Lilac Girls

by Martha Hall Kelly

  After dinner, I left the dishes in the sink and sat on the lumpy horsehair sofa, sharing a bottle of Father’s cognac with Paul. That sofa had belonged to Mother’s mother, whom we called Mother Woolsey. She’d gotten it to deter Mother’s beaux from lingering.

  It grew chilly once the fire reduced to embers, for we kept the heat low in the apartment. Paul heaved a birch log onto the grate, and the blaze went full tilt, licking the firebox, so hot I could feel it on my face.

  I kicked off my shoes and tucked my legs up under me.

  “Someone’s been drinking the cognac,” I said, holding the bottle to the firelight.

  “Maybe it is just the angel’s share,” Paul said. “That’s what they call the part that evaporates from the cognac cellars.”

  He stabbed at the log with the iron poker, face somber in the firelight. Why were men so serious about fires?

  Paul came back to the sofa. “I feel like everything’s ahead of me when I’m here like this. Like a child.”

  “Somewhere in a corner of our hearts, we are always twenty,” I said. How many times had Mother said that?

  Paul tipped a slosh of cognac into his glass. “Your old boyfriend is a beautiful man.”

  “He’d agree, no doubt.” I held my glass out for more cognac.

  Paul hesitated.

  “Man, being reasonable, must get drunk,” I said. Why was I quoting Byron? It made me sound two million years old.

  “The best of life is but intoxication,” Paul said, as he poured cognac into my glass.

  He knew Byron?

  “How come you never ask me about Rena?” Paul said.

  “Why would I?” That was the last thing I wanted to talk about.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Thought you might be curious how I can stay away so long.”

  “The show, of course,” I said. The amber in my glass glowed in the firelight.

  “We don’t have much of a marriage now.”

  “Paul. Such a cliché.” Why could I not stop talking to men like a schoolmarm? I deserved to end up alone, sent out on an ice floe as the Eskimos do with their elders.

  “Rena’s so young. A lot of fun—you’d like her, I’m sure—but we could never sit here like this and talk about life.”

  “What does she like to do?” I said.

  The fire popped and whined as it consumed a drop of pitch.

  “Dancing, parties. She’s a child in many ways. We got married very soon after we met. It was great fun at first, and the bedroom time was incredible, but soon she grew restless. I’ve heard she’s had some attractive boyfriends.”

  Incredible bedroom time? Heavenly, no doubt. I flicked a bit of lint off my sleeve.

  “By the way, in this country, men don’t talk about their bedroom exploits.”

  “In this country, men have none to speak of,” Paul said. “They get married, and their exploits shrivel up and fall off. Rena is a wonderful girl, but according to her, we are just incompatible. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  He fiddled with the fire some more and came back, this time sitting closer to me on the sofa. For such a virile man, he had a lovely mouth.

  “Is anyone compatible anymore?” I said. “My parents are the only couple I’ve ever thought were truly in sync.”

  “How did your father die?”

  “I’ve never talked about it before. I was eleven, and back then one didn’t discuss such things.”

  “Was he a good father?”

  “On weekends he came up from the city to Connecticut. He exchanged his starched collar and waistcoat for khakis and pitched to us, endlessly, at the baseball field Mother had made at the far end of our property.”

  “Was he often sick?”

  “Never. But the spring of 1914, one day he was sequestered in his bedroom here, out of the blue. Only Dr. Forbes and Mother were allowed in. By the time I was sent to relatives with my valise packed, I knew something was terribly wrong. The maids stopped talking when I came into the room, and Mother’s face had a hunted look I’d never seen on her before.”

  “I’m so sorry, Caroline.” Paul held my hand in his warm and soft one and then released it.

  “Five days later I was allowed to come home, but no one would look me in the eye. As always, I got my best information hiding in the dumbwaiter just off the kitchen, peeking through a crack. We had four Irish maids living in at the time. The eldest, Julia Smith, filled her coworkers in on the big event as she shelled peas at the kitchen table. I still remember every word. Julia said, ‘I knew Mr. Ferriday wouldn’t go down without a fight.’

  “Mary Moran, a skinny new girl, was pushing a dirty gray squid of a mop back and forth across the black and white tiles. She said, ‘Pneumonia’s the most wretched way to die. Like drowning, only slower. Were you in the room? Better not have touched him.’

  “Then Julia said, ‘One minute he was laughing like a lunatic, and the next he was clawing at his chest saying it was too hot and crying for Dr. Forbes to “Open a window, for God’s sake.” Then he started asking for his daughter, Caroline, and it just about broke my heart. Mrs. Ferriday kept saying, “Henry, darling, don’t leave me,” but he must have already died, because Dr. Forbes stuck his head out the door and told me, “Run get the undertaker.” ’

  “Lily Clifford, the youngest of the four, chimed in: ‘Just caught a glimpse of Mrs. Ferriday, arms around him there on the bed, saying, “I can’t live without you, Henry,” sounding so sad and lonely I wanted to cry myself.’

  “That evening, Mother told me the news. I just stared at Father’s humidor, wondering what would happen to his cigars now that he was gone. Mother and I never spoke much of Father’s death and she never cried in front of me or anyone else after that day.”

  “What a terrible thing, Caroline,” Paul said. “You were so young.”

  “I’m sorry to ruin our festive mood.”

  “That’s a heavy burden for a child.”

  “Let’s talk about happier things.”

  “You have a kind heart, Caroline,” Paul said, as he reached over and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. I almost jumped, his touch a jolt of warmth.

  “Enough death and dying,” I said. “What else can we talk about?”

  We both stared into the fire for a while, listening to the logs crack and pop.

  Paul turned to me. “Well, I do have a confession to make.”

  “Don’t good Catholics do that with a priest?”

  He ran one finger down my stockinged foot. “It’s just that, well, I can’t be trusted around silk stockings.”

  Did he understand the power he had in his fingertip?

  “I’m afraid I was scarred for life by a school friend.”

  I sat up straighter. “Maybe I’d better not know.”

  “He had boxes of old photos under his bed.”

  “Nature shots?”

  “Well, in a way, yes. Mostly of women in silk stockings. Little else.” Paul swirled the amber in his snifter. “I’ve never been the same. It’s something about the seams. After I saw Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel sing ‘Naughty Lola,’ I had to wait until everyone else left the theater before I could stand up.”

  “Marlene wore sheer black stockings in that.”

  “Can we not talk about it? It still gets me a bit, well, overstimulated.”

  “You brought it up.”

  “Guess I’ve always been drawn to strong women,” Paul said.

  “Have Mother introduce you to Eleanor Roosevelt.”

  Paul smiled and placed his snifter on the floor. “You’re unique, you know, Caroline. Something about you makes me want to bare my soul.” He looked at me, silent for a moment. “I get attached, you know. You may not be able to get rid of me.”

  “Like a barnacle,” I said.

  He smiled and leaned closer to me. “Yes, whatever that is.”

  I stood, smoothing my dress. We needed to change gears before things became complicated.

  “Wait here,” I said. “I hav
e something for you. Nothing elaborate.”

  “So mysterious, Caroline. Much like Marlene.”

  I went to my bedroom. Was this a mistake? Did male and female friends give each other gifts? He had nothing for me, after all. I brought out the silver-papered package I’d wrapped and rewrapped to give it a casual appearance and handed it to Paul.

  “What is this?” he said. Was the pink in his cheeks from embarrassment or the cognac?

  “It’s nothing,” I said and sat down next to him.

  He slid his hand under the paper to break the cellophane tape.

  “Really, it’s just a friend gift,” I said. “Betty and I give each other gifts all the time. Just casual.”

  He pulled back the folded ends and sat with the paper open on his lap, staring down at the folded rectangle, the color of aged claret, apparently struck mute.

  “It was Father’s,” I said. “He had dozens of them. Never wore them, of course. Maybe if he had—”

  Paul lifted the scarf, merino wool backed in silk, and held it, working the fabric with his fingers.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said.

  My mouth went dry. Had I been too forward with such a personal gift?

  “Won’t your mother object?”

  “She would have dispensed with all Father’s things by now if I’d let her.”

  “Maybe it is hard for her to see them now, with him gone.”

  “She almost gave his vicuña coat to an underdressed delivery boy.”

  He lifted one end of the scarf and slowly wound it around his neck, head bent. “This is too beautiful, Caroline.” He finished and opened his hands, palms up. “Well?”

  He looked like one of the boys about to go out sledding on Bird Pond up in Bethlehem, high color in his cheeks. What would it be like to kiss him? Would we both regret it, seeing as he had a wife, incompatible or not, who would soon be waking up in France waiting for his call?

  Of course.

  I stood, a bit light-headed.

  “Would you like to see them? Father’s clothes, I mean.”

  I led Paul down the hallway to Father’s room. Mother and Father had kept separate bedrooms, as was the custom then. The desk lamp in the corner sent shadows up the wall. The maids still dusted the room, washed the organza curtains each spring, and laundered the Greek key linens, as if Father were expected back any day, ready to shout, “Hi-ho!” and throw his leather valise on the bed. A small sofa sat in the bay window alcove, slipcovered in relaxed, faded chintz that lost its waxy sheen long ago. I opened the door to Father’s closet, releasing a wave of Vicks VapoRub and tobacco-scented air, and clicked on the light.

  “Oh, Caroline,” Paul said.

  Father’s double-hung closet was almost as he’d left it, with rows of khaki, brown wool, and white flannel trousers folded over hangers; all manner of jackets, from belted Norfolks and worsted serge to a one-button cutaway. Legions of two-tone shoes and one pair of patent leather dress slippers, stuffed with tissue paper, lined up on the floor. Foulard ties shared rack space with belts, hung by their brass buckles. Mother’s black bunting from the funeral lay in a heap on the top shelf. Not that I’d been at Saint Thomas Church that day, being only eleven. The New York Times had said, The Woolsey women locked arms that day in the front pew. I pulled on one belt and slipped the suede-lined sealskin leather through my fingers.

  “He was very neat,” Paul said.

  “Not really. Mother kept him together.”

  Paul lifted a gray fedora, stuffed tight with yellowed tissue paper, from the top shelf. He turned it in his hands, like a scientist examining a rare meteorite, and put it back. He seemed somber all at once. Why had I spoiled the mood?

  “Father was color-blind, you see,” I said.

  Paul just looked at me. If only I could stop blathering.

  “And to make matters worse, he refused to be dressed by a valet.”

  Paul made no attempt to stop me, just watched with a look I couldn’t place. Pity for a poor spinster who missed her dead father?

  “Father insisted on dressing himself. So Mother bought him only basic colors. Browns and navys.” I clicked off the closet light. “Before that, you should have seen his outfits.”

  As I closed the closet door, I felt tears coming but held them back.

  “One morning at breakfast, he appeared in a yellow jacket, purple tie, burnt-orange trousers, and red socks. Mother almost choked, she laughed so hard.”

  I turned my face to the closet door, forehead against the cool paint. “I’m sorry, Paul. I’ll get myself together.”

  Paul took my shoulders and turned me to face him and then pulled me close. He smoothed back my hair, and his lips found my cheek. They lingered in the little dip there under my eye and then traveled across my face. He took the long way to my mouth, and once there, tasted of coq au vin and French cigarettes.

  Paul unwound the scarf from his neck and released a wave of Sumare.

  Pine. Leather. Musk.

  We made our way to the sofa as icy snow pelted the windows above us like sand in a hurricane. My heart skipped a beat as his hand brushed the inside of my thigh on the way to release a stocking. He sent two fingers into the silk and drew it down. I unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Then another. I slipped my hands inside his open shirt, down his sides, smooth as the inside of a conch shell.

  “I think maybe you had more than the angel’s share of the cognac,” Paul said in my ear.

  He unfastened the top button of my dress. In the low light, his face was especially beautiful, so serious. We were really doing this…I pushed away thoughts of him with Rena.

  The second and third buttons went, so slowly.

  He pulled my dress down off my shoulder and kissed my bare skin. “I can’t believe how beautiful you are,” he said, working his lips down to my chest, in no hurry at all.

  “Perhaps a bed would be a good idea.”

  I could only nod. My canopy bed with the pink satin bedspread? That bed had never seen anything like Paul Rodierre.

  We zigzagged to my bedroom, leaving my underthings along the way.

  “Arms up,” Paul said once we made it to the bed.

  I raised my arms as if ready to dive, and he slipped my slip and dress up and off in one motion. He slid out of his jacket and brought me to him. My fingers shook as I felt for his belt. He kissed me as I pulled the end free from the buckle and slid the whole thing through the loops. The zipper purred down. He stepped out of his pants and brought us both to the bed. We fell onto smooth satin, the slats surprised by the sudden weight.

  “Are you still wearing your socks?” I said.

  He kissed the base of my throat.

  “What is that sound?” Paul asked, working his way downward.

  “What?” I propped myself up on one elbow. “Is someone here?”

  He pulled me back down, lips close to my ear. “It’s nothing.” His sandpapery chin grazed my cheek in a good way. “Don’t worry about it.”

  It was lovely having Paul in my bed, all to myself. I sank deeper into the pink satin as he rolled on top of me and kissed my mouth, now urgently.

  I heard the sound this time. Someone knocking. How had someone gotten past the doorman? I froze, as Paul’s lips traveled downward.

  “Someone’s here,” I said, shaking in the darkness.

  1940–1941

  What you must understand is how social the Polish underground was for a young person. After the Germans invaded and deemed Girl Guides and Scouts criminal organizations, we just continued clandestinely and became known as the Szare Szeregi, or Gray Ranks. We answered to the Polish government-in-exile in London, and most of the Girl Guides joined. This group was my only source of companionship, since Zuzanna worked long hours at the Lublin Ambulance Corps and was never home. Plus, it was a good way to vent our frustration at being occupied by the Germans.

  We’d had excellent first aid training in Girl Guides, but in the Gray Ranks, we continued educating ourse
lves and attended secret medical courses. The older girls fought alongside the boys or worked as nurses and seamstresses and managed orphanages. Some even helped free people from German prisons, blow up bridges, and steal German military plans.

  We younger girls in my seven-person squad saved Polish books from being destroyed by German soldiers and taught secret classes. We trained as decoders and delivered fake identity cards and messages. We did our part to sabotage the Nazis, rearranging street signs to make sure the SS got lost. At night we connected to German broadcast speakers in the streets and played the Polish national anthem. The more we got away with, the more we wanted it, as if it were a drug. We had to be careful, though, since not only had the Nazis chosen Lublin as their Polish headquarters, but all across Poland, German spies had started identifying our former Girl Guide leaders and arresting them.

  Plus, lapanka were occurring more frequently. A lapanka was something Matka lived in fear of for us—a sudden, wild manhunt executed by the SS. No longer did the authorities wait for the cover of night. They took their prey, random Polish citizens, in daylight in the most unexpected places: Churches. Train stations. Ration lines. Anyone unlucky enough to be caught was seized and taken to a confinement center. Most were sent to Germany to be worked to death. Aryan-looking Polish children were at risk too. They started disappearing in great numbers from the cities. One day a whole train of them was rounded up and taken. The German guards shot the mothers as they ran after the train. In the country, if too few laborers reported, whole villages were burned.

  Though Pietrik wouldn’t speak of it, his father, a captain in our Polish army, had been arrested along with his fellow officers, leaving Pietrik the only man in his house. Before the war every man who’d graduated from university had been required to join the military as a reserve officer, so it was easy for the authorities to eliminate our most educated by arresting all members of the Polish Officers Corps. At least Pietrik had not been conscripted into the army when the war broke out.

  I begged Pietrik for more important assignments, like those the older girls got, but as our group commander, he was full of excuses.

  “Tell me I’m not good at missions,” I told Pietrik one afternoon at our apartment. “Look what a good job I did with Nadia’s house.”