The Girl from Vichy

by Andie Newton

  Charlotte tugged on my elbow, and I followed her reluctantly to the front of the shop while Papa snuck out the back, lugging the old door with him. ‘Be nice,’ she said, under her breath.

  I rolled my eyes. ‘She’s the one who should be nice.’

  She tugged again. ‘Be. Nice.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, pulling my arm away. Charlotte knew the power of Blanche’s words and her ability to twist things. Appearing confident was the best way to approach her, Charlotte always maintained. But I was never one to care what Blanche thought.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘You’ve got an eyelash…’ Charlotte removed the eyelash gently from my cheek. ‘There. Now remember…’

  ‘I know. Be nice.’

  We faced Blanche together.

  ‘Bonjour!’ Charlotte said, kissing her cheeks. ‘Can I help you find something in particular?’ Charlotte leaned forward to see the exact size and style of brassieres Blanche had been thumbing through.

  Blanche slipped off her coat and draped it over her arm, her eyes still on the brassieres. ‘I’m not sure what size I need.’

  To my surprise, Blanche was half the size she had been the last time I saw her. People used to call her a horse because of the size of her thighs and the sound of her feet thudding against the ground when she walked. Her skin looked loose, as if the sudden weight loss wasn’t a planned decision but a forced one.

  ‘Blanche!’ I said. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  Charlotte glared through her big smile. Pointing out Blanche’s weight loss was different from saying she looked great, which I damn well knew.

  Blanche pulled her hand from the drawer to wave her fingers in front of my face, showing off her Art Deco wedding ring. ‘That’s not the only change.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said for Charlotte’s benefit.

  ‘You look wonderful, Blanche.’ Charlotte grinned. ‘And congratulations on your marriage. Someone local?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Blanche said with a little gasp. ‘Nobody from here—certainly. I had to go to Paris to find him, and find him I did! Just in time, too. In Paris, on vit mal.’ She chuckled. ‘Everyone goes hungry. I was wasting away under the strict rations those Parisians live under in the Occupied Zone when I found him. I’ll plump up in no time. He’s German, so now I get things others can’t.’ She laughed, and her teeth bucked out from mouth.

  ‘You don’t say—’

  Charlotte jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Just in time for gaining weight for the pregnancy,’ she said. ‘That’s why you’re here shopping at Mamans et les Bébés, isn’t it? You have a baby on the way?’ Charlotte smiled with the word baby.

  Blanche rubbed her belly’s sagging skin as if she were several months along. But in truth it was hard to tell how far along she was under all that flab.

  ‘And what news of you, Adèle? Last time I heard about you… let’s see… you were off to become a nun? Rumour has it you were frightened about the wedding night.’ She smiled. ‘Gérard is a big man…’

  I turned slowly to Charlotte, eyes wide. ‘Is that what you told him?’

  She shrugged, and Blanche had a giggle, enjoying my reaction.

  ‘Charlotte!’

  ‘You didn’t see how angry he was,’ she said, eyes glancing once to Blanche, lowering her voice.

  I took a deep breath—the last thing we should be doing is having this conversation in front of Blanche Delacroix.

  I turned to Blanche. ‘Truth is I had cold feet,’ I said. ‘I’m back now.’

  ‘Yes, you certainly are.’ Blanche plucked a lacy brassiere from the drawer and inspected the cup size as if she gave a damn. ‘I heard you’ve been trying to make up with him, bringing Gérard his lunches at the Parc.’ She glanced up from the drawer, and I could see a thousand questions floating behind the irises of her eyes.

  ‘Sure have been.’

  Blanche grinned, coy-like, and it irritated me a great deal. It was the same smile she used to give me at the salon. I knew, just like before, that no matter what I said, all of Vichy would know about our conversation the moment she left.

  ‘Adèle is doing her best,’ Charlotte blurted. ‘And we are proud of her for having a change of heart and coming back to us.’

  ‘The runaway bride had a change of heart.’ Blanche tucked the brassiere back into the drawer after holding it to her chest and realizing it was made for a woman even smaller. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Now she’s here helping me.’ Charlotte put her arm around me. ‘I’m not sure what I did without her.’

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘I like to try new things, is all. I’m very choosey.’ I felt my dimples pop. ‘Spending my life setting hair sounds like a dreadful existence. Life is worth experiencing, is it not? Gérard invited me to an important soirée, and honestly, I don’t want to wake up many years from now, old and weary and thinking back on my life and wondering… what if.’

  Blanche squinted her giant brown eyes until they looked normal size—I squinted back. There was no more talk about Gérard.

  ‘Speaking of old women,’ Blanche said, ‘did you hear about the résistant outside the Hotel du Parc today?’

  ‘You mean the old woman they dragged to the cemetery? I saw it myself. She never said a word.’

  ‘It’s the silent ones you need to look out for,’ Blanche said.

  ‘That makes sense to me, Blanche.’ Charlotte subtly rearranged the items Blanche had disturbed in the drawer. ‘Those silent ones.’

  ‘The woman wasn’t doing anything, Charlotte, and the more she sat doing nothing the more guards she attracted.’

  ‘Don’t you know what’s going on in Paris?’ Blanche chuckled through her big teeth, putting her coat back on. ‘That woman was making a statement. Her shabby dress, sitting with her legs propped up, her woman parts exposed and pointed at our nation’s seat—it’s a metaphor. She’s blaming Pétain for her misery, her sons and husband most likely working in a munitions factory instead of at home. Les Femmes de la Nation—that’s what they’re calling themselves.’

  ‘Women of the Nation?’ I gasped as soon as I understood what Blanche was saying. I noticed the woman only had knee-high stockings on under her skirt.

  ‘What’s the metaphor?’ Charlotte said, mouth drawn open. I could tell she wouldn’t allow her own mind to take her to a place that could potentially disrupt her beautiful day.

  ‘Charlotte,’ I said, touching her shoulder. ‘She was portraying herself as having been raped—Les Femmes de la Nation—by the regime. For her suffering. The armistice. The loss of France. She was dressed head to toe in rags but her bottom half was exposed under her skirt, and aimed at the Hotel du Parc.’

  A deafening silence swept through the boutique. The word ‘rape’ did not belong in a boutique that catered to expectant mothers, and I could tell by the way Charlotte’s curls seemed to tighten around her face that she felt very uncomfortable with the topic of our conversation.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t want to think of such abhorrent things.’ She took a deep, withering breath, rubbing her hands to keep them from shaking. ‘People are incapable of seeing the good, the beautiful—Pétain’s legacy.’

  ‘The beautiful?’

  ‘Like a great painting, outshined by a glop of paint brought in from some indigent, unworthy of having his canvas placed alongside real artists. The old woman, she’s the… the…’

  Her voice rose with each new word, and I knew she wasn’t only referring to Pétain’s legacy, but something very personal. Before the war, Charlotte’s paintings were on exhibit in Paris. The critics panned everything except the ugly ones painted by men, which she said was because of their bold statements and gall. According to Mama, Charlotte was inconsolable by the end of the exhibition. She never talked about it after, and when someone did ask her how her art worked out in Paris, she’d say she never went.

  Blanche snuck out of the boutique while Charlot
te and me were talking, and without buying anything. It was the only time I was glad to see Blanche’s backside.

  ‘Ach!’ Charlotte said, putting the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘I’m exhausted from this conversation. I had some news I wanted to share, but now I have a bad taste in my mouth, and I don’t want to share it anymore.’

  ‘News?’ Papa had just finished hauling away Charlotte’s old door and was walking in from the back room, rubbing his tired eyes with both hands. ‘What news, ma chérie? Some good news would be nice.’

  He rubbed his eyes again after blinking, and I began to wonder why Charlotte would tease him with an announcement if she had no intention of sharing it in the first place. She was shaking and pacing, and I was handling it fine by myself but involving Papa? ‘Charlotte, just tell Papa your news.’

  Charlotte picked up a gingham dress fit for a woman having twins and refolded it. Her hands settled into a light tremble. ‘Well, I was going to wait. Then I decided to say something, then… well…’ Her smile broadened and she held her breath before blurting: ‘I’m having a baby.’

  Papa’s face perked with life. ‘Ma chérie! That is good news!’

  ‘Thanks, Papa,’ Charlotte said, beaming as he hugged her. ‘I knew you’d be excited.’

  She looked to me, waiting for me to say something, but what was she thinking getting pregnant so soon after a stillbirth? I wanted to ask her, but by the look on her face I knew now was not the time for such a question. I forced a smile, reaching out to kiss both her cheeks. ‘When are you due?’

  She caressed the flat area of her stomach just below the belt of her dress. ‘I’m a few weeks pregnant. I told Henri before he left for Paris.’ Tears welled over her bulging cheeks. ‘By the time he gets home I should be as big as this building.’

  She laughed and it was good to hear her laugh. I kissed her again. ‘Before you know it you’ll be nice and round.’

  Papa raised a finger in the air. ‘I’ll write a letter to Pauline!’ He stepped into Charlotte’s office and began rummaging around her desk looking for a blank piece of paper to write on.

  ‘No, Papa,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’ll tell Mama myself. I’ll follow Adèle home.’

  ‘You’re coming out to the estate?’ I knew Mama wouldn’t be pleased to hear Charlotte was pregnant again so soon after a stillbirth. If Charlotte sensed her disappointment, only God knew how she’d react. I had to get to Mama first.

  ‘Is that a problem?’ she said.

  ‘No, of course not. But it will be late soon. Why don’t you tell Mama when she comes into the city? Then you don’t have to bother with taking a drive. You really should be resting.’ I held my breath, waiting to hear her answer.

  Papa offered Charlotte a chair. ‘Adèle is right, ma chérie, you should rest.’

  Charlotte sat down, and I brought her legs up, putting her feet on a cushion. ‘If you think so,’ she said.

  ‘I do,’ I said, and I reached for my pocketbook to leave.

  ‘You promise, Adèle?’ Charlotte said. ‘You promise you’ll let me tell her?’

  ‘I promise,’ I said.

  17

  That night I asked Mama to brush my hair out in her bedroom. I waited for the right time to tell her, but there was no easy way around it, no matter how many times I practised in my head.

  ‘She’s what?’ Mama glared at me through the mirror in her vanity. ‘Pregnant!’

  ‘I thought you should be warned, Mama. Charlotte’s changed—she’s as frazzled as a caged bird with her husband gone all the time. I had to be the one to tell you. She couldn’t take the reaction you’re giving me now.’

  Mama threw the brush onto the vanity, cracking her oval mirror. ‘Warned is the right word.’ Her cheeks plumped to ripened tomatoes, and I started to regret saying anything at all.

  ‘I promised her, Mama. We told her we wouldn’t say a word.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Your father knows?’

  ‘Yes. Papa knows. She told both of us at the same time.’

  She pressed her lips together before letting out a shrill little scream.

  I suddenly felt warm and sweaty in the dress I had put on for Gérard’s soirée, and fanned myself with opened fingers while Mama walked around in circles.

  ‘I cautioned her about getting pregnant too soon,’ she spouted, arms flapping. I wasn’t sure by the look in Mama’s eyes if she was going to charge out the door for Charlotte’s or sit down and smoke a cigarette. ‘Her body hasn’t even had time to heal! Ugh, that girl! I didn’t want her to get married. I swear she spends her time trying to punish me, whether it’s by supporting Pétain or getting pregnant to prove me wrong. And that no-good husband of hers, conspirator, collaborator—God will deal with him.’

  I never told Mama I saw Charlotte and Henri dining at La Table with all the collaborators. It would have been too much for her to take on top of everything, knowing that’s where they dined, even if she’d already made her mind up about Henri.

  ‘Did you know Charlotte’s husband asked her to stop painting? He said it wasn’t the Pétain way.’

  ‘Henri said that?’ I said, surprised since Charlotte never mentioned it. ‘Maybe she’ll paint again after she has a child.’

  Mama stopped pacing and lit a cigarette. The red in her cheeks had turned to pink, which I thought was a good sign. ‘Perhaps.’ She sat on the corner of her bed and gazed at her own reflection in the cracked mirror, blowing smoke from her mouth. ‘Enough about him. I’m talking about Charlotte. She’s not ready. In her head.’

  ‘I think she is, Mama. She runs a boutique that specializes in clothes for expectant mothers.’

  ‘No, Adèle. That’s not what I mean.’ Mama took several long breathy drags from her cigarette before stubbing it out in a crystal ashtray on her nightstand. The fury I saw in Mama’s eyes had dulled almost completely—I had softened the blow, for them both.

  ‘Tell her not to drink the water drawn from the Source des Célestins.’ She grabbed a hold of my arm. ‘I may be the only person in France who doesn’t trust it—the whole city drinking from the same tap. She won’t take my advice—make up a story the Résistance poisoned it—she’ll stay away if she thinks it is poisoned.’ She let go of my arm after squeezing it tightly. ‘The walks along the promenade next to it would be good for her, though. Make sure she walks…’

  I nodded, taking the brush Mama had thrown earlier and running it through my hair, switching my thoughts from Charlotte to Gérard. It was the first time all day I had allowed myself to think about the soirée and his feeling hands. Showing up would be the easy part; spending an evening with him in the dark would be another matter. ‘I need to think about tonight.’

  Mama handed me her cigarettes as if she knew I needed a smoke. I burned through two before she spoke up and asked me where I was going.

  ‘Hotel du Parc, Antoine’s restaurant. The Vichy police love it there.’ I had my hands in my hair when I spoke, the last of my cigarette bobbing with my lips. ‘I was lucky enough to find Charlotte’s gala gown in the closet, buried behind so many things. Leopard chiffon—I’m sure it was very costly.’

  ‘It was,’ Mama said. ‘She threw it out after the Paris exhibition—doesn’t know I saved it from the rubbish bin. Are you going with Gérard?’

  ‘Don’t say his name,’ I said, wincing. ‘We know who he is—don’t have to say it out loud. And who else would I be going there with?’ I brushed my hair out, trying to get it into a style, but nothing seemed to work. I stubbed out my cigarette and groaned, looking at my face in the mirror and thinking about Gérard, his soft, wet lips on mine. I shivered from head to toe.

  Mama had been watching me with a discerning eye. ‘Your forehead’s creasing.’ She tapped her cheeks. ‘And your dimples are popping. What are you thinking about?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ I looked up, my hair in a frizz, and Mama stared at me through her cracked vanity mirror.

  ‘Are you leaving me to go live with your fathe
r?’

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t leave you, Mama. That’s not it.’

  Mama looked relieved, taking her brush and whipping my hair into a twist. ‘Then what?’

  ‘My mind’s on Gérard, Mama.’ I shivered again. ‘Feels so degrading. I wish there was something else I could do for the Résistance. Surely, a woman has other talents. But what else could I do? Tonight it will be me in a small room, looking beautiful and surrounded by fifty police. And one Gérard.’

  ‘Are you worried?’ She clipped a jewel-encrusted pin into my hair twist, and we looked at each other through the mirror.

  ‘I’m always worried,’ I said.

  ‘Will you see your father?’ She pulled a letter from her pocket and played with it in her hands.

  Only God knew how many letters Papa also had written and never sent. ‘Not tonight, but I see him every day. Is there something you want me to give him?’ I watched her stare at the letter.

  ‘No.’ She turned away.

  I stood to leave, taking a moment to look at myself in the leopard dress. It was long and flowing, the epitome of elegance. I used to beg Charlotte to let me try it on—she never would allow it. Mama watched me from the bed with her cigarette in hand as I smoothed the dress against my skin. ‘I can’t believe I’m finally wearing this—and it was in the closet this whole time.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Mama said, through her cigarette. She reached for her perfume bottle and sprayed me from behind with rosewater. ‘To cover the scent of that cold sweat you have on you,’ she said.

  I waved it away, coughing and gagging from the smell of it, and the feel of the mist falling on my arms. ‘Use the Chanel, Mama.’

  I went to leave and stepped through a creaking floorboard—a secret compartment hidden right in Mama’s floor. ‘What’s this?’ I said, very surprised. I brought the board up by its corner. Underneath was a small grey gun lying inside an opened black box. ‘Mama, you have a gun?’

  Mama stood over me. ‘A woman needs to protect herself.’

  ‘Can I pick it up?’