The French War Bride (24 page)

“A month! I cannot imagine getting a month larger!”

“As I said, the Boche babies are huge. Call me when your water breaks.”

“I don't like her,” I told Yvette when she left. “Let's find someone else.”

“I had to pay half of her fee in advance,” Yvette said. “I cannot afford to pay another one.”

“But if she's not a good midwife . . .”

“She is,” Yvette said. “She delivered Mme Steyvant's baby ten years ago, and all was well.”

“She holds the baby's father against you.”

“Yvette sighed. “Oui—but they all do. I approached two other midwives who simply refused to treat me.”

“You did not tell me!”

“I did not want to worry you.”

“How did they know the father was Boche?”

She lifted her shoulders. “Given the number of Germans who were in the city when the child was conceived, and the lack of Frenchmen, it is not a hard guess. Plus”—she ruefully looked down and smiled—“I am huge.”

At least the news about the war was positive. The Allies were clearly winning.

And our downstairs neighbor, a widow named Nora Saurent who worked at a
boucherie
, befriended us, often bringing us meat scraps for soup. She was worried about Yvette having enough to eat, enough to nourish the baby.

On April 30, she knocked on our door. “Did you hear the news? Hitler is dead!”

We jumped around and cheered—or at least, I jumped; Yvette was enormous by then—then ran downstairs to listen to her radio and share a glass of wine.

The good news kept on coming. On May 7, we heard rumors Germany had surrendered—and on May 8, we learned it was true. Germany's unconditional surrender was ratified in Berlin on May 8.

The city went wild. Because of Yvette's condition, we stayed at home, again listening to the radio at Nora's apartment.

Yvette woke me around two in the morning that night. “Ammie, I think you need to go get the midwife.”

“What's happened?” I sat up. “Did your water break?”

She nodded. “About two hours ago. I waited until the pains started coming, and now . . .” She doubled over, unable to speak, her hand on her belly.

“I will go get her right now. But first I'm going to get Nora to stay with you while I'm gone.”

I threw on my clothes and knocked at Nora's apartment. She grabbed some clothing and hurried upstairs to stay with Yvette.

I ran to get the midwife, eight blocks away. It was nearly impossible to rouse her. I knocked and knocked, afraid she wasn't even home. She finally came to the door, her eyes half open, reeking of sour wine. At first she didn't want to come with me.

“There is no rush,” she said. “First babies take forever.”

“You need to come now,” I said. “She is in much pain.”

She blew out a dismissive hiss of air. “She thought it was painful when I examined her.”

“Please. She paid you. You are needed now.”

After much grumbling, she dressed, grabbed her bag, and came with me.

I could hear Yvette moaning as we approached the apartment. My heart raced with fear.

“You can wash your hands at the kitchen sink,” I said as we entered, not wanting the midwife to repeat her unsanitary initial exam. I noticed that Nora already had a pan of water boiling on the stove.

I found Yvette writhing on the bed. I rushed to her side and took her hand. Fear tore through me. Too many women died in childbirth. If I lost Yvette, I would die, as well.

“The contractions are very close,” Nora said.

“Let's have a look,” said the midwife, drying her hands on a kitchen towel.

Her expression changed after she inspected Yvette. “She is having this baby now.” She looked up at Yvette's face. “With the next pain, you need to push.”

She opened her bag and pulled out some large forceps.

“I will go sanitize these for you,” Nora said smoothly, taking them from her hand without giving her a choice otherwise. Nora also managed to boil the woman's scissors and sewing needle.

It seemed to take forever, but in reality, it was probably only thirty minutes later that Yvette's moan was joined by the high-pitched cry of a baby.

“She's not nearly as large as I expected,” the midwife said, expertly wiping off the dark-haired baby with the warm water and clean washcloths that Nora had thought to provide.

“Did you say she?” Yvette asked.

“Yes. It's a girl.”

“A girl!” she murmured. “Oh, a little girl!” She looked at me, her eyes shining. “I have a daughter!”

“She's beautiful,” I said.

“Yes,” Nora said. “Just like her mother.”

“I will name her after mine.” Yvette reached for the baby as the midwife finished wrapping her tightly in a blanket. She gazed into the red, still-squalling face. “Hello, Elise.”

Tears poured down my cheeks. Yvette's mother should be here. How could a moment be so heartrendingly beautiful, and at the same time, so full of grief? Who knew such emotions could exist in equal portions at the same time?

“It is a wonderful omen,” said Nora, “to be born just as the war ended.”

“Yes. She is born in a free France,” I said.

“But she will be raised as an American.” Yvette looked at me. “Just as soon as we can, we will go.”

—

Yvette did not rebound from childbirth the way we expected. She wanted to nurse the baby, despite all of Dierk's formula. The child constantly fussed and cried and spit up, but when we took her to a doctor, he said nursing was best, that formula would only make the baby worse. Yvette was exhausted, and continued to bleed well after the time she should have stopped. Both mother and child failed to thrive.

I tried to let Yvette rest by caring for the baby as much as possible, but there was only so much I could do. I would spend many an hour at night holding Elise and rocking her, trying to calm her crying.

As the weeks went by, Yvette took in some sewing, and the milliner who had employed her gave her some custom work to do at home. Yvette was determined to earn money for passage to America. Money was not the only obstacle we had to overcome; when I checked into the requirements, I learned that there were a very limited number of visas to America and thousands of Europeans wanting to immigrate there. We were hopeful that having Yvette's aunt sponsor us would help our cause.

We still heard no word from her aunt. Yvette wrote yet again.

At three months, the baby still cried and threw up all the time. Yvette was more fatigued than ever and seemed to have aged several years in a few months. We pooled our money and again took the child to a doctor. He said Elise was colicky and reassured us that she would outgrow it. He told Yvette to keep nursing her, to let her eat as much as she wanted. The baby was attached to poor Yvette's bosom almost continually.

Yvette lost weight, and the baby did not seem to be gaining.

And then, in October, when the child was five months old, Yvette took ill. It started with a headache, and then she developed a cough and a high fever. She could not eat, and she developed a horrible phlegmy hack that made nursing impossible.

Alarmed, Nora bought a baby bottle and we started Elise on the formula. I called the doctor, and he gave Yvette penicillin. Penicillin was
very expensive in those days for non-military personnel—it took almost all our savings—but I insisted.

It didn't work. Three days later, her fever raged on. She was in and out of her head with delirium, and then, terrifyingly, she lay still and unresponsive, her breathing a shallow rattle. Nora fetched the doctor once again.

“It is the flu, which is viral,” The doctor said. “There is nothing more medicine can do.”

“What about a hospital?”

“I am sorry, but they are overcrowded and have no space to quarantine. They will not admit contagious patients.”

“Will the baby get sick?” Nora asked worriedly.

“If she were going to, she probably would be ill already. It is likely her mother's milk gave her immunity.” He packed up his bag. “If madame regains consciousness, give her liquids and aspirin.” At the door he paused. “And call her priest.”

My heart . . . it dropped into a bottomless pit. “It is as bad as that?”

The way he avoided looking me in the eye told me that it was. “She was weak from childbirth, and she is now very ill,” he said in a low voice.

“But she might get better,” I insisted. I could not accept what he was telling me.

“I have seen miracles before. And perhaps the priest can help pray for one.”

A miracle? That is what it would take? I gazed at him, beside myself with grief. Yvette was the last of my family.

“I am sorry, mademoiselle.” He closed the door behind him.

“I will go fetch Father Gaudet,” Nora whispered.

I prepared a bottle for Elise and carried the child to Yvette's bedside. As I sat down, Yvette opened her eyes. “Ammie.”

She was awake! Hope flooded my chest. “I am here.”

“You will . . .” It took much effort for her to talk. Each breath was an ordeal. “. . . look after Elise for me.”

“Of course. I will care for her until you are better.”

“You will care for her . . . if I don't get better?”

“But you will! You must not talk like that.”

“You will take Elise to America.”

“We will all go together.”

“I don't think I'm going to make it, Ammie.”

My heart turned over. “Don't say that. Don't you even think that!” If she thought it, it could happen. I could not allow the possibility to exist. “Elise needs you to get well.”

“We have always been . . .” Her chest rattled as she struggled to inhale. “. . . honest with each other. I don't have the strength to pretend. I need to know you will care for her—that you will get her to my family. Promise me.”

“But . . .”

Her gaze cut through the protest on the tip of my tongue. “Promise me.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Of course I promise. I will love her as if she were my own.”

Her face relaxed. “Say a prayer for me.”

“Yes.” I bowed my head and said an Our Father. At the end of the prayer, she didn't open her eyes.

When Nora returned with Father Gaudet, they found me sitting on the bed beside Yvette, holding Elise and weeping. Somewhere between
Thine is the glory
and
forever
, Yvette had gone.

2016

A
mélie sits quietly for a long, long moment, gazing at her hands.

I sit quietly, too, until I can stand the silence no longer. “I'm sorry about your friend.”

“Thank you.”

“After she died—that is when you went to the church and overheard Jack?”

She gives a single nod. “That happened a couple of weeks later. First I arranged for Yvette's burial. I had her interred in my family churchyard plot under the name Yvette Chaussant Michaud.”

“Did the church know you lied about her name?”

She shoots me a withering glance. “The name was as true as anything ever was. She was my sister, in every sense of the word that matters. She was my family, and I was hers.”

I don't think that Catholic officials, who seem very strict about rules, would accept this explanation. I decide not to point it out. Instead, I bring up what seems to be a bigger transgression of Catholic doctrine. “So she died without a final confession?”

“God and I knew all of her sins.”

“But according to the Catholic faith . . .”

“I believe—and I think Yvette did, too, although we never talked about it—that if you have one person truly know you and love you and
accept you anyway . . .” She looks thoughtfully at the wall. I follow her gaze to a carved wooden cross that I hadn't noticed before, placed among all her paintings and pictures. “Well, if you are fortunate enough to experience that, you have experienced God's grace. And you if know his grace, then you know his forgiveness.”

“Hmmm.” It has the ring of truth, but I don't like it. I don't like for anyone to break or bend the rules, especially when it comes to matters of religion. I resent hearing people say that God is larger than the confines of their denomination, because I feel as though they have a better deal than me. It's the spiritual equivalent of not wanting anyone to be smarter or more knowledgeable or prettier.

I realize this is probably one of those character defects my hospice counselor says I should address, but I don't care to examine it too closely. My counselor also says I should just let things go. This, I decide, will be one of those things. I turn my thoughts back to Jack and the story that Amélie is finally—finally!—about to tell.

“When you first started talking yesterday, you told me that you went to a church and heard Jack tell the priest the medic's confession. Is this what happened next?”

Amélie nods. “After Yvette's death, I was crushed—just devastated. Thank God for Nora. Elise and I moved in with her, and she helped me care for the baby. She urged me to turn to God. Her faith was very strong; mine—well, I wasn't sure I had any left.

“It was at her urging that I went to the church. I knelt low and prayed to God. I did not know if he was still there. I couldn't imagine why he would take Yvette now, when she had a child to raise, after helping her all the way through the war. I did not understand. I still do not.

“I prayed for guidance. I asked God to show me what to do, to help me find a way. And then I heard Jack telling the priest how the young medic had died in his arms and how he had confessed that he might have left a girl pregnant. And it seemed to me that it was a sign.”

“A sign?”

She nods. “I had Jack's name—I'd read it on his bag. He'd told the priest the name of the hospital where he was working. He'd mentioned
the name of the boy who'd saved his life—Doug Claiborne from Whitefish, Montana. Thanks to my work for the Resistance, I was skilled at remembering names and details. I had entered the church hopeless and helpless, and now I had information and an idea.”

My eyebrows rise nearly to my hairline. “So you decided God was telling you to seduce Jack?”

“No. That is not what happened.” Her voice holds an impatient edge that does not bode well.

“But . . .”

She leans forward. “I know that you are going to want to interrupt me. My story will not fit your preconceived notion of what happened. You are likely to be displeased or even shocked. But if you want to hear the truth, I suggest you just sit and listen and let me speak.”

“All right.” I nod. “All right.”