Lilac Girls (7 page)

The screen door lay on the ground, off its hinges, so the doorway provided a good view. There were many rusted metal beds in there standing on end, and Pippi lay on the only horizontal one. It had collapsed, the mattress ticking stained and torn. One of the boys was lying on top of her, his ass blue-white in the dark room, smooth and hard and pumping as she cried. The second boy, the dark-haired one, stood at the head of the bed pinning Pippi's shoulders.

I stepped over gaps from missing floorboards into the cabin.

“Stop it,” I said.

The second boy lit up when he saw me, perhaps hoping for a chance himself. I brandished the scissors, a dull silver in the dark room.

“She's serious,” said the dark-haired boy. He released Pippi's shoulders.

The blond one slammed himself into Pippi with renewed vigor at the prospect of her backing out.

I stepped closer. “Get off her,” I said.

“Let's
go,
” said the dark-haired boy.

The blond pulled himself off Pippi, grabbed his shorts from the floor, and left with his friend, both avoiding my scissors. Pippi just cried there on the mattress. I untied the bandanna from my neck and placed it on the bed.

“You can use this to clean yourself,” I said.

I left her and walked outside to make sure the boys were gone. Satisfied they were not coming back, I walked to the stream. I raised the scissors and felt for a handful of my long hair, pulled it taut, and cut. Every muscle relaxed with that release, and I continued, feeling for any stray lock, until my hair was cropped to less than a thumb's length all around. I tossed my hair into the river and watched it travel downstream, sliding over rocks, off into the darkness.

I helped Pippi back to our cabin. With much crying, she thanked me for rescuing her and admitted she should have followed my advice. She promised to write once she got home to Cologne.

Pippi's parents retrieved her the next day, not at all happy, if their abrupt manner was any indication. I watched her leave, as she waved through the rear window of her parents' car, my one friend gone.

For the rest of my stay, I kept my scissors close, but in the end my self-cut hair did the trick, and boys let me be. When the sleepaway trip concluded, half of my cabin went home fingers crossed, hoping to have a baby, while I left camp happily without a fertilized egg.

O
nce Hitler invaded Poland, mild foreboding turned to genuine panic at every New York consulate, and all hell broke loose at our office. To make things worse, Washington tightened visa restrictions, and it became almost impossible to enter the United States from Europe. France limited its visas as well. By November, people desperate to be at the head of the line braved the cold and slept the night under the stars in sleeping bags beneath my office window. Once we opened in the morning, the line of French citizens desperate to get home often snaked out from our reception area into the hallway.

My bosom friend Betty Merchant chose a gray, late November day to stop by with her donation. I heard her arrive and issue orders to Pia for hot tea that would never come. Betty forged her way into my office, dressed in an indigo bouclé Schiaparelli suit and a hat adorned with indigo and scarlet feathers, a folded newspaper under one arm. In one hand she carried an old wedding present from a New Jersey couple, a three-foot-high money tree made of sixty one-hundred-dollar bills folded into little paper fans on a wooden base. In the other she balanced a tower of nested shoe boxes.

Betty set the money tree on my blotter. “I brought this for your French babies. That should buy some tinned milk.”

It was good to see Betty, but I was behind schedule, and case folders were stacking up. In the French tradition, our office was closed for lunch from twelve-thirty to three, and I'd allocated that time to eat canned tuna at my desk and regroup for the afternoon onslaught.

“Thank you, Betty. Good to see you, but—”

“And shoe boxes, as promised. I only brought the French ones so those babies would feel at home.” Betty's shoe habit provided the vessels for the comfort boxes I sent abroad, and I knew there'd be a steady stream to come.

Betty closed my office door. “I'm closing this on account of Miss Big Ears out there.”

“Pia?”

“She listens to everything, you know. Desperate to know where we're lunching, of course.”

“I'm swamped and not hungry either, I'm afraid.”

“You can't sneak in a bite? There's nothing like a martini to stir up a lazy appetite.”

“How can I take lunch with that crowd waiting? I just had a couple from Lyon who haven't heard from their daughter back in France since June. Both sobbing.”

“Honestly, Caroline. You're a volunteer and you can't even take
lunch.
”

“These people need me.”

“That elevator boy of yours—Cuddy?—maybe I'll take
him
to ‘21.' There's something about a man in uniform.”

Betty looked in her compact mirror, checking herself for imperfections. Finding none, she shrugged, disappointed. Betty was often compared to Rita Hayworth, for she was blessed with an abundant head of hair and curves that once caused an elderly fellow in a wheelchair to stand and walk for the first time in years. She wasn't always the prettiest girl in the room, but it was hard to take your eyes off her, like a train accident or a dancing bear.

“You need a break, Caroline. Why not be my bridge partner?”

“I can't, Betty. Things are crazy here. With Hitler throwing his weight around, half of France is trying to get out, and the other half is desperate to get back in. I have sixty comfort packages to assemble. You're welcome to help.”

“I do love the French. Seems you do as well. Saw that new boyfriend of yours yesterday, on his way to the theater.”

A few snowflakes fell outside the window. Was it snowing at our house up in Connecticut?

“He's not my boyfriend.” Unfortunately, too true, though I saw Paul often that fall and early winter. He would stop by the consulate before rehearsal, and we'd share a brown-bag lunch up on the French Building's roof garden, no matter the weather.

“You seem to find time for
him.
Mother told me she saw you step across to Sardi's. ‘Tête-à-tête at lunch with a tall European.' Her words. The whole town is talking about it, C. Seems
he's
become your best friend now.” Betty lobbed a folded newspaper onto my desk. “There's a blurb about you two in the
Post.
Did you know he was voted World's Most Handsome Man by
Physical Culture
magazine?”

I wasn't surprised but was somehow flattered by that. Who even voted for those things?

“One lunch,” I said. “Really. Giving him notes on his show—”

Betty leaned across my desk. “You deserve a lover, Caroline, but keep it quiet, darling. Does it have to be a theater person? And one so, well, public? I know you're still smarting from David. If I'd known my brother was—”

“That's over, Betty.”

“I can run interference for you, but once a reputation's tarnished, there's no polishing it. Evelyn Shimmerhorn is enormous. Can't leave the house.”

“Would you leave Evelyn alone? I don't care what people think.”

“You'll care when you're not called up for get-togethers. Why not let me fix you up? Honestly, David may be my brother, but he has his faults, God knows. You're better off without him, but don't rebound with some
Frenchman
just to spite him. Every man has a silhouette, you know, of the woman he'll end up with. We just need to find a suitable man with yours in mind.”

“You must have better things to think about, Betty.”

Betty had been my biggest supporter since our first day at then-coed Chapin, when a boy in French class called me
le girafon
and she ground the heel of her white kid boot into his foot.

“If it were up to me, I'd have you and Paul both stark naked atop the Chrysler Building, but I'm trying to protect you, dear.”

To my great relief, Betty said she had to run. I followed her to the reception area, where she took the money tree and dropped it on Pia's desk.

“I hope you don't expect me to deposit this,” Pia said, leaning back in her chair, Gauloise in hand.

“Won't you be a sight on Fifth Avenue? By the way, do you own a bra, Pia dear?”

“The word is
brassiere.”

Betty tossed a dollar on Pia's desk. “Take this, and buy yourself one. They're cheaper in the children's department.”

As Betty left the reception room, Paul bounded off the elevator, brown bag in hand, and held the door for her. Betty just gave me her best “I told you so” look and headed on her way.

Paul had come that day to iron out his visa issues with Roger, and I elbowed in on the meeting. I wanted to show my support for Paul, for it would surely convince Roger to help him stay. Roger had installed a Murphy bed in his office, and he'd left it down, the bed linens balled atop it like used tissues. It had not been productive sleep.

“I need to get Rena out of France,” Paul said.

Roger pulled an electric razor from a drawer and set it on the blotter. “We can try. The U.S. visa is a hot item. You saw the line. Even French citizens with U.S. visas are stuck in France. So few boats.”

“Rena's father is Jewish,” Paul said. “Will that complicate things?”

I went to the Murphy bed and unballed the linens.

“Since Washington changed immigration quotas in '24, everything's harder now,” Roger said.

“She'd settle for a tourist visa.”

Roger slammed his desk drawer closed. “Would you get away from that bed, Caroline? Everyone in that line out there would settle for a tourist visa, Paul. Rena needs two sponsors.”

“I can be one,” I said, plumping Roger's pillow. Was that lipstick? Rockette red.

“Thank you, Caroline,” Paul said with a smile.

“Shouldn't you be helping Pia out front, Caroline?” Roger said.

I tucked the blanket edge under the mattress.

“Has Rena booked passage?” Roger asked.

“Yes, but without a visa, her ticket expired. She'll rebook once she has the new visa.”

Roger turned on his razor and applied it to his cheeks, cleaning up stray hairs. Left to its own devices, that beard would have swallowed his face whole. “I'm not making any promises. More visa restrictions are due any day.”

“More?” I asked.

“You know it's not my decision,” Roger said.

I lifted the Murphy bed up and into its wall closet.

“Can't we expedite things? This doesn't seem fair. Paul is a prominent French citizen, an ambassador to the world—”

“I'm at the mercy of the U.S. State Department, Caroline. A case of champagne only gets you so far.”

“I may go back to France for a visit,” Paul said.

“Go back, and you're back for good,” Roger said.

I stepped to Paul's chair. “Why not wait until spring?”

“It will be a very different situation by spring,” Roger said. “I would go now, Paul, if you're serious.”

Paul sat up straighter.

“Of course I'm serious.”

Was he? I'd given him the reentry forms and he'd lost them, twice. Not that I wanted him to leave.

“Then you need to apply,” Roger said.

“I can fill out the forms for you,” I said.

Paul reached over and squeezed my hand.

“You must be eager to see your wife,” Roger said.

“Of course,” Paul said.

Roger stood. “It's up to you, but if you're in your room at the Waldorf when Hitler decides to move on France, you won't be going back.”

The meeting was over. Paul stood too.

“Caroline, can you stay behind for a minute?” Roger asked.

Paul made his way to the door.

“See you upstairs,” he said and left for the roof garden.

Roger closed his door. “I hope you know what you're getting yourself into here.”

“I've sponsored ten applicants—”

“You know what I mean. With Paul.”

“It's nothing,” I said.
Stay calm….A tired Roger was trouble.

“Paul would be gone by now if not for you. I see what's happening.”

“That's unfair, Roger.”

“Is it? He has a family, Caroline. Isn't it odd he's in no hurry to get back?” Roger picked up Paul's folder and paged through it.

“His new show—”

“Is more important than his
wife
?”

“I think they're somewhat, well…estranged.”

“Here we go.” Roger tossed the folder onto his desk. “Pia says you two spend lunch up on the roof garden.”

“No need to overreact, Roger.” I stepped toward the door. Little did Roger know, Paul and I had crisscrossed Manhattan together many times over. Eaten chop suey and rice cakes on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village. Strolled the Japanese garden in Prospect Park.

“Look, Caroline, I know you're probably lonely—”

“No need to be insulting. I'm just trying to help. It isn't right he and Rena should suffer like this. Look at all Paul's done to help France.”

“Please. You want me to get Rena out so he can stay. Then what? Three's a crowd, Caroline, and guess who'll be left out? He needs to do his duty as a French citizen and go home.”

“We have to do what's right, Roger.”

“
We
don't have to do anything. Be careful what you wish for, Caroline.”

I hurried back to my office, sidestepping a stray
pétanque
ball. Would Paul still be waiting?

Roger's words hung in the air. Maybe I was attracted to Paul. I hoped Betty was right about men and their silhouettes. Did Paul like mine? There were worse things in life.

W
E WERE TERRIBLY BUSY
at the consulate, but Mother insisted I volunteer at the thé dansant she and her friends arranged at the Plaza. If you've never attended one, a thé dansant is a relic of a bygone age, a casual afternoon gathering at which light sandwiches are served and dancing is encouraged.

There were a million places I'd rather have been that day, but Mother's thé dansant was to benefit her White Russians, those former members of the Russian aristocracy, now exiled, who had supported the tsar in the Russian Civil War. Helping these former aristocrats had been Mother's pet cause for years, and I felt obligated to help.