The French War Bride (15 page)

1942

I
heard the Jews are all going to have to wear stars on the left side of their coats,” said a maid about ten years older than me, a woman named Mathilde with reddish hair and a sharp nose. It was late May, and we were seated at a table in the employee dining room with a group of fellow hotel workers, eating our soup.

“I heard that, too. They'll be yellow with black outlines, with the word ‘
Juif
' in black letters,” said Geraldine, a laundress with dark brown hair. “And they'll be as big as the palm of their hand.”

“Are they supposed to make them themselves?” asked a doorman.

“No. They're supposed to report to their local police prefecture according to the first letter of their last name and to surrender one textile point.”

“They have to pay to get a star?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yes.” Mathilde dipped her spoon in the thin broth. “But then, they can afford it. The Jews have all the money.”

I wanted to protest that this was not so—that many Jews were even worse off than most French citizens. Jews were prohibited from working in many jobs, and they had to pay all sorts of unfair taxes and tariffs. Most stores refused to sell them food, and the few that did, charged them more. But Mathilde, like so many other Parisians, lapped up the lies the Boches were serving.

“That's right,” agreed Geraldine. “The exposition explained all that.”

She was talking about the huge free exhibition called “The Jews and
France,” which had run for months at the Palais Berlitz on l'avenue de l'Opéra. The exhibition depicted the Jews as a criminal race responsible for everything that was wrong with France. It was all evil propaganda, but many people—too many people—were ignorant, and ignorance made for gullibility.

I wanted to protest, but a huge part of my training had been about the importance of keeping my mouth shut. The best course of action would be to keep my head down and finish my soup without a comment.

I tried, I really did, but I couldn't quite manage it—not when Mathilde added, “If it weren't for the Jews, we wouldn't have all the food shortages.”

“You don't really believe that, do you?” I asked. “That's just Nazi propaganda.”

“No, it's not! If you saw the exhibition, you'd understand how it's all their fault.”

“Besides, if the Nazis weren't here, we wouldn't have a job,” said another maid. “They're the only ones who have the money to stay in the hotel.”

I nearly choked on my soup.
If it weren't for the Nazis, my parents wouldn't be dead and I wouldn't need a job
, I was tempted to reply—but then a humbling thought stopped me in my tracks. Most of these women would have needed a job, war or no war. I had been so blessed my whole life, coming from a well-to-do family, and I had absolutely, positively taken it for granted.

“I think I would prefer cleaning up after tourists instead of soldiers,” I said.

“They're no better, believe you me,” said Geraldine.

“Well, I'm just grateful to have a job,” said my friend Daphne.

“Me, too,” I agreed. “It gives me a roof over my head and food in my belly—such as it is.”

And for that, we were most fortunate. The Palais was one of the few hotels that provided maids' quarters and three meals a day. True, we had to surrender our ration stamps, and true, the food was fairly awful—it was said that our meals were made from the table scraps of Germans dining at the hotel. Still, it was enough to keep us from starving, although we all grew thinner and thinner, week after week.

The workers with families who didn't board at the hotel had it far worse. The bellman told me his wife stood for hours in line to get food every day, and all too often when she reached the front of the line, nothing was left to buy.

“I wonder why the Germans want the Jews to wear a star?” Daphne asked.

“So we don't accidentally fraternize with them,” Mathilde said. “Can you imagine, if you ended up having one as a friend?”

“Or taking one as a lover.” Geraldine tittered, and the whole table joined her. Everyone, that was, but me.

—

When I went to the cobbler's shop the following week, I was horrified to see that it was closed. Plywood was nailed over the window. Joshua stepped out of the store next to it—apparently he'd been waiting for me—and I was horrified all over again.

On the left side of his jacket was a large yellow star-shaped patch with
Juif
written in black letters inside.

“You cannot wear that star,” I said.

“I have no choice.”

“You do, too! No one knows you're Jewish.”

“Are you kidding? Everyone in this neighborhood is Jewish.” He gestured to the cobbler's shop. “Why do you think this happened?”

“But you work outside this neighborhood. No one knows you are Jewish when you are out and about unless you tell them.”

“You are naive to think that.”

“I am not naive!” Not anymore. I was a woman who had seen her father shot, who had held her dying mother, who had just that morning cleaned a vast amount of blood from the carpet of a Nazi-occupied hotel room.

“It would be more terrible if I pretended not to be who and what I am,” Joshua said. “The Nazis want to shame us. And they cannot, for we are not ashamed of who we are.”

“But it makes you conspicuous. You will become a target.”

“I am already,” he said sadly. “So are my mother and the other Jews we shelter. There are too many of us to hide. Besides, Amélie—there are Jews who would turn me in if I did not comply.”

With no place to meet, we walked around, then sat at the back table at a small café. The waitress stared at the patch on Joshua's jacket and hesitated. I thought she was going to refuse to serve him. An ordinance had been passed that Jews were forbidden in cafés and restaurants.

He looked her in the eye. “My money is as good as anyone's.” He reached in his pocket and placed some coins on the table.

She reluctantly took our order and returned with two small glasses of wine.

I leaned toward him, aching for a kiss, but a kiss did not come. He kept his distance from me. Under the tablecloth, however, he held my hand. I took it and pressed it between my knees. I longed for his hand to move higher. It did not.

Joshua had said that we couldn't get things started, that if we started the fire, it would blaze out of control. The fact I did not get the caresses or kisses I wanted made me crave them all the more.

Instead of kisses, he bared his heart. He talked of the importance of his work, and I knew he was not talking about bussing tables. He told me that he conjured faces in his mind when he was in danger or despair. He would picture the faces of his father and his sister and his mother. He would picture the faces of those he was helping. But mostly, he said, he would picture my face.

The waitress stopped again at our table. “I am sorry, but my manager says I must ask you to leave.”

“It's all right.” Joshua left the coins on the table, even though they surely exceeded what two drinks would cost. I started to rise. He put out his hand, stopping me. “Please—stay a few moments more. It is best if we don't leave together.”

My heart was heavy. That horrid star on his jacket was changing everything. “When and where will we meet again?” I asked.

“It is time we stop meeting, Amélie.”

“No!”

“My heart does not want to give you up, but we are putting each other in danger.”

His yellow star hovered over the table as he leaned forward. “We must both continue our work. We will help no one if we are killed or imprisoned. So for now, this is good-bye. You must not try to contact me.”

“But . . .” I clutched at his jacket.

He gently removed my hands. “It could cause me and my loved ones great harm if you do.”

He could not have said anything more persuasive, and he knew it. I watched him go, my heart going with him.

—

The next week, Pierre sent word for me to meet him in the evening, after my day shift ended. It was unusual; since Yvette had arrived in Paris, he spent all his spare time with her. In fact, I had not seen much of him since our mother's death.

I met him at the corner café. Handsome in his dark blue uniform, he was already seated at a central table. He rose, greeted me with la bise and ordered two coffees. When our drinks arrived—horrible, bitter coffee, thinned with roasted acorns—he took a sip, grimaced, then wasted no time on small talk.

“Who is this young man you are seeing?”

My heart skipped several beats. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Don't pretend, Amélie. You were seen with a young man not far from my prefecture.”

My pulse pounded like the hooves of a runaway horse. I weighed the wisdom of feigning ignorance against the reality that Pierre already knew. “He is just a friend—someone I recently met at the hotel.”

“My source said you seemed to know each other very well.”

“Who is your source?” Dread filled my throat. Had Yvette betrayed me?

“Another policeman saw you.” He took another punishing sip of coffee. “I asked Yvette about this before I called you.”

“And what did she say?”

“She acted like she knew nothing, but I could tell she was covering for you. I can tell when she lies. Besides, something she wrote me when
I first joined the army now makes sense. She said you were pining for a foreign student you'd had a romance with.”

My palms were sweating. “It is not a romance. It is simply a friendship.”

“I heard he looked at you like a lover.”

My heart battered against my ribs. “That is ridiculous.”

“Your blush says otherwise. Do you know his nationality?”

“He is Austrian.”

“He is Jewish.” Pierre said the word as if it were a nasty oath.

“So?”

“So? That is all you have to say?” His eyes burned. “Are you
fou
?”

“No.” I tilted up my chin. “I simply don't see what difference it makes.”

“The Jews—they are not like us, Amélie. You cannot get involved with a Jew.”

“I can do as I wish.”

“I forbid it.”

“You can forbid nothing. You are not my father!”

“Listen to me, Amélie. It is dangerous.”

“I don't care.”

“You will care if you are caught. Besides, it is beneath you.”

I stiffened as if I'd been slapped. “In what way? Joshua is one of the smartest, kindest, most loyal, self-disciplined people I have ever met.”

“He is Jewish. He has bad blood.”

“You sound like a Nazi.”

“The Nazis are right about many things.”

I gazed at him, horrified. “How can you say that? They killed Papa. They killed Thomas. And they killed Maman, just as surely as if they'd put a knife to her throat.”

Pierre drained his cup. “What they did to Papa—that was not right. But Thomas . . .” He ran a hand down his face. “It was war. We were trying to kill them. You need to understand, little one—the old France we knew is gone. There is a new regime, a regime that will last beyond the war. The Nazis are in power, and they will stay in power. When this war is over, you want to be on the side of the winner.”

“No. I want to be on the side that is right.”

His sigh was long and weary, like a wind that had blown across an entire continent. “Who can say what is right?”

“Even a child knows that brutality and prejudice and greed is wrong,” I said hotly.

“Oh, Am—you sound like
une Américaine
.”

I tilted my head up. “And what is wrong with that?”

“They are ridiculously idealistic. They don't face facts.”

“Yes, they do. And the facts are, the Nazis are brutal and vicious and selfish and cruel.”

He leaned forward. “The facts are, from the beginning of time, some people have ruled and others have obeyed.”

“It is not fair.”

“No, it is not, but life is not fair. Realistic people accept that, then try to make their own situation better, not worse.” He put his cup down so hard it rattled the saucer. “You are to stay away from this Jew, do you hear? I am up for a promotion, and I will not let your dalliance ruin my chances.”

So there it was—the real reason! I would not give him the satisfaction of telling him Joshua had already ended things between us. “He is my friend. It is nothing more.”

“Then it should be easy for you to stop seeing him.” He wagged a finger at me. “If you do not, I will see to it that he disappears.”

“No! You leave him alone!”

“If you leave him alone, so will I. Otherwise . . .” He shrugged. His mouth was set in a hard line. He looked cold and uncaring, completely unwilling to compromise. It struck me that I really did not know Pierre anymore.

“I cannot believe you would be so cruel.” I rose to my feet.

“I am watching out for your best interests.”

I picked up my purse. “My interests, or your own?”

1942

T
he summer of 1942 was as hot as the winter was cold. My work at the hotel was grueling. I cleaned from six in the morning until seven in the evening, and those were just my official hours. When they needed extra hands to help clean up after banquets or parties, I was drafted to help. My more senior position meant that most nights, I slept without being called for nighttime duty.

I was now trusted to work in the finer hotel rooms, the rooms occupied by the more senior Nazi officers, many of whom were transient guests rather than officers with regular quarters. Every day it was someone new, someone who may or may not have important papers I needed to find.

One day I found a map. The last roll of film would not advance in my camera, so I did not know if I had taken a photo or not. I tried to make a crude copy—I put a piece of paper over the map and traced it the best I could, but I did not have time for the details.

I dropped the film and my map at the church, then dropped a note in Mme Dupard's mailbox with the predetermined message for camera problems:
Estelle is out of socks
.

Later than afternoon, I found a note on my maid's cart, hidden between the sheets:

M. Estelle, Parc Monceau; 15h00, par la pyramide.

I hurried out after work and took the Métro to the Monceau stop.

I walked toward the pyramid. “Do you think we'll see the moon this evening?” asked a woman wearing a black hat, who was gazing up at the sky.

I drew closer. It was Yvette! My courier was Yvette!

“I think the clouds will cover it,” I replied, according to the script I had been given by Mme Dupard.

Yvette opened her arms, and we shared la bise.

“So now we are in the open,” I said, holding her at arm's length. “Are you surprised?”

“I suspected from the very beginning. I knew you had a great, brave heart.”

I knew the same about her. However, I was worried about Pierre. “You will keep my secret?”

“Of course. Pierre knows nothing of this—nor will he ever.” She pressed my arm. “Come quickly. I do not have much time.” I followed her into a tailor's shop.

Inside, the store was empty. She turned the sign on the door from
Ouvert
to
Fermé
, then led me to the dressing room and untied a small cloth roll from around her waist. She unfolded the cloth.

“What in the world . . .” I looked at the small, flat object she handed me. “Is that a camera?”

She nodded. “We could not tell if your camera was broken or just the film, so now you have a better one, flat enough to tie around your waist. And here.” She handed me four rolls of film. “Put these in your brassiere.”

I unbuttoned my blouse and did as she said.

“You are to put the map in the brightest light possible and photograph it from different angles and distances. Then tape the film under the pew in front of you when you kneel at mass tomorrow.”

“I am nearly out of tape.”

“We thought of that, as well.” She lifted some tape from the cloth roll. “I will show you how to refold and tie the packet.”

She did just that, then handed it to me. “Now—put it around your waist.”

“Very clever.” I put it on, then rebuttoned my shirt.

She retucked her blouse. I saw her rib bones protruding. “Mon Dieu, Yvette—you have gotten so thin!”

“So have you.”

“Not as thin as you. You are nothing but skin and bones!”

“I swear, I am hungry all the time,” she admitted.

“Does Hildie eat all your food?”

“No, but our rations do not buy much. Most of the time, I feel as if I have a howling wolf in my stomach. The worst part is serving food at the restaurant and not being able to eat any.”

“Can't you sneak a few bites in the kitchen?”

“If I did, I could be arrested for stealing. They made an example of a kitchen helper last month, and it scared the rest of us out of our minds.”

“That's horrible!”

“Yes. Yes, it is. The Boches do not want the French to eat their food unless they are
collaborateurs
.” She said the word as if it tasted foul. “Oh, how I hate serving the French girls who consort with the Nazis! How can they betray their fellow countrymen like that, without helping the cause? I resent it so! I resent that they have full bellies and clothes and heat in the winter—and wine and shampoo and shoes that don't have holes in the soles—and here we are, so very, very hungry, working our fingers to the bone.”

“We are helping to win the war.”

“I have often thought I could do more valuable work for France if I were the mistress of a top officer. As it is, I get to listen to tidbits of conversation, but then I must leave for another table. I cannot linger too long without looking suspicious. If I were sitting at the table, as some of those girls do . . . Well, they're in a position to really give us information, if any of them understood a lick of German.”

“Surely some of them speak German.”

“A few have rudimentary knowledge. I actually talked to M. Henri about recruiting one of them.”

“And?”

“He says we cannot trust anyone who is not already on our side before they begin an alliance.”

“You mean dalliance.”

Yvette gave a dry laugh. “Exactly. He said we cannot trust someone who is already in the enemy's bed.” She leaned close. “And then he asked if I were interested in such an assignment! Can you imagine?”

“No!” I was appalled. “I think I would have slapped him.”

“He could tell I was insulted. He said he did not mean to disrespect me in anyway. He said in war we must use everything we have at our disposal, that nothing done to save France would be unholy.”

“He used that word?”

“He did.”

“So if one were to turn it around,
la collaboration horizontale
is a holy pursuit.”

“If undertaken for the right reasons, yes.”

“You would not seriously consider such a thing!”

“No, no, no. I adore Pierre, and I could never be unfaithful.”

“But otherwise?”

She lifted her shoulders. “They killed my family. They destroyed my home. Why should I care what they do to my body?”