Women's Barracks (15 page)

Alone, she undressed hastily, took off her medallion, folded her clothes, and placed the medallion on top. Although she had been raised without religion, it seemed to her that she could not wear the medallion—which one of her governesses had given her long ago—under these circumstances. Then, altogether nude, she returned to the living room.

Philippe had certainly not expected this. He was still standing there, in uniform, smoking. He saw the door open, and the girl enter and remain standing silently before him with her head lowered and her straight hair veiling her cheeks. He saw her childish little body, her tiny breasts, her thin arms, her round knees, and the demarcations of her bathing suit, leaving her breasts and her hips all white in the midst of her bronzed body.

He approached, taking her face in his hands, and he raised her head and said, "Don't be ashamed, Ursula. Look at me. You are beautiful."

The radio was playing. It must have been the BBC's French program, for a solemn voice was discussing Alphonse Daudet's
Moulin.

Philippe undressed and put on a woolen robe with green squares. He had not yet recovered from his astonishment, and seemed to be asking himself if he were dreaming. He picked Ursula up in his arms and carried her into his bedroom, placing her on the bed. Then in the dimness Ursula felt the naked body of a man touching her body. And now the terrible fear returned. The child began to tremble like a leaf; she trembled in all her limbs. Her teeth chattered, and she trembled and shivered without being able to control herself. Philippe kissed her and pressed her in his arms, but he felt the fear and resistance in her.

A sob of utter sorrow broke from the girl. Philippe began to rock her as one rocks tiny, frightened children. "My dear little girl, don't cry. Don't be afraid of anything. I won't touch you any more. You see that I can't touch you when you tremble like that. It stops everything in me. Look, little one, my baby, don't be afraid of anything. You are too small, you're still just a little girl. I don't want to hurt you. Now you're going to sleep with me, just nicely, without anything. Do you want to?"

Little by little Ursula calmed herself. She pressed herself against him. Philippe hugged her in his arms and talked to her soothingly, like a big brother, and she fell asleep.

In the middle of the night she awoke. Philippe was not asleep. He got up, turned on the bed lamp, and put on his dressing gown. He went to the kitchen and brought back a glass of milk for Ursula, and for himself a large glass of whisky.

Philippe watched her drink, sitting altogether naked in his bed, holding the glass in her two hands with her hair falling over her eyes. He got back into bed; they talked a little and fell asleep.

The morning found them pressed innocently against one another. Philippe awoke, gay and playful. He licked Ursula's brown shoulder and told her that she was all salty. They took their bath together, and Philippe prepared their breakfast of boiled eggs, buttered toast, and coffee. Then he dressed and went off, leaving her in the apartment with some books and magazines.

In the evening they went out again with Doc and his mistress, who obviously accepted them as lovers. Afterward, Philippe took Ursula to the theatre. They went to the station for her valise and brought it back to Philippe's apartment, for Ursula still had two days of leave.

During those two days she lived at Philippe's, treated like a little sister; he never attempted again to make love to her.

Philippe would take her on his knees and say to her, "You remind me of the sea, the sun, and the sand. You do me good. You make me a better person. You've got rid of the Popaul in me. Someday you will love a man, and he'll marry you, and when you have a flock of children you'll think about old Philippe. As for me, you see I could never marry you because my only bride will always be the sea. And so it's better the way we are."

He had the most tender affection for her, and above anything, did not want to hurt her in any way. Now that he knew she was still a little girl, he told her that it seemed to him that it would have been a sacrilege to change her, and then to leave her, as he knew he would have to do soon enough.

During those two days, Ursula was like a normal woman who busies herself with a man and lives with him. She found this to her liking and amused herself with shopping and preparing his meals.

Despite the setback of this last experience, she no longer had any fears about herself. It was a strange thing, but in spite of everything, she now felt herself to be normal. And she was at peace. She couldn't understand why, but it was so. Perhaps it was because Philippe treated her as he did, and because he didn't seem to find anything strange in her, or to believe that she was anything but normal.

On the last day, Philippe took her to the station. He installed her in her compartment and bought her some sandwiches for the journey. Ursula leaned out of the window for his last kiss. Both knew that they would never see each other again and that they had lived through a strange episode together.

The train began to move. She saw Philippe on the platform in his blue uniform, standing straight, watching the train disappear.

In spite of everything, Down Street, when Ursula entered again after a week of absence, had something of an aspect of home for her. She glanced into the assembly room, cold and somber as ever, and then went up to the dormitory with its uncovered beds and the photograph of General de Gaulle on the wall. Ursula listened, and as she had expected, the phonograph was playing "Violetta." Machou's raucous voice was heard from the kitchen, and the sound of a typewriter came from the Captain's office.

It was the barracks; it was the unhappy barracks, in this country of exile, with everyone longing for the end of this period of military life that had brought nothing but a series of disillusions.

And still in that immense and strange city of London, it was the only refuge any of us had. It was at least a lively place, filled every night with French voices and familiar faces, with smoke and babble. We had all in a measure become part of this house, which seemed to have taken flesh, not only through our physical presence, but through the private life of each one of us, through each one's history, through each one's pain and joy.

And yet, what had we succeeded in accomplishing? Nothing, nothing at all. We had become classified numerals. Not one of us really believed she had done any real soldiering. Even the lucky few who, like myself, had jobs in which they were interested could not help but feel that they were doing little to free their country. It was said in some quarters that De Gaulle was against a women's section in the Army. Sometimes we reasoned that our presence in the service freed the male recruits for more useful activities. Very well, then, as Ursula used to say with her touching, pessimistic wisdom, that meant that three or four hundred soldiers were thus free to go and get themselves killed. The whole thought was maddening.

We had imagined that the uniform would somehow put us right into the middle of the war, but it was not at all like that. The war was taking place far from us; we were not participating in it. Bombs were bursting over our heads, but no more over ours than the civilians', and we worked in offices with civilian women who were much better paid and who were free to do what they wished when the office day was over.

And what was the use of all this? What was the use of going on blindly for months, living in the midst of all these women, not one of whom felt any real reason or purpose in what she was doing?

Still Down Street was our barracks, almost a corner of France.

It was five o'clock in the afternoon when Ursula came home; most of us were not yet free from our jobs. Ursula noticed that there was a suitcase on what had once been Jacqueline's bed, and that the chemistry student's books were no longer behind that bed, but in another corner of the room. So there had been a change during her absence. Ursula began to arrange her things. The door opened and someone cried out, "Ursula baby!"

She turned. It was Jacqueline.

She looked as fresh and pretty as ever. She threw herself on Ursula's neck, and they sat down on the bed, both talking at once, delighted to see each other again.

Jacqueline was cured. She had found the hospital extremely tiresome, but she had been a great success there, too. Her doctor and several of the patients had, naturally, fallen in love with her. Fortunately, De Prade, now a captain, with a car at his command, had been able to come and see her often. He had been simply marvelous to her, bringing her fruit, flowers, and other gifts.

Jacqueline chattered on, bringing Ursula up to date in the affairs with which we were all so familiar. De Prade was still her great love, but she still enjoyed getting every man she met to pay court to her. And there still wasn't a man who failed to succumb as soon as he laid eyes on Jacqueline's rosy face with her pretty mouth, her regular teeth, and her shining hazel eyes. For she, too, couldn't live without at least an illusion of love, and she used all of her power to create this illusion, employing her expert eyes, her sensual mouth, and her supple young Body.

But now Jacqueline turned all her attention on Ursula, resuming her old protective air. "You don't look well, my dear child, you've become thinner. I'm sure you don't eat at all. It's a good thing I've come back. I'm going to take care of you."

Ursula, of course, detested having anyone officiously take care of her; this had always irritated her in Jacqueline, but she said nothing, for life in the barracks had already made her more indulgent toward the faults of others. After all, it was part of Jacqueline's character.

Now the-girls began to come home, one after the other.

I scarcely had a moment to talk with Ursula before Mickey arrived, shouting, "Ursula! How glad I am to see you!" She danced around Ursula, with her excited, disjointed gestures, and then sat down on the edge of the bed, swinging a long khaki-clad leg. Ursula was delighted to see her, to hear Mickey talk with her slight English accent, and to hear her laugh. Mickey had a gift for making a room seem warm.

Ginette asked Ursula if she had had a good time, and if she had gone out with any boys. Ginette had already set herself to polishing the buttons of her uniform. When they were bright enough to suit her, she began to clean her shoes for tomorrow; she was meticulously neat. And Ursula was duly surprised at Ginette's new hair-do; but actually the new arrangement only made Ginette's face, her eyes, her nose, and her mouth seem rounder and flatter than ever.

The dinner bell sounded. We took our places in the queue, plates in one hand, mugs and utensils in the other. Machou was shouting as usual, "Move along, move along! That's enough, there's someone else here besides you! If you don't like it, go to the Ritz!"

So Ursula was resuming her life, her real life, her life in war.

After dinner, she sat in the assembly room with us. Mickey and Jacqueline were there. Jacqueline decided that we ought to have a drink in honor of Ursula's return, and of her own, and she went to order Dubonnets at the bar. Her walk was as distinguished, as worldly as ever.

Just then Claude entered. According to the new schedule, she was on twenty-four-hour duty on alternate days, from eight in the evening to eight the following evening; she had just finished her stint. Ursula had not seen her at dinner. Now Ursula studied Claude as she stood at the door, talking to Ann. Claude carried herself straight, as always, with her blonde hair pushed back, and she gestured gracefully with her hands as she talked. She noticed Ursula and made her a distant sign, smiling. Ursula rose and went toward her, and suddenly, as she was approaching Claude, she told me later, it was as though someone had at that instant cut a cord between them. Suddenly Ursula had a physical sensation as of a weight dropping away from her, setting her free. It was over in a second; she was advancing toward Claude, and in the next instant she knew that it was finished, that she was not in love with her any more.

And as Claude went on talking, Ursula saw her for the first time objectively.

Claude's magic power no longer worked on her. Ursula saw nothing more than a woman of forty, a handsome woman, very well made up, but with little lines at the sides of her mouth and a scattering of white hair. Her voice was feverish. What Claude was saying no longer interested her. When Claude began to recount her last dispute with one of the girls, Ursula found the story tiresome and felt that Claude made trouble over nothing.

Claude left for the switchboard room, and Ursula remained standing where she was. She had the impression of having suddenly grown. It was a strange impression, leaving her with a sort of pride in no longer being a little girl.

She looked around.

Now she was free.

Claude soon noticed that Ursula was no longer in love with her. She was delighted. An adventure with a woman was amusing to her so long as it wasn't serious, so long as it was only a game, considered as an unusual excitement by both partners; but the mute and passionate love of this child who was too young, too pure, and too sincere had embarrassed and irritated Claude. This love affair had confronted her with utterly unwanted problems, needlessly complicating her existence. There were indeed moments when Ursula's clear little face, so filled with love and admiration for her, flattered Claude and even touched her. There had indeed been days when Ursula had reawakened in her that desperate tenderness which needed to be directed toward children, and as she had caressed the girl's glistening hair, her own heart had been filled with hunger and regret. But most of the time Claude had felt only one desire, and that was to discharge all of her irritation upon the nearest victim, and the victim had nearly always been Ursula.

And so the change that had taken place delighted her. At last she found a good little comrade in Ursula. Claude liked to watch the girl's serious face. And she found again the silent little girl to whom she had been attracted that first day, but now purged of all sexual desire. That side was quite finished for Claude too. After all, the pleasure of watching the child's first reactions to love, and the enjoyment she had experienced in educating the girl in this direction, had passed. She was not a man; she couldn't marry Ursula. She was not Petit; the idea would never have occurred to Claude to live in union with a woman. Therefore, she told me in one of her surprisingly candid moments, everything had "fortunately gone back the way it should be."