Under a War-Torn Sky (10 page)

It was just past 1 a.m. How much longer would Madame play the tables? She'd left swathed in mink stoles, their tails dangling. She'd donned a great deal of jewellery. Wasn't it dangerous for her to be out this long, by herself? Henry looked to the street, three storeys down. Only a few cars rolled along the avenue. An elderly man in a tuxedo arrived at the hotel, a too-young woman on his arm. As Henry watched, Madame's car arrived. Behind it came a car flying tiny German swastika flags!

Out popped a portly German diplomat. He darted to Madame's car, pushing past her chauffeur, to open her door. Had she gotten caught? Was she turning him in? Henry's heart sank. No, he couldn't believe that. She'd been too gracious. Besides, only the Swiss had jurisdiction here. Henry flattened himself against the hotel's wall and watched.

Madame placed her gloved hand into the German's and rose out of the car. He didn't let go, although Henry could tell that Madame was firmly shaking his hand, trying to say good night. Henry could hear no voices. He saw Madame pat the German's chest and step back, shaking her head. But the German persisted. He followed her into the lobby.

Henry darted back into the room, dropping the dog, which barked at him angrily. “Shush,” he warned it. What should he do? Should he try to surprise the guy? Should he just go into his room and lock the door behind him? That didn't feel right, though. It'd looked pretty clear to Henry that Madame was trying to get rid of the German.

He flipped off the lights and went into his own room. Putting his ear to his door, Henry listened for their approach.

The German was speaking in rough English. Henry guessed he didn't know French and Madame had told Henry earlier that she refused to speak German unless absolutely necessary. “Such a harsh language, unlike French,” she'd said, and then added that she didn't much like English for that matter. “Too many words for the same meaning. And too many meanings for the same word.”

In the hallway, Madame was chattering: “Really, Herr Schmidt, you have been too kind. I am certainly capable of making my way home. My chauffeur is very reliable. But I do appreciate your concern.” She made a great rattling with her room key. Was she trying to signal Henry?

“It is pleasure, Madame. When I see you at casino, I knew I take you home. Beautiful ladies need German protection.”

“Indeed? Switzerland is a peaceful country, is it not, Herr Schmidt? The war does not exist here. Everyone is safe here, yes?”

“Switzerland would do well to invite German protection.
Der Führer
would make it a better country, more clean. No Jews, no Poles, no Czechs, no Yugoslavs.” The German leaned close to Madame. “But I waste time talking politics to a beautiful woman.”

Madame's voice was icy. “Oh, no, not at all. I find it fascinating. But I am tired. It is really time to say
adieu
.”

Again, she rattled her keys loudly. This time her poodle began to yap and throw itself at the door.

“Oh, dear,” said Madame. “
Mon pauvre petit.
I have left him shut up way too long.” She opened the door and out dashed the little dog, yip-yapping and jumping. It raced round and round the German. In its excitement, it urinated all over his trousers.

“Philippe, you naughty dog.” Madame barely suppressed a laugh. “Oh, Herr Schmidt, do forgive him.” She scooped up the poodle. “Please send me the bill for cleaning. What a wretched end to a lovely evening.” And with that she glided through her door, slammed it shut, and bolted it tight.

The German stomped down the hallway. When all was quiet, Henry knocked lightly on the door connecting their rooms.

“
Chéri,
” Madame greeted him with a sigh of exasperation. “Wasn't that just awful? The Germans have taken over the best cabarets and restaurants, especially in France. The casino here is littered with them. That one has been hounding me all night.”

Playfully, she rattled her keys once more. “Isn't it a shame that poor Philippe gets so overwrought and has accidents like that, just at the sound of keys?” She cradled the poodle and petted him. “Such a clever boy.” The dog licked her face.

Henry laughed. “You are quite an actress, Madame.”

“But of course,
chéri
. One must be these days.” Her triumphant smile faded. “We leave in the morning. I made only a little money tonight, but we must depart before that bore shows up again. I play a high-society coquette to disarm my enemy and to keep myself a mystery. Women have had to cloak themselves in this way forever. But it is especially useful with the Reich. Nazi Aryans can be such fools for a well-made dress, well-bred manners, and witty cocktail chatter. They all want to be aristocrats. But the price is, they think they know me for something I am not. That man will be back and we must not be here when he returns. I would have a hard time ridding myself of him a second time.”

“Today,
chéri
, you are my chauffeur,” Madame told Henry when he answered her knock at 6 a.m. She held up a grey uniform and cap. “You and my driver will exchange papers. He can make his way across the lake through friends. You will be Robert Messien. You will drive me across the border at Geneva. Dress quickly. Robert will show you the car.” As Henry took the clothes, she teased: “You do drive better than you speak French?”

Henry blushed at her playfulness. His mother had teased him, but it'd felt different. Madame looked to be about the same age as Lilly, but while it was clear his ma had once been exquisitely beautiful, this woman still was. He couldn't help but wonder if her life had been easier, if his mother would look more like Madame.

They motored along Lake Léman from Montreux to Lausanne, heading towards Geneva, past promenades lined by palm trees. Henry nearly drove into the back end of another car as he stared at them. How did trees like these grow in Switzerland? Didn't they freeze?

“It is a marvel, isn't it?” Madame said, reading his thoughts. “The lake retains heat and the mountains protect the area from the winds. The weather is quite mild here, far gentler than where you are going.”

Henry caught his breath at the sight of several massive magnolias, their huge white blossoms beginning to open. The sight made him think of home, remembering the day he'd cut branches and branches of magnolia blossoms from a tree down by the creek and brought them home to his ma. The flowers were a thank-you for her promise to take him to Boy Scouts. Clayton had refused to drive him to the meetings, said it was foolishness, a waste of work time.

“Oh, Henry,” his mother had exclaimed as she buried her face in the blossoms. When she lifted it, her face shone, free of the worry that generally shadowed it. “Isn't the world just a miracle, honey? Can you imagine anything more beautiful than this? I hope to get to heaven someday for sure, but I'm gonna hate leaving the smell of magnolias.” She'd caught him for a long, tight hug. “You are my sunshine, Henry.”

Henry's grip on the steering wheel tightened, remembering how easy it was to make his ma so happy, and how infrequently she was that relaxed. Lilly always worked so hard to give him a happy, normal childhood, despite the Depression and despite Clayton. There was so much work to do at the farm it would have been easy for Henry to have dissolved into nothing more than a child-size field hand, his spirit completely broken by the weight of the labour. That's what Clayton would have reduced him to, because that's all Clayton himself seemed to be – a body to toil and scratch the dirt, then die.

He could see his ma now, fretting about him, staring out their kitchen window, hoping, frightened, as she made dinner – only Clayton coming in to eat to interrupt her worries about whether Henry was alive or dead. Clayton would be telling her that she was a fool to hope. But Lilly
was
hope. Hang on, Ma, Henry thought. I promise I'll be home as soon as possible. I'm going to waltz up our drive and give you the best surprise of your life.

Henry checked the rearview mirror, afraid Madame might have noticed his sadness. She was staring out the window, unusually silent. Or was that her real personality? Henry assessed her elegant attire. Another well-cut suit buttoned to her throat, with just a hint of a lace blouse at the collar. Once more, she wore a long, sweeping silk scarf, this time draped like a shawl across her shoulders. It had an elaborate design of finely etched flowers and ferns, which accentuated the deep forest-green colour of her suit. Wouldn't his mother just love something as pretty as that scarf?

“Is that a special kind of scarf, Madame? Would I be able to find one for my ma back home?”

Madame's eyes met his in the mirror. “It is an Hermès scarf,
chéri
. It is very expensive, I am afraid. Does your
maman
like scarves?”

Henry laughed. “She's never had one. But she loves flowers. She'd love to wear something like that on Sundays.”

“Your
maman
is special, yes?”

“Very special, Madame,” said Henry quietly. “She is very kind, very loving, very strong, really. She was the county beauty when my dad snared her. She could have married anyone, lived in a fancy house, I bet. But she chose my dad. We do pretty well on the farm, but she sure isn't a lady of leisure, like…” He broke off, embarrassed at his rudeness.

“Like me,
chéri
?” Madame finished his sentence. “That's all right. It is quite true. I have been very fortunate. I have had the best education and travelled to many beautiful places.” She leaned forward and patted Henry on the shoulder, “But I can tell you right now,
chéri
, that the best gift you can give your
maman
is not a scarf but your return.”

It took two hours to drive to Geneva, then another bone-chilling hour of waiting at the border. A German captain in charge of the checkpoint insisted that Madame have a cup of tea with him before she passed through. Henry pretended to sleep with his chauffeur's cap over his eyes, his feet on the dashboard.

Under the brim of his hat, Henry saw Madame approaching, still dogged by the Nazi officer. Like flies to honey, Henry thought with exasperation. What if this man spoke to him? What should he do?

As the German opened Madame's door, he spoke in perfect French to her, “
J'ai oublié de vérifier les papiers du chauffeur. Est-ce que je peux les voir, s'il vous plaît?
”

Henry caught the words:
papiers
and
chauffeur
. But before he could reach into his pockets, Madame began berating Henry for sleeping on the job. “
Tu as dormi tout ce temps? Pourquoi n'as-tu pas poli la voiture pendant toute cette attente? Espèce de paresseux!
”

She turned to the German officer to continue a tirade of complaints about Henry's inabilities as a servant. Ending with a pointed comment that the war had robbed her of good help and that she was terribly late, Madame slapped Henry on his shoulder with her gloves and snapped, “
Allez, Robert, vite.
” She waved at the German captain and off they drove, leaving behind the barbed wire fence that cut off France from Switzerland.

When the Nazi finally vanished from sight, Madame apologized. “I am sorry to speak to you that way,
chéri
. But I have found that the best way to make people forget about checking papers is to make a fuss about something else. Then you must fly before they regather their wits. That man is useful to me, however. It is through him that I buy black-market petrol. Next time, because of the scene I just made, I can tell him I fired you if he is surprised by a new face.”

Next time? “Do you do this often, Madame?”

She smiled at him. “Ask me no questions, young man. It is better for you that way.” She leaned back onto the leather seat and closed her eyes for a nap.

They reached Annecy that evening. Madame lived just outside town in a walled mansion overlooking another, smaller lake. Henry had never seen such a grand home. Huge Oriental rugs covered the black-and-white marble floor of the foyer. Portraits and oil paintings lined the walls of the staircase. The house smelled of lemon oil and well-rubbed wood. Madame's butler led him up the grand staircase with a carved banister to a small room on the top floor. He pointed to a suit of clothes on the bed and said, “
Le dîner sera servi à huit heures.
”

At eight o'clock, when a half dozen clocks chimed the hour throughout the house, Henry found his way to the drawing room. Madame was sitting on a plush couch, propped up by embroidered and tasselled pillows. Her poodle slept on an open book. “
Ah, chéri.
” Madame rose and complimented him. “
Tu es très beau.
”

“
Merci,
” Henry answered shyly. “The suit fits perfectly, Madame.”

She nodded and straightened the shoulders for him. “I thought you were about his size,” she said more to herself than to Henry. Her gaze was distant.

“Who?”

Madame stiffened, her characteristic frivolity gone. “My son.”

“Where is your son, Madame?”

“He was captured at the Aisne River when Hitler invaded and Paris fell. He is one of the thousands of French prisoners of war held in Germany. They are hostages really. For each German officer killed by the Resistance – ‘terrorists' Hitler calls us – several Frenchmen are taken out and shot. He was still alive six months ago. I have not been able to get word since.” She turned away from Henry and headed for the door. “Time for dinner. Come.”

Henry remained with Madame a week. Each night they dined together, with her laughing gently over his confusion about salad, dinner, and dessert forks. Henry's family had felt lucky to have ten regular silver forks for Thanksgiving dinners.

She taught him to play bridge. She talked of French philosophers. She played her piano for him – Mozart and Debussy and Chopin, she said. Henry had never heard the pieces before. They were beautiful, airy, and delicate.