The French War Bride (11 page)

1940

T
he apartment was in a run-down, unkempt neighborhood, in a building so crude it didn't have a concierge. It didn't even have indoor stairs. Maman and I climbed up two rickety sets of steps on the outside of the building and knocked on a grimy door.

As promised, Joshua's mother welcomed us after reading his hastily scrawled note. She could speak no French—nor English, nor barely any German. She waved us inside. Paint peeled from the chipped plaster walls, and the ceilings were stained and sagging. Each of the three forlorn little rooms—there was a tiny kitchen, a combination living room and dining room, and a bedroom—were lit by a solitary lightbulb dangling from a frayed wire. The leaky, smelly bathroom was down the hall, and shared by all residents on the floor.

She indicated we were to take her bed. I started to refuse, but Maman was in such bad shape that I conceded simply so she would lie down. By now Maman was shaking, the color from her face completely gone. She had not said a word as I led her from the club to the apartment. Mme Koper heated some thin soup and offered us each a cup, with no spoon. I held the cup to Maman's lips and forced her to sip some.

I'm not sure how many people were lodged in the apartment—at least ten when we first arrived; maybe fifteen or even twenty later. People kept coming in after we were in bed, and four that I counted—maybe more—bunked down on the floor of our room.

I was exhausted, but my nerves were spooled tight. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the hole in Papa's chest. It looked like a weird red cave. I did not emotionally connect the vision etched on the inside of my eyelids with my father. There was a disassociation between my head and my heart.

I was sure I would never fall asleep. I held my mother and stroked her hair, as if she were a child. Her trembling stopped at length and her breathing grew slow and steady. I said a prayer thanking God for the small mercy of unconsciousness. I lay awake and listened for Joshua to come home, but at some point, fatigue overtook me.

I awoke early, when the sun was but a promise on the horizon, and sat up in bed. The memory of the day before seemed like a bad dream. When I realized it wasn't, grief and despair and panic flashed through me, so hard and rough that I was thrown back on the pillow—but then the steel door that separated my head from my heart banged shut again, and I arose to address the day.

It was early, but there was already a line to the bathroom. Maman was sitting up when I came back to the bedroom. She had used a chamber pot in the room, which I now had to find a way to empty.

She looked at me eagerly. “Did your friend find Alphonse?”

“I—I don't know,” I said, feeling cowardly.

Joshua was in the kitchen, and he was more blunt. He pulled out a chair for Maman and indicated she should sit. “I hate to tell you, madame, but your husband is dead.”

Tears sprang to Maman's eyes. Her lips pressed together hard, and then her eyes did the same. She opened them and wiped her face. “I must arrange his funeral. Where is his body?”

“The Nazis have disposed of it, and they will not reveal where.”

Maman's face crumpled like wadded-up paper. I held her as she sobbed for a long while. I wasn't sure if my neck was wet with her tears or mine.

Joshua spoke in a language I didn't understand to people as they shuffled into the kitchen—explaining, I assumed, why we were grieving. A gray-haired woman put mugs of tea in front of Maman and me, and rested a sympathetic hand on my shoulder.

“I am so sorry, madame,” Joshua said to Maman. “This is war, and I'm afraid your husband is a casualty.”

—

I didn't know exactly what to do, but I did know this: we needed a place to stay and we needed food. For both of those things, we needed money. “Maman—where did Papa bank?”

“On rue des Écoles, near rue Monge.”

“We have to go there.”

I put on my nicest dress, and helped Maman to do the same. I put on Maman's lipstick—her hand was shaking—and I put some on myself, even though up until now, she had forbidden me from wearing it. We left our bags at Joshua's place.

We walked to the bank and went in. I asked to speak to an officer.

We were guided to a desk, where a thin man with oiled salt-and-pepper hair greeted us and pulled out chairs for us. He looked at Maman, waiting for her to speak, but she sat silently, like an obedient child. I briefly explained the situation.

He folded his hands on the desk. I noticed his nails were clean and neatly trimmed. “I am very sorry for your loss, Mme Michaud.” His eyes were warm with sympathy as he addressed Maman. “Do you have identification papers?”

Maman rallied to respond. “My—my husband had them in his pocket. We were traveling, and . . .”

“I am sorry,” said the banker, “but I need some form of identification.”

I took Maman's purse and rummaged through her wallet. My heart sank. I pulled out a snapshot of Papa and handed it to the banker. “This is my father. Do you know him?”

He looked at the photo, then glanced at my mother, who was now unabashedly crying. I thought of Joshua's words. “My father was a casualty of war,” I said. “Surely there are exceptions to your rules in such a case?”

The man ran his hand down his face and sighed heavily. “Let me see
if there's anything I can do.” He took the photo and disappeared into the back.

I opened Maman's purse again and took out her rosary beads. I pressed them into her hand, and together we mumbled prayers.

At length, a tall gentleman with a nose like a hawk's beak approached and bowed before Maman. “Madame, let me express my deepest sympathies. I knew M. Michaud and thought he was an exceptional man. I am very sorry for your loss.”

His stately bearing revived some of Maman's usual manners. She dabbed at her eyes and managed a nod.

He sat down across from her. “As a financial institution, we are bound by certain procedures and protocols. The law and our clients expect it of us. Before turning the account of a deceased client over to his family, we must have proper identification, a marriage certificate and a death certificate. “

“We do not have those,” I said.

“I understand. Unfortunately, without them I cannot give you access to the funds in your husband's account.”

“But . . .” I began.

He raised his hand to me, and continued talking to Maman. “I can, however, authorize a small loan against the account to help tide you over. And later, when you can get the proper documents, you can come back for the rest.”

“You don't understand. It is unlikely we'll ever be able to get the proper documents,” I said.

“I do understand.” He leaned forward and spoke very softly, as if not wanting to be overheard. “But Germans are here at the bank, watching all that we do. I dare not deviate much from standard procedures. And if M. Michaud was killed for attacking a German officer, they will undoubtedly declare him a criminal and seize all of his holdings. I am offering more help to you than I should.”

And so it was that Maman was given the equivalent of about two months of Papa's wages. I watched her tuck it carefully into her wallet.
We checked into a hotel—it cost a small fortune in francs—and I put her to bed. I pulled down the covers, fluffed the pillow, even helped her take off her shoes, as I had a toddler I had once babysat. Everything was difficult for her. She suddenly seemed very old.

The money from the bank seemed an enormous sum to me, but when I considered the cost of the hotel, I realized we could only stay there for three weeks. And that was without factoring in the cost of food. The cost of food, I realized when I went to buy us croissants and coffee, was ridiculous.

“It is high because it is scarce,” Joshua told me when I went back to his apartment for our bags. “To make things worse, the Germans have raised the exchange rate in their favor, so that the reichsmark is worth many francs. They pay far less than we do for essentials.”

“What are we to do?”

“You must find an inexpensive place to live and a way to support yourselves.”

It was not enough that I was now Maman's mother; now I must become my own father. I needed to become a wage earner.

I needed to find a paying job.

1940

I
left Maman asleep and went to look for work. I had hoped to find something at a seamstress shop or a department store, but there was nothing. The next day I tried hotels and restaurants, all to no avail. At the end of two days' searching, I had nothing to show but sore feet.

Maman was gone when I returned to the room the second afternoon. She came back around dusk, and she looked better. Her face was still lined with grief, but some of the color had returned.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“To talk to a priest.” She set down her purse and took off her gloves. “Papa will soon be at rest.”

“What do you mean?”

She sat on the bed and smoothed her skirt. “I paid an indulgence.”

“What?”

“The priest will say thirty prayers. If Papa died without any mortal sins against him, that should be enough to get his soul out of purgatory.”

My heart felt like a sack of stones. “How much?”

The amount she named made me sink onto bed beside her. “I can't believe a priest asked that of you!”

“There is no price you can put on your father's soul.”

“But that is half of all the money we have in the world!”

“I had to do it. We didn't give him last rites or a proper burial. It was essential.”

I rested my head in my hand, suddenly sick with worry. I was more practical than devout. It seemed to me that God would want us to eat and have a place to stay. But Maman . . . well, Maman was Maman.

“Did you ask the priest if he knew of a place we could get work?”

“No, of course not.”

“Maman, we must find a way to support ourselves. And we must find a place to stay.”

“Perhaps Cousin Hildie can take us in.”

Hildie—the eldest daughter of Papa's late older sister! I had completely forgotten about her—but then, I hadn't seen her since I was about nine years old. As I recalled, she was a dour spinster who worked as a concierge at a small apartment building.

Maman said she had never been warm toward us, and that didn't change when we showed up at her door that evening.

“I can't let you stay,” she said. “This is a tiny apartment, and I don't have room.”

“As I recall, Papa helped you get this job,” I said. “And I believe he paid to bury your parents.”

“Amélie!” Maman looked at me, shocked that I would so rudely bring up a such a delicate matter.

It had the desired effect on Hildie. She uncrossed her arms and sighed. “I don't see how I can put up two people in this tiny place.”

“Well, let Maman live here. I will stay for only a night or two.”

“But, Amélie,” Maman asked, her face creased with worry, “where will you go?”

“I will figure something out.”

“You cannot stay with that young man's family!”

“No, of course not.”

“And I don't think you should see him again.”

I stared at her, incredulous. “Maman, he took us in. He looked for Papa. He helped us when no one else would!”

“Yes, but he is a foreigner. I don't even know what language they were all speaking. He does not come from our kind of people.”

Indignation rose in my throat. How could she be so prejudiced?

“Besides,” Maman added, as if she had not said enough, “they're very poor.”

“You and I are now very poor.”

“Nonsense. Once we get our house back, we will be fine.”

She wasn't in her right mind. There was no point in arguing with her. I took the money from her purse, leaving her only a little, so she couldn't think of some other cause to pay the priest to pray for.

I went to Joshua's apartment to enlist his help in finding a job. “Are there any openings at the club?”

“No. And if there were, it is no place for you.”

“But . . .”

“No.” His expression grew hard. “You must consider all of Montmartre off-limits, unless you want to be raped or forced into prostitution. It was not safe for a young girl before, but it is extremely dangerous now. You must never come to the club again.”

I thought of Maman's reaction to the area. I remembered how my skin had prickled at the sight of women in low-cut blouses and slit skirts, at the cigarettes glowing in the dark alleyways. I reluctantly nodded. “But I must find work. I can speak German. Surely that must have some value.”

“Yes.” Joshua looked at me thoughtfully. “Yes, it does. Maybe more than you know.”

“I will do whatever I must to take care of Maman. I am a hard worker. I am strong and I am brave.”

“I see that. It worries me.” He blew out a sigh and rubbed his jaw. “Meet me at the sciences building at the Sorbonne. Seven o'clock, classroom 129—and do not tell anyone where you are going. I think I know someone who can help.”

—

At seven, I found Joshua sitting in a small classroom with a bearded, middle-aged man in a jacket who looked like a professor. Perhaps he actually was.

A stack of papers lay on the desk at the front of the room, as well as a French textbook on calculus. Two chairs were pulled up to the professor's desk. It looked as if Joshua was being tutored or was possibly helping grade papers.

Both men politely stood as I approached. “Amélie, this is M. Henri.”

We shook hands, then Joshua pulled out a chair and placed a paper in front of me. “If anyone comes in, pretend that we are discussing a class project on calculus,” he murmured.

I nodded.

“I understand that you read and speak German and English?” M. Henri asked.

He spoke French, I noted, with an English accent. “Yes.”

“Then your country has need of you, if you are willing to take some risks.”

My heart leapt. I nodded eagerly, longing for a chance to fight the Nazis. “What do you want me to do?”

“First we must lay out what you must not do.” He leaned forward. “You must not tell anyone—and I mean
anyone
—that you are working for our cause. You cannot tell your mother, your closest friend, your brothers, or any coworkers. You must be the very soul of discretion. And if you are caught, you must do your best not to tell the Boches anything for at least three days.”

“I promise.”

“Ah, yes. We all promise at first. And it is important to have good intentions. However, if you are caught, you will spill everything you know. They will make you.”

“No.”

“Yes. There is no question of it. Therefore, we will give you no information that you do not absolutely need—and you will only be told what you need to know right before you need to know it.”

“That is reasonable.”

“It is important that you understand the danger you are putting yourself and your loved ones in. You need to understand that the Boches will
kill anyone they catch working against them.” He looked at Joshua. “You know she puts you and your family in the gravest danger.”

He lifted his shoulders. “We are Jews; we are in danger anyway. I trust her.”

“Hmm.” He looked at Joshua for a long moment, then turned his attention to me.

“Are you willing to do demeaning work?”

Here I hesitated. “What do you mean by demeaning? If you ask if I am willing to violate my morals, then . . .”

“No, no, he is not asking that,” Josh interrupted.

“Not yet, anyway,” M. Henri said.

“Not ever.” Joshua glared at him.

The Englishman gave a slight smile. “I was making a joke.”

“It was not funny.”

“Perhaps not.” He turned to me. “
Pardonnez-moi
. But you need to know, mademoiselle, that if you are caught, you are unlikely to emerge with your life—much less your virtue. Or even your teeth.”

“I was wrong to suggest she could help.” Joshua started to stand. “This is a bad idea.”

I put my hand on his arm, restraining him. “I am the one who gets to decide.”

We locked eyes. I channeled that chanteuse's self-assurance. It wasn't sexuality that was my secret weapon, I realized; it was the conveyance of confidence. I wanted—no, I
needed
—to work against the Boches who had so brutally killed my father—and who, for all I knew, had wounded, killed, or captured my brothers, as well.

Joshua sat back down. I looked at M. Henri. “What kind of job would I do?”

“We need eyes and ears in places where officers gather, let down their guard, and speak freely to one another. We will put you to work someplace you might overhear or see something useful. You look very young, so you will have to be placed in a menial job where you will not stand out.” His eyes seemed to issue a challenge. “When I say menial, I mean
you will have to clean bathrooms and chamber pots or scrub pots and pans.”

“All right.”

“We can get you a job as a maid—perhaps at a hotel. The one I am thinking of has a dormitory for some of its full-time help.”

A dormitory would get me away from Hildie's. “That would be perfect for my situation.”

“If we can get you on, you will have to work exceedingly hard. No one on staff at the hotel will know you also work for us. You will start with the lowliest jobs and work your way up to cleaning guest rooms or public spaces, where you will be of value to our cause.”

“I am a hard worker.”

He scribbled something on a sheet of paper. “Go fill out an application for employment here.”

I glanced at the name of a hotel. “I already tried there. I was told there were no positions.”

“One will become available tomorrow.” He steepled his fingers on the desk. “There is one other condition. This one is very important—extremely important.”

“What?”

“No one must know that you understand German or English. If anyone talks to you in either language, aside from a greeting or a basic phrase that any schoolchild would know, you must act as if you don't understand. It is harder than you imagine.”

“I can do that.”

“Can you?” he said in English.

“Of course,” I replied.

He quirked up an eyebrow. I put my hand over my mouth, realizing my error.

Joshua touched my hand. “You will do better with practice.”

I stared at him. “You speak English?”

His head bobbed.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

M. Henri looked at me as if I were a dimwit, then turned to Joshua. “You two cannot be seen together. It could compromise our work.”

Joshua nodded.

“You cannot go to the hotel to see her,” he told Joshua. He then looked at me. “And you cannot go to his family's apartment or his place of work, not ever again. In fact, for the next few months, you are not to see each other at all. Is that understood?”

I looked at Joshua. His eyes were sad, but his gaze was sure and steady. “It is for the best,” he told me.

My throat was thick. I was still emotionally numb from my father's death. Being around Joshua made me feel things, and feeling things hurt. Perhaps it was for the best, for the short term, at least. I nodded.

M. Henri turned back to me. “We will try it and see. You will be watched. If our evaluator does not think you can handle it, you will be let go.”

“But I need the job!”

“And France needs information. But even more importantly, we need to maintain secrecy.” He turned to Joshua. “She must have training.”

“Yes. She is not a good liar, and she cannot tell when someone is lying to her.”

M. Henri jotted something down on a slip of paper and slid it across the table to me. “Go to this address every Thursday night at seven. You will say you are visiting your elderly aunt, Mme Dupard. Thursday will be your evening off at the hotel.” He regarded me somberly. “I am worried that you are too young, and that your emotions are too transparent. We will give this a try, but I have my doubts.”

“Amélie is very smart and brave,” Joshua said. “I believe in her.”

—

Joshua's words echoed in my mind frequently in the months ahead. I was installed at the Hotel Palais, in a tiny bunk bed in a room with twelve other women. I was given a uniform—a black dress with a white apron and cap—and told to provide my own black shoes and stockings. At first, as I worked solely in
les arrières-salles
, I wore a plain apron and cap with
no frills; later on, when I was promoted to chambermaid, my apron and cap had ruffles, which were excruciatingly difficult to iron.

As promised, as the newest hire, I had the worst jobs. I worked incredibly long hours, sweeping and mopping and scouring the kitchen and employee areas. At first I seldom came into contact with hotel guests. I was friendly with my bunkmates and coworkers, but I did not grow close to them.

On my first day off, I took Maman to sign up for a ration card at the local police prefecture. The Nazis had instituted rationing for food as well as clothes, shoes, and just about everything else in September. My ration card was stamped at the hotel, where I ate at the employee cafeteria.

I saw Maman briefly three times a week—on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Fridays—and I gave her half my salary. At Hildie's urging, she started taking in mending for the building's tenants. From what Maman told me, she was making enough cash to pay for her own groceries, but she never seemed to have enough money. I feared that Hildie was taking advantage of her, eating up everything that Maman bought, because Maman was losing weight. She didn't style her hair or press her clothes or take any of her usual care about her appearance. She'd lost all interest in life since Papa had died. She went to church and prayed for Thomas and Pierre. That seemed to be all she cared about—her sons coming home safely.

I, too, prayed for them, although my faith no longer felt strong. I prayed for Papa's soul, Maman's health, for Yvette and her family, for the war to end, and for Joshua's safety. I did not really believe that my prayers did any good, but I feared that not praying might cause harm. I prayed as if prayers were a magical incantation that held up the sky, as if it were my responsibility to continue shouldering my part.