of men, believing they all wanted the same thing from a woman. She reflected on her brother, Josef, and thought he was the only man she could ever trust. Living at a brothel didn’t help. She witnessed men coming and going, and was well-aware that many were supposed to be upstanding husbands in the community.
Occasionally, she thought about the handsome RAF pilot who’d come to her home the same day the German soldiers paid their visit. She still remembered his name. Sloan. She always smiled when he came to mind. He’d been so absolutely certain they were soulmates. It was a silly fantasy, yet he’d been unequivocally definite. She wondered if she’d shy away from him, too, if they ever met again. There wasn’t any doubt in her mind that if he knew what had happened to the virginal, shy girl he’d met on a rainy day in the French countryside, he’d be repulsed. That hadn’t figured into his whimsical illusion. Obviously the man was a dreamer. But the grim reality of her assault would strip away his delusions of perfection. She firmly believed it would leave him, or any man, with feelings of distaste toward her. He was clearly the sort who worshipped perfection and hated defects or flaws. So when Sloan entered her mind, she chased away his memory. She’d shrug her pretty shoulders and imagine the look on his face when told how she’d been defiled. It was good that they would never meet again.
***
Ironically, during the times Elise was thinking about Sloan, she was on his mind, too. In fact, she was on his mind a lot of the time. He could scarcely get her out of his thoughts. He carried her picture with him, always in his breast pocket, close to his heart. Finally, in the early months of 1941, when it had been nearly a year since he’d so briefly and randomly met her, Sloan decided he could no longer go on pretending he hadn’t changed as a result of their encounter.
Therefore Anne Whitfield received a letter from him in the summer of 1941. He’d been back at his base in England after Dunkirk, but was now stationed in Africa. Anne wondered how long it would be before she saw him again. She expected this latest letter to be another of his usual missives, filled with talk of aircraft– spitfires and hurricanes – but this one was vastly different. He was releasing her from their engagement. Her hands shook as she read.
He told her that he’d purposely waited over a year to write. It wasn’t fair, he said, for her to continue believing they had a future together after the war. His thoughts had taken a completely different turn. He admitted that what he was about to tell her would undoubtedly cause Anne to think he was reckless and immature. Nonetheless, he believed that he was honourable, and the feelings he had were so strong that he had to share them with her. All he could do was hope that the years they’d spent as childhood companions would keep their friendship intact. He said he didn’t want to lose what they’d always shared. But, he didn’t love her the way a man should love the woman he wanted to marry. He thought of her as a sister – nothing more. Certainly a beautiful, sweet sister, but a sister nonetheless.
Then he launched into an account of the day he’d wounded his leg near Dunkirk and of a beautiful French girl who’d provided aid. It was a romantic anecdote, but Anne found it difficult to believe that he’d alter his life’s plan because of something so trivial. Her heart ached when he described the girl – Elise – and try as she might, she couldn’t help but feel intense envy when she read his description of golden curls and an angelic face. Anne had always been told that she was a rare beauty, but now she was reading a letter from the only man she’d ever loved, telling her he’d found a girl he thought even lovelier. He said Elise was his soulmate. Anne put her head down and sobbed. It didn’t seem possible that such a thing was happening.
Not once in her entire life had she thought of marriage to any man besides Sloan.
She’d met many men in her life – had gone through a London Season and been presented to the King. There’d been no shortage of suitors. But never had she been remotely interested in the multitude of young men who’d worn a path to her parent’s doorway.
Sloan’s letter spoke of love, as though she didn’t know what it was. Of course she did. When Sloan returned from Oxford, the childish admiration she’d always felt, had subtly changed to a deeper and different sort of feeling. She knew what love was, because it was what she felt for Sloan - what she would always feel for him. And now he was throwing her away, for a fantasy about a French farm girl. The entire muddle was rubbish. She tore the letter to shreds and stuffed it in her waste bin.
Anne fell upon her bed and sobbed hysterically. She felt as though someone had opened her chest and ripped out her heart. Heartbreak turned to anger, and anger to rage. She pounded the pillow with her small fists and mumbled words to herself.
“How dare he? How
dare
he? He wants to throw me over for some farm girl from the French countryside. My God! Has he lost his mind? This can’t be happening. I have to think this through. I can’t let anger get in the way of intelligent thinking. I need to find a way – develop a plan. I’ll do whatever it takes. He’ll pay for what he’s doing. I want him to hurt as much as I’m hurting. I want his life to be ruined. He’ll be begging my forgiveness someday.”
***
Sloan sincerely cared for Anne. But, love had become a very serious matter. He didn’t view it lightly. He’d always had the dream about his soulmate, never quite believing she existed. But, now fate had placed him at that small farmhouse near Bergues, and everything had changed. He knew that when he told his parents what had happened they’d consider it immature and senseless. “Such things don’t happen in the real world,” he’d be told. He’d been fond of Anne as a child, with the sort of affection often existing between small children. But he’d never told her he loved her. She’d been a sweet playmate. Nothing more. He was not in the slightest degree in love with her. Anne was dark-haired, and he preferred blondes; brunette beauty held no charm for him. He liked gentle, fair-haired women. A tender-heart was essential. Anne would never be described that way. She was strong-willed and a bit self-absorbed. Why, oh why had he proposed to her?
Before leaving for the war, he’d visited Anne at her home,
Meadowlands,
to say goodbye. He remembered she’d been charming and picturesque as she stood next to the lilac trees. He told her he’d never see a lilac again without thinking of her. But that didn’t mean he loved her. He’d bent down and brushed her cheek with his lips, but it was not a lover’s kiss. He felt he was saying goodbye to his sister. Yet – yet, he was leaving for the war and had no idea how long he’d be gone. He was well-aware that she cared deeply for him. He didn’t want to go away with nothing to look forward to. Sloan knew it was foolish to continue thinking about his soulmate. So, in a moment of weakness, he’d asked Anne to marry him. She’d immediately responded with genuinely thrilled acceptance. On that day, wedding plans seemed far, far away. She promised to wait for him, no matter how long it took and to write every day. It felt good to know he had a girl at home, whose letters would follow him into battle. She was still a child then – only seventeen years old.
***
One of the girls who worked at
Maison de Violette
became Elise’s friend. Although they were from vastly different backgrounds, they bonded. Most of the others were nice to her, and only a few made her feel uneasy. There were two she didn’t like very much. She suspected it was jealousy on their part, because Madame Violette gave her free room and board. She didn’t have overt trouble with them and simply stayed out of their way. Her friend’s name was Giselle Dupris, also an escapee from German occupied France. Giselle, however, had already been a ‘working girl’ when she left France. Her parents were deceased and, unlike Elise, who had a brother to depend upon, Giselle had no one. Hence, she’d found a home in a Paris pleasure palace when only sixteen. Despite her occupation, she was a deeply spiritual person. She attended Mass daily and wore a lovely gold cross round her swan-like neck. Giselle had her own beliefs when it came to the way she earned an income and felt no shame.
Both girls loved the countryside and were passionate animal-lovers. They each dreamed of a cottage by the sea, where they could surround themselves with shelves of books, and a garden filled with flowers. While Elise was privileged to have more education than Giselle, the latter was by no means unintelligent. On quiet days they could be found sitting side by side on the bench behind
Maison de Violette,
reading poetry, or discussing the meaning of bible passages. Elise’s faith had always been strong. However, after the shock she’d endured, her belief was shaken. Giselle helped her sort through many doubts.
As their friendship progressed, Elise divulged the wretched details of her assault. Giselle said if she ever came face-to-face with one of the disgusting men who’d committed the crime, she’d neuter him. It was the first time Elise had laughed when speaking about the ordeal. Giselle longed to find a good man, who wouldn’t judge her poorly. At heart, she’d always wanted to be a wife and mother. Because of her striking appearance, if a person had met her in an upper-class environment, they’d never guess she earned her living in a disreputable way. She had long, dark hair and blue-green eyes. Her skin was like creamy porcelain, with cheeks the colour of baby-pink roses. Elise thought she resembled the English cinema actress Vivien Leigh, although her hair was darker. Occasionally Giselle would share her fantasies with Elise, admitting her greatest wish was to immigrate to America, abandon the life she’d lived since the age of sixteen, meet a respectable man and marry. She would be a virtuous and proper wife. Elise would smile, telling her friend that nothing was impossible.
Elise’s baby was due at the end of February. Madame Violette treated her with the utmost kindness and made certain she followed all of the doctor’s orders. Arrangements were made for the child to be born in hospital, and Elise kept a small bag packed with all necessities, so she’d be fully prepared when the time came. She’d grown quite large and was uncomfortable, but made every effort not to complain. She was so grateful not to be facing childbirth alone. Even with support, she was still afraid and couldn’t imagine being a mother. Since making the decision to keep the baby, Elise had read everything she could find about child-rearing. It seemed like a difficult task. Not having a husband only made the prospect more frightening. It was important that she do it well. She also prayed the infant wouldn’t resemble its sire. She absolutely couldn’t use the word ‘father’ for the monster who’d contributed to the baby’s conception. All three of the brutes were fair-haired, and so was Elise. Thus, she expected a blonde child. Unless, by some miracle, her own father’s genes were inherited, since he’d had very dark hair, brown eyes, and olive skin. It wouldn’t be long until she knew.