“That’s a postcard, Caroline. Half the world has read it, if they care about some French orphanage.”
I flipped through the postcards. Chateau de Chaumont. Chateau Masgelier. Villa La Chesnaie. All once-stately French mansions converted to orphan asylums. They returned confirmation cards upon receipt of the aid packages I sent. I hoped a sweet soap, a pair of clean socks, a candy, and a piece or two of Mother’s lovely hand-sewn clothes, all wrapped in neat brown paper, would raise a child’s spirits.
I stood and pinned the cards to my bulletin board. It was already crammed with pictures of French children. One of a dark-haired angel holding a sign that read, MERCI BEAUCOUP, CAROLINE! Another of children posed in plein air art class, one child at an easel, the rest on campstools, assembled by age, pretending to read their books under a linden tree.
I assumed that photo was snapped by the lovely sounding Mme Bertillion, director of Saint-Philippe in Meudon, an orphanage southwest of Paris. I’d become friendly with Mme Bertillion by mail and waited eagerly for her letters, filled with charming anecdotes about the children and how much they appreciated my packages. There was a new letter from her in this batch of mail, and I pinned up the enclosed crayon drawing of Saint-Philippe, the imposing stone fa?ade colored goldenrod yellow, smoke swirling out of the chimney like the icing on a Hostess Cupcake.
What would it be like to adopt one of these children? A boy? Girl? Our place up in Connecticut, which we called The Hay, was absolute heaven for children. Mother maintained my playhouse, still there in the meadow, complete with woodstove. Adopting a child would give me someone to pass it all down to. Great-grandmother Woolsey’s loving cup. Our lovely duck-footed table. Mother’s silver. But I put it out of my mind, for I would never raise a child alone. I knew too well the difficulties of growing up without a father, that aching hole Mother had tried too hard to fill. Feigning sick every father-daughter day at school. Being reduced to tears at the sight of fathers and daughters holding hands on the street. The gnaw of regret that I hadn’t said goodbye.
At the bottom of the pile, I found a letter, written on onionskin airmail stationery in a lovely hand. The postmark read ROUEN. Paul.
As well as I knew Paul, how had I never seen his handwriting before? It suited him.
Dear Caroline,
I decided to write right away, since, as you say, waiting is not your strong suit. So much is happening here. Rouen has been remarkably sane about this Phoney War, but many have already left, including our neighbors who wheeled their grandmother away with them down our street in a baby carriage last night. The rest of us now are just hoping for the best. I am in talks to commit to a new play in Paris. All’s Well That Ends Well, can you believe it? Shakespeare. I like to think it is your good influence on me.
Rena may have to close her shop. There is little fabric and notions to be had, but she will be fine. Her father has taken to smoking sunflower leaves, for there is no tobacco to be found.
I hope this counts as a newsy letter, for I have to go now to make the embassy bag. Do put a good word in with Roger for our visa situation. I think of you often, there at work. Make sure you don’t let Roger bully you. Remember, he needs you.
With much love and until next time,
Paul
p.s. I dreamed last night I watched you on stage, here in Paris, in a very steamy version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and you played an angel. Could this say something about your acting career? About my missing you? My dreams always come true.
Paul had made it home to Rouen, past the U-boats. At least he was safe.
For a gregarious man, he wrote a succinct letter, but it was better than none at all. A new play? Perhaps things would blow over in France. Maybe the French producers knew more about the situation than we did half a world away. And the dream! He really did miss me.
I found an April 23 copy of Le Petit Parisien, one of the many French newspapers Roger had delivered by bag, somewhat outdated but precious nevertheless. The lead headline read: THE REICH IN SCANDINAVIA! BRITISH TROOPS FIGHT ON LAND AND SEA. CONSIDERABLE SUCCESS IN THE WAR IN NORWAY DESPITE LARGE DIFFICULTIES. My mood lightened at reading that good news. Maybe the United States would continue to avoid the war, but the Brits were holding fast, despite horrific Luftwaffe bombing. Maybe France would escape Hitler after all.
I scanned the theater page. Any ads for Paul’s new venture? I found no Shakespeare but did see a small ad for Rena’s shop, a simple black square, bordered with a row of pearls: Les Jolies Choses. Lingerie et sous-vêtements pour la femme de discernement. Lingerie and undergarments for the discerning woman?
Roger came to my doorway, tie askew, a Rorschach-test coffee stain on his shirt.
“Bad news, C. Hitler has just attacked France, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, and Belgium all at once. It is just hitting the news now. I’m afraid things are going to get bumpy.”
I hurled myself after him and watched him pace about his office.
“My God, Roger. Have you called Paris?”
The oscillating fan in the window cooled one side of the room and then the next. The red ribbon someone had tied to it flapped like a little Nazi flag.
“The phones are out,” Roger said. “All we can do is wait.”
I’d never seen Roger afraid before.
“What about the Maginot Line?”
“Seems Hitler went around it, over it, under it. He came right across Belgium.”
“What will Roosevelt do?”
“Nothing, probably. Has no choice but to recognize whatever government represents France.”
Pia came to Roger’s door, encryption headphones around her neck. “I tried to call my father in Paris, and I can’t get through. I have to go home.”
“You can’t go anywhere right now, Pia,” Roger said.
“I can’t stay here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Pia,” I said. “You can’t just leave.”
Pia stood, arms limp at her sides, heaving great sobs. I wrapped my arms around her. “It will all be fine, dear,” I said. To my immense surprise, she returned my embrace.
—
ON JUNE 14, 1940, the Germans took Paris, and eight days later France surrendered.
Pia and I stood in Roger’s office and listened to radio reports of Nazis marching past the Arc de Triomphe. France was split into two zones, the northern zone occupied by German Wehrmacht soldiers, known as the zone occupée, and the so-called free zone in the south. Marshal Philippe Pétain headed up the new French Republic, called the Vichy regime, in the southern free zone, which most considered a Nazi puppet state.
“What will happen to our office here?” Pia asked.
“I don’t know,” Roger said. “We’ll sit tight for now. Do the best we can for our people here. Can’t get any calls through.”
“Can the Brits help?”
“Already have,” Roger said. “They just shared reports of German dive-bomber activity in the English Channel.” We were lucky that Roger was close to what Pia called his “British spy friends,” our neighbors in the International and British Buildings of Rockefeller Center, who were especially generous with their classified information.
Roger’s personal line rang, and Pia picked it up. “Roger Fortier’s office. Oh yes. Yes, she is. Hold the line.”
Pia held the phone out to me. “It’s Paul.”
“How did he get through?” Roger asked.
I grabbed the phone. “Paul?” I could barely breathe.
“I have only a minute,” Paul said.
Paul.
His voice was so clear, as if from the next room. I pressed one finger to my free ear. Was it really him?
“Caroline. It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“My God, Paul. We just heard. How did you get a call through?”
“My friend here at the embassy let me phone. You can’t imagine how crazy things are now. It’s just a matter of time before Hitler’s here.”
“I can ask Roger to rush the visas.”
“I don’t know, Caroline. This place is practically shut down.”
“What else do you need?”