The French War Bride (6 page)

“Yes, you do. None of it makes sense without it.”

“I'm pretty sure I can figure it out.”

She inclines her head. “I will tell it my way, or not at all.”

I should have known that she would be difficult. “All right, all right.” I sigh. “Continue.”

1939

I
was out of breath from rushing when I arrived in the reading room at the Sorbonne library the next afternoon. I paused in the entryway to gather myself. With its soaring ceilings, elaborately carved millwork, and long tables that resembled pews, the room looked more like an ornate church than a study hall. The walls were covered in green silk damask and the ceilings were edged with gold. At the front were three enormous paintings of the world's great thinkers set behind a curved archway that looked like a chancel. Even the silence in the room was church-like. All that was lacking was a cross and an altar table.

I found Joshua sitting at the end of a table by an enormous paned window, backlit by the setting sun.

He was not particularly handsome, and he certainly wasn't well dressed—he wore a hand-knitted sweater in rough, undyed wool, and the cuffs of his shirt were frayed—but something about him—his bearing, his wide shoulders, his thick unruly hair—sent a thrill straight through me.

He rose to his feet when he saw me. “You're here,” he said in a hushed tone.

“So are you,” I inanely replied, my heart pounding wildly. He pulled out the chair next to his, and I sank into it, grateful to be off my suddenly wobbly legs.

He closed the book he had been reading. “Which school do you go to?”

I was crestfallen that he didn't just assume I went to university. I'd hurried home after class and changed out of my uniform, not wanting him to know I was still in lycée. “I don't think I should tell you,” I said in what I hoped was a flirtatious tone. “You warned me to be careful what I said.”

“Only if you think it might incriminate someone.” His brown eyes were amused. “Do you fear incriminating yourself?”

My face heated. “Of course not.”

His gaze stayed on me. “I'm guessing that you don't want me to know how young you are.”

“That's not true.”

“No? So what's your age?”

“Eighteen.”

“You're a terrible liar.” He looked me up and down. “I think you're no more than fourteen.”

“Fourteen!” The word came out as an outraged squeak, louder than I intended.

“Aha!” He grinned. The expression totally transformed his face. “You just gave yourself away. If you were eighteen, you would be amused that I guessed so low, rather than insulted. My real guess is that you're about sixteen.”

So much for appearing worldly and sophisticated. I reluctantly nodded.

“It's okay,” he said. “I'm just seventeen, myself.”

“Really? You seem a lot older.”

His mouth tightened. “I feel older.”

“Because of what happened in Austria?”

“That, and what is about to happen here.”

“
Taisez-vous!
” ordered the library monitor, a tall, thin whippet of a man who patrolled the room, making sure no one defaced the books or disturbed the tomb-like quiet.

“Let's go get a coffee,” Joshua whispered.

“D'accord.”

He slung his book bag on his shoulder, then took my elbow and led me to the exit.

I thrilled at the touch of his hand on my arm. It was such a manly, possessive thing to do, to take my elbow. He had the manners of the wellborn, my mother would have said.

Outside, the air was cold. “How did you know I was lying about my age?”

“Aside from how young you look?” He grinned at me as he guided me past a bicyclist.

“Yes.”

“You showed all the signs of untruthfulness.”

“Like what?”

“Your voice changed. You looked away and no longer met my gaze. You straightened your posture and stuck out your chin.”

“How did you know to look for those signs?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Some veterans of the Great War have been teaching me things that will be useful if the Germans invade.”

“But why . . .”

“So many questions! It's my turn to ask about you,” he said with a smile.

“Okay,” I said, realizing I had done nothing but quiz him since we'd left the library. “What would you like to know?”

“Well, first of all, how have you been lucky enough to have Professor Chaussant for a tutor?”

Lucky
wasn't the word I would have used to have described the grueling twice-weekly tutoring sessions, but I wasn't about to tell him that. “His family and my family are very good friends. We live across the street from each other, and my father is also a professor at the Sorbonne. So my father tutors Yvette Chaussant and my brothers and me in English and German, and Professor Chaussant tutors us in higher mathematics. This has been going on for years.”

“So you speak German? That will come in very handy if they overtake this country.”

“Oh, that won't happen,” I said. “Hitler offered us peace.”

He made a derisive sound. “He only wants France off high alert so he can catch you unawares. They will attack, you can be sure.”

Our conversation paused as we entered a shabby café. We sat at a
small table by the window and ordered two coffees. “How come you're so certain Germany will attack?”

“Because Hitler is ruthless. He wants to conquer the whole world.”

“No one can conquer the whole world!”

“Ah, but he thinks he can. That's what makes him so dangerous. He's a madman—brilliant, but mad. And because he believes it is doable, he will stop at nothing.”

It was easy to believe that Hitler could, indeed, be crazy. But that didn't explain the German army. “How has one madman gotten his entire country to go mad along with him?”

“It happened slowly, over many years. Germany had a very hard time after the Great War. The Germans were beaten down, defeated, humiliated. He's offering them a sense of pride and purpose. After years of being the underdog, the Germans are eager to buy the message he's selling.”

“Which is?”

“That they are conquerors, rather than the conquered. That they deserve to be in charge.”

“Even if they attack, everyone says there's no way the Germans can get through the Maginot Line,” I said. “France has been fortifying it since the Great War.”

“I hope you are right, but I fear you are not.”

“Then why did you come to Paris, if you think France will also be invaded?”

He took a sip of coffee. “We had nowhere else to go.”

“Who is we?”

“My mother and myself. The Germans murdered my father as we were about to leave.”

It sounded like something that happened in a movie, not something that happened to someone I knew. “Oh, I am so sorry! Why did they kill him?”

“We are Jewish.”

He looked at me with those clear, brown eyes, and I sensed he was reading how this news would affect me. I knew little about the Jewish people, other than that the Germans hated them and that my parents sympathized with their plight.

“So was Jesus,” I said.

He laughed. “Quite so. The Germans seem to have forgotten that.”

“Were you there? When your father . . .”

“Please.” He raised his hand, interrupting me. “I don't want to discuss this.”

This was one of the great mysteries that Yvette and I had pondered over and over—what should a girl talk about with boys? Apparently, one shouldn't pry into sore subjects.

“I'm sorry,” I said, sincerely chagrined. “I didn't mean to make you feel bad.”

“It's okay.” He took a sip of coffee. “So—tell me about your family and your friendship with the Chaussants.”

So I did. I talked about my mother, my father, and my brothers, and I babbled about my close friendship with Yvette.

He leaned forward. “Yvette was the one dancing with Herman Beck?”

“Yes.”

“I hope she has the sense not to see him again.”

I set down my coffee, rattling the saucer. “Why? Is he one of the spies you warned me about?”

He spoke in a low tone. “I only know he's connected to all kinds of unsavory men, and many of them will sell anything—information, stolen goods, people—for the right amount of money.”

“What do you mean, they will sell people?”

“Prostitutes. Unsuspecting women. Young girls such as yourself. Sometimes children.”

“Why?”

He frowned at me. “You have to ask?”

I hesitated, not wanting to appear naive, but honestly not sure.

His mouth tightened. He leaned closer to me and spoke barely above a whisper. “There are men who enjoy inflicting pain, or worse. There are men who want to do depraved things to children.”

“No,” I breathed. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I had never heard, never thought of such things.

“I am afraid it is true.” He looked at me. “I can tell from your face that Yvette is planning to meet him. When?”

“Tonight,” I found myself confessing. “He's—he's sending a car for her.”

“Does she want to have sex with him?”

Sex?
“Of course not!” My face heated. “She wants to dance and flirt and . . . and maybe share a kiss.” Just saying the word
kiss
embarrassed me.

“He is not a man to just flirt and kiss. You must tell her not to go.”

My skin felt as if a cockroach had crawled over it. “But he seemed so nice, so respectful . . .”

“What do you think evil people look like? They don't have horns, like devils. They look perfectly normal, perfectly nice—maybe even nicer than average.”

“Are you certain Herman is evil?”

He lifted his shoulders. “I only know there are many rumors about him. In my experience, rumors are like flies; whenever they're buzzing around, they're usually circling something rotten.”

“I'll warn her to stay home tonight.”

“Do more than warn,” Joshua said. “You must stop her.”

—

We quickly finished our coffees, and he walked me to the corner. “This is where I turn.”

“Can I see you again?” he asked.

“I would like that very much.”

“I have class tomorrow afternoon, but the day after, I am free until five. Can you meet me again at the same place, same time?”

I nodded and leaned in for
la bise
, but he just stood there awkwardly. I straightened and waggled my fingers. “
À bientôt
,” I said, and hurried away.

—

I went straight to Yvette's flat. Her mother let me in, and I headed to Yvette's bedroom, where she was fixing her hair for her rendezvous.

I quickly told her what Joshua had said.

She fell on her bed, clutching a pillow to her chest. “Oh, mon Dieu!”

“You can't go.”

“But—how do we know Joshua's right? Maybe he's just being melodramatic.”

“Yvette, you can't risk it. You can't go off in a car with a man who may be mixed up in prostitution or worse.”

“But he seemed so nice!”

“Yvette, think about it. What does a man his age want with a young girl like you?”

“I don't look that all that young. I told him I'm twenty-two.”

“I doubt he believes that. You were with a table of girls who look like me.”

She gazed at me for a long moment, then exhaled a resigned sigh. “I suppose you're right.” She plopped down across her mattress. “But I was so excited about going!”

“I know, Yvette, but you can't.”

She stared up at the ceiling. “I am just so bored! I would almost rather get into trouble than be so bored!”

“Not this kind of trouble, Yvette.”

“No.” She blew out another sigh and rolled over on her stomach. “No, you are right.”

I rolled over beside her. “Do you want me to see if Joshua knows some other boys?”

She shook her head. “I have no real interest in boys. Herman intrigued me because he is a fully grown man.” She plucked at a thread on her bedspread, then cast me a sidelong glance. “Do you know who I really wish was here?”

“Who?”

“Pierre.”

“My brother Pierre?” My eyebrows flew upward.

She seemed fascinated by a thread on her coverlet. “Yes.”

Surprise and dismay swept through me.

“I've been writing him,” she said.

“You have?”

She nodded. “And he's writing back. Two letters this week.”

“Two letters! That's one more than he sent us!”

She smiled and lifted her shoulders.

“What does he say?”

“The same things he writes to your family.” She kept her gaze fixed on her coverlet. “Plus he tells me his thoughts and feelings.”

“Pierre has thoughts and feelings?”

“Of course he does. He's a very sensitive man.”

A man? Since when was Pierre a man? “So you . . . like him?”

“Yes. Yes, I believe I do.”

This turn of events stunned me, and not in a happy way. “Was something going on before he left?”

“No.” Her voice held a tentative quality that made me push for more information.

“No, but . . . ?”

She still wouldn't meet my eyes. “Well, the last few months before he left, I developed a little crush on him.”

Why didn't I know this? Maybe because I didn't want to know. I didn't like the idea of my best friend and my brother. And she must have sensed that, because she hadn't told me.

“So . . . is something going on now?”

“No. Maybe. Sort of.” She smiled. “He says he thinks I'm pretty, but he hasn't really thought of me as girlfriend material because I'm your friend and so much younger.”

Right
, I thought.

“I wrote him there's only two years' age difference between us, which isn't very much. And just because I'm your friend is no reason I can't be his friend, too.” She twirled a strand of hair. “I told him you wouldn't mind. You don't, do you?”