Goodnight from paris a n.., p.9
Goodnight from Paris: A Novel, page 9
“I know,” I said. After his third rejection from the military, he had been so depressed, restless, and angry that he could not serve like so many of his friends and family members had. This opportunity had, in many ways, saved him. I couldn’t deny that.
“The only part of all of this that I hate is being away from you. That and the fact that I am not making enough money and we must rely on your work and the kindness of our families. Thank you for your sacrifices in letting me do this. I don’t deserve you. Truly.”
He pulled me over to him, and I settled into the crook of his arm.
“You’re welcome,” I said with a dramatic sigh. I had been feeling a little resentful and stressed about our money situation. “Why do you have to be so noble, so good, and understanding? With your lungs you had a perfect excuse not to serve, and yet that didn’t stop you. How are you feeling, by the way?”
“Very well,” he said. I looked up at him to see if he was telling the truth, and I felt his body tense. “I am fine, the picture of health. I should be asking you that question. How are you? I told Nadine to make sure you weren’t working too hard.”
“I’m fine now that you’re here. And Nadine and I have become closer since you left,” I said with a smile. “I’m fortunate we can keep her on; she’s a huge help and great company too.”
I told him everything that had transpired in the past month, all about my role at Paris Mondiale, about Claude and Jean and the controversies over programming, about our fascinating guests like Dorothy and Josephine. He listened intently and asked me thoughtful, curious questions all along, a reminder of one of the many reasons why I loved him. He was interested in my pursuits in a way my first husband never was. In a way no man ever had been. At the end of the day, I thought, every woman just wanted someone who believed in them, who shared in their joys and supported them in their sorrows. But I knew men like Jacques were rare. I was one of the lucky ones.
“I am immensely proud of you and what you’re doing at the station, your radio broadcasts,” he said. “You’re incredible.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said with a laugh. “But I’m doing the best I can; thank you.”
“And you need to tell me all about the play,” he said.
I told him about the young actors I worked with, the standing ovation, and the dinner party. He was impressed to learn Bill Bullitt’s news about President Roosevelt listening in and thus saving my job.
“But the best part of the night was finding you here,” I said, kissing his cheek. “What would you like to do for the rest of the time you’re home?”
“It’s already midmorning; let’s try to enjoy it to the fullest,” he said. “We’ll go to a café or two, drink champagne and toast to our marriage at midnight. Let’s forget tomorrow until it’s here. Do you think you can do that?”
“But what about seeing some of our friends? Elise, at the very least?”
“Let’s just see where the day takes us. Our time together is precious, and we need to fit a month’s worth of memories into hours. Sound good?”
“OK, sounds good,” I said, smiling, trying to push down the feelings of sadness from knowing he would be leaving so soon. I knew he was right. Elise and many other wives had not seen their husbands for months, had barely received a letter. I was greedy for more, but I needed to be grateful for this. “On that note, come, let’s not waste another minute.”
I wrapped my arm around his and led him into the bedroom.
Chapter Ten
Darling,
You are asleep next to me as I write this, and very soon I will be on a train back to Brittany. This precious time with you has made me wistful about what our newly married life would have been like had the war not happened. Thank you for the wonderful memories of this weekend; they will keep me warm on my nights away from our bed.
I thank you for understanding how important it is for me to serve my country, but as I said yesterday, I’m so sorry for the sacrifices it has required of both of us. It is a lot to ask of a new bride living in a foreign land, and yet you do it willingly because you know what it means to me as a Frenchman. Because you love me. And that means more than words can say, my darling.
Please try not to worry too much; I am in a good position and safer than most.
You are always my lucky star. I have no fear in my heart, and you must not be afraid either. I will come back to you. No matter where you are or how long until I reach you again, you know what there is between us. Je t’embrasse, je t’embrasse, je t’embrasse.
All my love,
Jacques
I reread the letter for the twentieth time since his train had left the station at six that morning. He had looked so handsome in his new black cashmere overcoat and uniform. With a passionate kiss and embrace, he handed me the letter, his eyes watering.
“I love you,” he said as he walked away backward, blowing me a kiss.
“Je t’aime tellement. J’attendrai,” I said, the second phrase being from the song he had sung to Elise’s daughter the night before. I love you so. I will wait.
He turned to go and waved once more before stepping onto the train.
I had gritted my teeth and held back the tears until I knew he couldn’t see me.
It had been a wonderful New Year’s Eve day and night with Jacques, so lovely and magical that the goodbye was that much harder and bittersweet. We had bundled up and taken a long walk through the city we adored, ravenous when we finally arrived at Les Deux Magots. Jacques was thrilled the portly gray-haired waiter remembered us and brought us to our favorite table, inside near the windows. And there we had lingered over a late lunch of salad and omelets and warm goat cheese on sourdough bread and a full-bodied red wine.
A little before five, the sun already setting for the last time in 1939, we paid a quick surprise visit to Elise, her mother, Yvonne, and Elise’s eight-year-old daughter, Corinne, and they all whooped with joy at the sight of Jacques, hugging and kissing us both. Yvonne brought out champagne to toast our brief reunion. At one point, Jacques picked up Corinne, singing the popular song “J’attendrai” and dancing her around the apartment until she was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.
Later that evening we sat by our tiny fireplace filled with candles, a tray of cheeses and bread between us, toasting to an uncertain future and trying to pretend we had days and not hours left to spend together. We made love until long past midnight, falling asleep tangled in each other until it was time for him to leave.
I didn’t know when he’d be able to come back to me again, but I knew that it might be a very long time. And I needed to figure out a way to handle his absence better than I had been. I needed to get through these weeks or months without being a constant nervous wreck. Working hard would be one way through. There were refugees pouring in from other countries every day who required food and shelter and medical care, and Kathleen had started volunteering to help with those efforts. Now that the play was over, I thought I could help too.
My tea with Bill was in an hour, and then I would learn if I truly did still have a job. Thinking back to how furious Jean had been, I still had my doubts, despite the approval of the president of the United States.
I blotted my eyes with a cold, damp cloth and put on my makeup, failing to completely cover up the puffiness and dark circles. I chose my favorite wool suit. It was a deep charcoal gray and felt businesslike enough for the meeting, but at the cuffs and collar it had a delicate pink silk trim embroidered with silver butterflies, details that appealed to my dramatic side.
As I was looking for my gas mask, there was a knock at the door followed by a feisty bark.
“Drue? I am home,” Nadine said as she opened the door.
Nadine was standing there with her gas mask and overnight bag. At her feet, next to her bag, was a dog with wild black curly hair, a little over a foot tall, with large watery eyes that made him look cartoonlike.
I looked at the dog and back at Nadine. “Oh,” I said, tilting my head. “Who do we have here?”
“This is Ondie; he is a five-year-old poodle,” she said, her voice nervous and even higher-pitched than normal. “My family’s elderly neighbor passed away last week. This dog has no one left. He doesn’t have to stay forever. He is a très bon chien. A very good dog. If you allow him to stay, you will not have to worry; I will take care of all his needs.”
The dog looked up at me, his eyes sad and imploring, as if waiting for my verdict.
I kneeled, and he covered me in kisses and nearly toppled me in his excitement. “OK, Ondie, I suppose you can stay . . . at least for now. Long term, we will probably have to figure out something else.”
I stood up, and this time it was Nadine who almost bowled me over with her embrace.
“Thank you so much,” she said, and I laughed as Ondie let out a little yelp of joy of his own, and I helped her bring him and her bags into the apartment.
“Oh, Nadine,” I said as we hugged each other tightly and the dog jumped up on us and tried to join in the affection. “I am so happy to have you back, and I have so much to tell you.”
I gave her a brief overview of what had happened while she was away as I put on my overcoat and gathered my things.
“I have to go, but I will be home for dinner after my meeting at the embassy, and I can tell you the rest then,” I said. “And I might be going to the station tonight as usual, but I won’t know for sure until I talk to the ambassador.”
I patted Ondie on the head and smiled.
“I’m just so grateful you’re here. Both of you.”
“Me too,” she said, giving me a gentle push out the door. “Now go before you’re late.”
I waited in the library of the American embassy, sitting on the same sofa and drinking Darjeeling tea as I awaited Bill. A few minutes after I arrived, he walked into the library with Richard O’Brien, and my stomach lurched, because behind Richard was Jean, his eyes neutral when he saw me, his demeanor cool, like I was a stranger. I hated it.
“Drue,” Bill said, kissing me on both cheeks when he reached the sofa, “thank you for meeting with me on New Year’s Day; it was just too important to wait.”
“It’s not a problem at all, Bill,” I said.
“Hello,” said Jean in a quiet voice as he greeted me with kisses as well, his body language stiff and guarded.
“Hello, Jean,” I said, my voice tight. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Nice to see you again, Richard.”
“You as well, Miss Leyton,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, my father was absolutely thrilled with the autograph. Thank you again.”
“You’re very welcome,” I said, wondering why Bill had invited him to the meeting.
One of the embassy’s staff came in and poured tea for the men while another brought out a tray of tea cakes and sandwiches.
“Excuse me,” I said, standing up. “It’s just that I wasn’t expecting Jean and Richard to be joining us. Before we begin, I’d like to step outside the library to have a word with Jean. It will only take a minute.”
I didn’t ask permission, which was something I would have done when I was a young, eager actress just starting out. Now I had no time for it. I needed to make things right with my boss.
“Of course,” Bill said. “By all means.”
We closed the door of the library behind us and faced each other in the hall. Jean had his arms crossed, a few days of black stubble at his jawline. I took a deep breath and begged for forgiveness, per Dorothy’s advice.
“Jean, I am truly sorry,” I said. “For going ahead with the interview the way I did, for going against your wishes. I was just so inspired by her passion, and you know how I’ve been feeling about wanting to do more. And all I’ve got are these radio broadcasts, so, on impulse, I went ahead and asked those questions. But I know it was wrong to betray your trust like that, and I promise you I will never do that again.”
“Thank you for the apology,” he said. He looked up at the cathedral ceiling of the embassy hallway. “I suppose you have to stay on, now that you’ve got a fan in President Roosevelt.”
“That was unexpected news, I’ll admit,” I said, my body relaxing.
“Unexpected but welcome,” he said. “Now we’ve got the president and the ambassador on our side. So, to be clear, I was furious with you the other night. And I did feel betrayed, not only because you work for me but because . . . I consider you a good friend now.”
“I consider you a friend too,” I said in a soft voice as we looked into each other’s eyes. Jean had become a dear friend these past months, and my heart ached because I had hurt him personally. “Again, I am so sorry.”
“I know,” he said. “At least you’ve made up for it in a way. Because now we have the most powerful person willing to defend what we’re doing to the Ministry. And this is what I’ve wanted all along.”
“Does this mean I still have a job?”
“Yes, you still have a job. Unfortunately, I cannot do this without you,” he said, shaking his head, and I studied his solemn expression with worry until he broke into his lopsided smile.
“Thank you,” I said, so relieved that I couldn’t help but give him a hug, the tension leaving my shoulders as we embraced. “Thank you. I will not let you down.”
“I know you will not,” he said, still smiling as he pulled away, and I was surprised to see he was now blushing. “But from now on, no more of this American rebel-cowboy nonsense, doing your own thing. We must communicate and make decisions together.”
“Of course, absolutely,” I said, biting my lip.
“Is there anything else, Drue?” he asked. “Are you OK?”
“I’m a little out of sorts this afternoon,” I said, touched that he’d noticed. “Jacques made it home this weekend.”
I told him about the thirty-six-hour visit and the difficult goodbye.
“Ah, that’s why your eyes are so red,” he said, his smile fading. “I knew it was something. I’m sorry, but I am glad that you got to see him and he’s well.”
“Thank you,” I said as we headed back into the library, enormously happy that our friendship was still intact.
“Oh, good,” Bill said as we joined them on the sofas. “So, I wanted to meet with you both today to make sure you understand that I’ve intervened with your superiors at the Ministry and you now, finally, have air cover from the US president, and therefore much freer rein to broadcast the types of programs and interviews that we all want.”
“Yes, we were just discussing that,” Jean said. “This is incredible news.”
“The other reason I wanted to meet with you is to introduce you to Richard for redundancy, as another contact here if ever you can’t get in touch with me.” Bill sipped his tea and paused. “Just between us, the latest war intelligence points to things getting much worse here in the coming months. We all need to be prepared for it.”
“Worse in France overall or worse in Paris?” I asked, wrapping my arms around myself, thinking of Jacques.
“Both, I’m afraid,” he said. “And I’m not being an alarmist; I’m being a realist. Nobody believes Germany will attack France but me and Colonel de Gaulle, but it’s coming. I’ve been working with the American Hospital; we’re transforming it into a military facility, with a unit for blood donations and the ability to treat shrapnel wounds, gas attacks, or damage from bombs.”
I shivered, and Jean and I looked at each other, both of us absorbing the gravity of what Bill was saying.
“When things take a turn, I want you to report on absolutely everything that is happening here—in the government, in the streets, anything—for as long as you possibly can. Hire more English-speaking reporters and writers if you must; just do it. Promise me you will do that?”
“Absolutely,” Jean said.
“We’ll do everything we can,” I said.
Chapter Eleven
Wednesday, April 24, 1940
Dearest Raymond,
I’m writing to you from my apartment balcony on a warm April afternoon; our new poodle, Ondie, is sleeping next to me on his back, so he can feel the sun on his belly. After the coldest winter ever recorded in France, you can imagine how good it feels to have a real spring day in Paris. People are out at the parks and sitting outdoors in the cafés for the first time in ages—a gift from the weather gods in these dark times.
On the surface, things appear somewhat normal. We have all had to adapt to the food and gas rations and the air-raid drills. Charles and Fern Bedaux and the Wilkinsons have thrown some extravagant parties, and the other night I went to the premiere of a spectacular new song-and-dance revue starring Josephine Baker and Maurice Chevalier. I had them both on for an interview the night before the show, and they were delightful. Perhaps you heard it?
But, of course, the relative normalcy is an illusion; with Germany’s occupation of Denmark and increased fighting on France’s northern border, anyone paying attention is holding their breath, wondering what in the world is to come next.
In my last call with Jacques, he told me that all military leaves had been canceled and that his unit was on the move, but he could not say to where. I worry constantly about his safety, of course. I begged him to come back to Paris, to use his lungs as an excuse. But in the end, I know he needs to satisfy his yearning to serve his country and his sense of adventure—oh, how I wish he had been able to do both before we met!
I have been working harder than I ever have before in my life, as it’s the only way to maintain my sanity with Jacques away at war, and I hope you and Gladys are well and coping in whatever way you can.
I spend most nights at the radio station interviewing American expatriates and Frenchmen and anyone who can give Americans perspective on what’s really going on here. And in every single letter I receive from my American listeners, they express sympathy and a strong desire to aid France. It is the political fighting in Washington that is making it impossible. The many letters coming from the States tell me our radio programs are making a difference, that we are changing Americans’ perspectives about the war, but the news reports about Congress and Roosevelt tell me it’s still not enough.
