by Belva Plain
July 10, 1944
I seem to be thinking a lot about Paul. Last night I dreamed about him. We were in a car, riding to New Hampshire after Ben was killed, and he was so kind to me, he knew just what to say, and not too much. When I woke up, I lay for a long time thinking about what had happened between us, after all those years when we swam together and played tennis and bought my first real suit.
I was so damned angry at him, especially about my mother. Still, maybe it wasn’t any of my business. He said it wasn’t. And it’s true that neither he nor she ever questioned me about what I was doing. Being overseas and seeing so much has sort of eased my thinking. Maybe I was even beginning, before I left home, to look at things a little differently. We’d argued so about war and Paul’s despising the Oxford Pledge. I guess I really knew after a while that he was right, though.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell him when he came to say good-bye. But when you’ve been feeling cold for so long, it’s hard to reach out your hands. It’s like an unanswered letter. You put off answering, and then after a while it’s really too late to answer, so you throw the letter away.
July 29, 1944
Slogging ahead. We see very few German planes anymore. The rumor is that they’ve run out of fuel. I wonder whether it’s true. Anyway, we’re getting closer and closer to Paris.
The Queen Elizabeth, traveling too fast for a convoy, zigged and zagged across the Atlantic. The crossing was rather different from Paul’s prior ones; there were fifteen thousand men on board this time. He had expected to feel tense all the way in momentary expectation of a torpedo attack; instead, he was remarkably relaxed, reading, walking, and occasionally playing checkers.
London was almost unrecognizable, sandbagged, bomb-pitted, and filled with foreign uniforms. At dinner with English friends, in a blacked-out dining room, he learned for the first time of a new kind of threat from the air: planes without pilots, he was told, and filled with explosives. This, then, was the harbinger of the future, just as the lone biplane of the old war had been the harbinger of this war’s sky fleets. The prospect was too sobering, and he did not voice it.
Several times he made an attempt to find Hank, whose outfit was somewhere in the south, no doubt in readiness for the assault on the Continent. Unable to make contact, he stood one evening on Shakespeare Cliff, near Dover, and watched wave after wave of American bombers coming back from Germany, while wave after wave of British bombers set out toward Germany. And he knew that the big day was coming, sooner than soon.
He had not long to wait. One week after the Allies, under the command of Eisenhower, landed on the Normandy coast, Paul and his group of observers crossed the Channel. He did not know it then, but he was following Hank’s tracks through St.-Lô and Cherbourg, heading toward Paris.
There could be no question about the importance of air power. He made voluminous notes, asked questions, and prepared himself for the detailed observations he would be making as he followed the invading army across the Continent. To his technically detailed and accurate reports, written in a small, rapid hand, he often added his own personal, more emotional observations, which would be deleted when the report was officially handed in.
He wrote about things he knew he would want to remember, moods, atmospheres, and incidents. He wrote about the French 2nd Armored Division, pounding its way back home again, with weeping, cheering crowds in the villages and on the roadsides. He wrote about the undulating fields of Normandy, the ripening grain and the reddening apples. And he wrote about his fears for Paris, as he remembered Rotterdam and Warsaw lying in ashes.
One morning past the middle of August, in an orchard where they had camped for the night, he woke to a small commotion. A man from the Resistance had somehow gotten through the German lines with a message for Eisenhower. He had come to plead for Paris. The Allies, persuaded by Patton, had intended to rush past the city on the way to Germany. This desperate messenger reported now that an insurrection had already broken out; the French police were firing at German ranks and barricades were going up in the streets. The entire city, that masterpiece of art in stone, was rife for destruction.
All that day the decision waited. Patton wanted to save gasoline for his tanks, but Paul was thinking of Paris, and in silence prayed for it. Toward afternoon of the following day, word finally came down from Eisenhower’s quarters; he had decided in favor of the most beautiful city in the world. So the troops turned northward, and on the second day, after crushing the last German defenses, they entered the city’s gates.
Paul walked. He could have hopped onto any military vehicle, but he wanted to walk. He had learned where to find Hank’s outfit and was on his way there.
The city lay under a cool blue silk sky. A slight wind rustled the thick shade along the boulevards, and already there were signs of normalcy: children sailing boats on the pond in the Tuileries and men fishing in the Seine. German signs were being torn down and barricades dismantled.
He was not yet over the miracle of the previous day, and probably never would be, probably never would forget the people’s delirium at their first sight of American troops. Flowers, flags, cheers, tears, and church bells—it had been a magnificent wild revel.
He had been present at the commotion in front of the hotel where General von Choltitz was captured while at lunch. Paul had watched him come out with his hands up and seen lines of German officers being led away. And he remembered the goose-stepping youths in the brown shirts he had first seen so long ago, von Mädler talking of war’s ennoblement, Donal’s smile and shrug, and the fallen silence among the listeners at Leah’s table. He had to clench his fists in his pockets, remembering all these, as he stood there on that sidewalk in Paris.
It was not yet all wine and roses. There had been a good deal of savage fighting, and Germans were still holed up all over the city. They still had grenades and armor-piercing shells. He had seen a dead German lying on the street, a common soldier, very young. For a moment he had stopped and looked into the face. It told nothing. Perhaps the fellow had even hated the regime for which he was forced to fight. But if he had not, should one not feel a certain pity for him anyway? To be so young and so misled! How easy it is to mislead the young if you get them early enough! Paul shivered and walked on.
It was just past noon when, arrived at the command post, he almost collided with Hank, who was on the way out. Hank had to look twice to believe what he was seeing.
“I’ve been thinking about you, Paul, ever since they wrote me from home that you were on your way over. What a miracle that we should meet!”
“Not such a miracle. I found out where you were. I’ve been following, always a couple of days behind you. In safety,” Paul added ruefully. “There’s nothing heroic about me.”
“You had your heroics the last time,” Hank said. They waited uncertainly in the sunshine. Then he said, “I guess I’ve been pretty hard on you. I’m sorry.”
Standing here in uniform, on this foreign street, after so long, Paul felt the swelling of too much emotion. He answered lightly, “Oh, not too hard. You were always mannerly, anyway.”
“I’m not even sure of that. And in my thoughts I was even harder on you.”
“Well—” Paul began.
“No, hear me out. I owe it to us both to say you were right about a lot of things … including my mother,” he finished.
Paul looked away from the flushed, embarrassed young face. And suddenly the emotion spilled over and he put his arms around Hank. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
The moment passed, and they both laughed. “God damn!” Hank said. “You’re looking great! How are you? How’s everybody at home?”
“All well, the last I saw or heard. They spend their time waiting for your letters. Your mother’s busy, Meg graduated, and Hennie’s the same as ever.”
“What’s next on your agenda?”
“I’m supposed to keep going on into Germany, following you. I wish you had a little time off, though, so we cou
ld sit and talk somewhere for an hour.”
“As a matter of fact, my C.O. gave me the rest of the day off.”
“Great! We can have dinner. Here’s where I’m staying. I’ll write it out. It’s a hotel not far from here.”
“Wow! Only the best.”
“Why not? It’s at my own expense. I’ve a report to file or I’d stay with you now. But can you come at six?”
“Sure can. I could use some real food. See you then.”
People were pressing gifts on anyone in an American uniform, and a woman gave Hank a little bag of peaches. He stood on the sidewalk eating one, bent over to let the sweet juice drip onto the street. In the other hand he held a letter from his mother, which he had picked up in the mail after seeing Paul. He read it now for the third time, feeling a surge of happiness, then took another peach, and stood there in the sun, just feeling the happiness.
A girl passed on a bicycle. “Hey,” she called to him, “Hey, that’s like eating gold. Are you going to eat them all?”
“No, of course, not. Have one. Have the rest of them.”
“Oh, you speak French? You’re the first American I’ve talked to who speaks French.”
“I learned it in school,” he said. In the fancy private school that Dan had objected to. “Where are you going?” he asked, for lack of anything else to say.
“Home. Want to come?”
She wore a clean flowered cotton dress, and had long, thick, kinky dark blond hair.
“All right,” he said, “all right, I will.”
“Then hop on in back. I can’t believe it,” she said, “the war’s almost over.”
“Not for me. I’m on my way to Berlin and it’s a long way.”
“Stupid of me! I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
“Henry. Henri. They call me Hank.”
“Hank. That’s funny. I’m Antoinette. They call me Toni.”
“Are you tired? Shall I pedal?”
“No, I’m used to it. I suppose you wonder why I asked for the peach. It’s because we haven’t had anything like that, unless we pedaled miles out to the country and picked some. When I saw you eating, I was dying to have one.”
They were riding through a quiet section of wide streets, trees, and elegant houses that looked old. They were rich-old, with tall windows and flowerboxes.
“This is Neuilly. It’s near the Bois. It’s beautiful to walk there. We get off here.”
He followed the girl up the front steps and into a cool hall with a wide, carpeted staircase. He followed her up past mirrored rooms, marble fireplaces, and damask-covered walls, up and up until, on the fifth floor, she unlocked the door into a little room under the eaves. It was clean and plain. There was a neat bed, a table, some chairs, a food cupboard, and an electric grill.
“My home,” she said. “You look puzzled.”
“Well, no, I—” he began.
“You thought the whole house belonged to me.”
“I didn’t know, I—”
She laughed. “Neuilly is one of the richest parts of Paris and let me tell you, it’s more full of Germans and French traitors than any other part. The only reason I’m here is that the lady who owns this house has a husband who’s been in London with de Gaulle and she needed money, so she had to rent out rooms. This used to be a maid’s room.”
“It’s a very nice room.”
“And you’re a very nice man. Would you like some wine?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’ve bread and cheese too.”
He remembered that he had an orange in his pocket and gave it to her.
She sniffed it. “Such fragrance! I haven’t had one in four years.”
He watched her peel it. She had pretty fingers and no ring, so she wasn’t married.
“Are you looking at that photo? That’s my fiancé. He’s a prisoner in Germany.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“God, how I hate them!” she cried. “How can I know what they’re doing to him? And it’s been bad enough here. If you were caught out after midnight, here in your own city, you could be shot. We had almost no gas or electricity. We burned newspapers to keep warm. We were so hungry … we kept chickens on our rooftops to get some eggs, but collaborators ate in the best restaurants. I hate them too.”
She had a husky voice. He listened, only half hearing her words, but held by her voice and the afternoon warmth and the strangeness of being here in this country, this city, this room.
“—you could hear screams from the Gestapo. Seventy-four Avenue Foch, I had to pass it on my way to work. It was awful. Awful. Those poor people … they used to deport them to Germany from the Pan-tin freight station near the stockyards. You could hear people shrieking inside the cars. In the beginning it was the Jews, and after that anybody, for any reason.”
“I’m a Jew,” Hank said.
“I’m a Catholic. Well, we all pray to God.” She nodded toward the photo. “I pray for him every day. Do you know if it weren’t for that picture, I would have forgotten what he looks like. I haven’t seen him in five years.”
“Five years,” Hank repeated.
“Yes, and I’ve been faithful, too, but that’s a long, long time.”
She was young, perhaps twenty-three, he guessed. She had sat down on her bed and leaned back against the pillows, which were fresh and white. In her eyes, he saw a mixture of purity and frank desire. It had been a long time for him, too, ever since London. In between there had been week after week of bloody death.…
He smiled and moved to the bed. Her dress had loops and buttons down the front; four hands slipped the buttons out of the loops; two brief scraps of silk fell to the floor, while a pair of wooden clogs dropped off with a clatter. He thought, as he lay down and covered her, that he caught the scent of peaches and sweet grass and summer … it was all quite simple and very quickly over.
Afterward, when he got up, he watched her retie the ribbons in her hair.
“Do you have a girl at home?” she asked.
“No.”
“If you had, would you mind if she did what I’ve just done?”
An odd question! And he thought of his mother and Paul.
“No,” he said. “It was natural and good.”
“You’re right … Because I love André, and this had nothing to do with him.… You’re looking at your watch. You have to go.”
“Yes, there’s someone I have to meet at six.”
“Do you remember the way we came?”
“Oh, I’m good at directions.”
“Well, go then.”
The city was almost quiet. At the western edges, the sky was as pink as the inside of a shell, while a dusky blue haze lay overhead. Here and there, as he walked back toward the inner city, he passed a burned tank or an overturned German staff car with a torn swastika flag draped in mockery over its hood.
He felt a dreamy glow, a sense of wholeness seeping gradually back within him, as he moved among normal people, without guns, on a normal street; he was filled with the joy that the girl had given, and the joy of seeing Paul again. He heard himself singing softly under his breath. And so, bemused, he only looked up with a feeling of mild surprise when he heard the shot.
The second one caught him in the chest with so violent a blow that he clutched himself there with both his hands, as if to keep himself from falling.
Oh, no! he thought. It can’t be … just when I … when everything was so good Henry … The red letters of his name were dancing in front of his eyes. Not I … I … have so much to … And fell.
And Paul, who had been standing outside of the sandbagged lobby of the hotel, waiting for him, glanced up and saw the sniper behind the parapet. He saw Hank coming unaware, called out, and not caring about himself, ran to warn. He felt a hot pain in his shoulder, and feeling it kept running, running to where Hank lay, and seeing what he saw, seeing death, could only kneel and cry his heart out.
On August 29, the Free French, w
ith de Gaulle at their head, having had their grand triumphal parade, it was the turn of the Americans to march down the Champs-Elysées. Without regard to the snipers who still lurked in the city, the 28th Infantry Division stepped smartly, proud among flags and flowers under a sparkling sun.
Among the cheering thousands at the curb, Paul stood and watched. The ache in his bandaged shoulder was nothing compared with the ache in his heart. There they went, on their way to Germany, and Hank Roth not with them.
“But I’m staying with them,” Paul said aloud to himself.
The doctor had spoken of sending him home, but he wasn’t ready to go home. He didn’t know when he ever would be ready. He was going to stay here and see it through, to the end and beyond.
The news arrived when the Shermans were at dinner. Hennie, who was often alone these days, had been invited, and the three had just sat down when the bell rang. The maid came back from the door looking anxious.
“It’s a telegram. Somebody in the family has to sign.”
Bill Sherman rose at once. The women said afterward that they had known at that instant what it was; they hadn’t needed to hear Bill’s slow, hesitant return on the stairs, or to see his gray face.
A few times he opened his mouth to speak and stopped, while Leah, Hennie, and the young maid stared at him.
“Perhaps we’d better go inside somewhere and sit down,” he finally said.
Leah jumped up and seized the telegram. Her husband caught her as her knees gave way. She fought him. She screamed.
“It’s not true, I don’t believe it, oh, my God, God wouldn’t let it happen, why did God let it happen, it’s not true—”
“Hank?” Hennie whispered.
“No!” Leah cried. “Don’t you believe it, Hennie, it’s a lie, a lie, a lie—”
