Days of Winter

by Cynthia Freeman

  She ran her fingers through his hair and whispered, “But I do belong to you, you know that. Your son is my son. Whatever happens, wherever you are or I am, there is nothing and nobody that can change that. You must not forget that. Not ever …”

  He sighed. “Yes, I know, but it doesn’t seem enough. Damn it, you’ve become an obsession—”

  “Hush, I beg you. When I see you like this … hurting yourself … I can’t stand it—”

  “All I know is that if I ever lost you my life would be over. I would have nothing—”

  “But you’ll never lose me. …” And at the moment, she meant it.

  Afterward they made love, almost as though it were to be for the last time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MAGDA WAS NOT A woman to be easily discouraged, nor would she allow her feelings, wounded though they were after two rejections, to hinder her determination. Not after, to her astonishment, she had found her daughter again. She would continue to try to win at least her friendship, if not her love. That, she knew, would be asking too much. …She was willing to settle for less than love, for any token of acceptance.

  She was planning a dinner and sent invitations to the Etienne Duprés, as well as Jean-Paul …He should be the agent to bring them together.

  But Magda didn’t take into account that her grown daughter’s nature, not surprisingly, was as determined as her own. …

  When Jeanette got the invitation, she angrily tore it up. A few days later while the family was having luncheon with maman, Jean-Paul said, “I talked to Countess Maximov yesterday. She told me that you and Etienne had been invited to her party too. …We can all go together—”

  “We won’t be going,” said Jeanette, her lips tightly drawn.

  “But I thought you’d be pleased to be included—”

  “Why?”

  “Her parties are famous.”

  “I know … I’ve read about them often enough.” Jeanette was trying to keep her voice under control. “I declined the lady’s invitation, I wrote a note of regret.”

  Jean-Paul was genuinely confused, even mystified. Was Jeanette jealous? The Countess was also on the best-dressed list, but that seemed rather petty, and Jeanette was not petty … and then he recalled how strangely she had acted at the opera. …Well, whatever, she was obviously annoyed and, frankly, he was not reluctant to provoke Madame some. … “Still … it seems a pity to deprive yourself, and Etienne, of such an occasion. I take it you’re not especially impressed with the Maximovs?”

  “That’s ridiculous … I don’t even know them.”

  “Then perhaps you should reconsider. …”

  “I don’t want to reconsider—”

  “May I ask why?”

  Her look was decidedly one to kill. … “Because, Jean-Paul, we are already too busy. …Etienne and I discussed it. Besides, they are much too old for us, and I dislike accepting invitations which I don’t wish to reciprocate. …Now, if you will excuse me …” and she abruptly left for her room.

  Jean-Paul was not the only one impressed by Jeanette’s reaction to Countess Maximov’s invitation, but when Etienne attempted to question her about it she made it as clear to him as she had to Jean-Paul that she really didn’t want to discuss it, that it was just another party and surely they had more interesting things to talk about. Whereupon he decided that the discretion of silence was the better part of curiosity.

  A week later, Jeanette received another invitation, which she also tore up. Then, two weeks later, another. This was getting to be impossible. She made up her mind to make the Countess leave her alone once and for all.

  She called for André and had him drive her to the Isle of Saint Louis.

  Jeanette waited in the hall as the butler went to announce her to the Countess. When the two finally stood facing each other, Magda’s face was radiant At last, her daughter was here … with her. …

  “I’m so … so very happy to see you.”

  Jeanette’s face was a mask. She merely nodded.

  “Shall we go into the salon?” Magda said, now uneasy as she noted Jeanette’s reaction. After they’d seated themselves, she said tentatively, “May I offer you a sherry or—”

  “Nothing, thank you. This isn’t a social visit.”

  Magda was on the verge of tears as she reached for a cigarette. Her hands were shaking. “Then may I ask why you have come?”

  Jeanette took a deep breath, trying to control herself, feeling an internal shaking as she fought to push down her own natural hunger to reach out to this woman who was her mother at the same time that she despised her. … “I don’t know how to say this … I didn’t expect or imagine this meeting, but I suppose I knew that some day it would have to happen. …I don’t want to be unkind, but I’ve come here to tell you that … well, I suppose I came here to tell you that I hated you and never wanted to hear from you or speak to you, but that really isn’t the truth. …The truth is that I want to tell you something that can never have the same meaning to you that it should have … because we are no longer mother and daughter, but I will try to tell you anyway. Do you know what it’s like to be a child and feel that you don’t have a mother? Even though you know who that mother is? A child, for all they say about the wisdom of children, doesn’t understand. Well, now I have a child, and while I am less than a perfect mother—in fact in some ways I am too much my mother’s daughter—I know that at least I could never walk away from my child … he’s my life, he comes from me. …No, at least I could never walk away from him, not even for a man … another man. …I said I was no saint and I’m not … after all, I’m your daughter … but I could have a dozen lovers and nobody could come between me and my child. …You didn’t even keep your promise to write. I waited, day by day, just hoping, until finally I had to accept that you had forgotten I ever existed. …By the way, did you know that after you left my father deteriorated to the point where his mind was no longer right, that he was in a sanatorium? … And did you know that he died two years ago? That he committed suicide …?”

  Magda had visibly flinched at that last, and then her face had gone slack. How to register the awful feeling of guilt, and of, yes, hate too? Because how do you love the instrument of your own condemnation, even if she is your own daughter? But that last passed quickly, and what was left was the guilt and the shock. Oh yes, she had heard from Camail—a rather brief and cool note—that Rubin had died, and she had thought of writing for details but decided it would be hypocritical, and besides, what could she really do about it? But this … taking his own life … God was indeed punishing her, and at the moment she was quite willing to believe she thoroughly deserved it, having forgotten long since her own reasoning at the time for leaving him, and their daughter. Now was not the time for self-justification. In fact, she almost welcomed the wave of guilt and remorse. And feeling this way, what could she say to her daughter, her beautiful, outraged, well-married daughter, about her love and gratitude that she had finally found her? Her daughter clearly thought her unworthy of life, let alone a daughter’s love, and she tended to agree. …

  “So please, if you don’t mind … no more invitations,” Jeanette was saying. “I have long since told my husband and his family that I had no mother, that she died when I was five and that’s the way I feel. …If we should meet again, accidentally, please make it as painless as possible for both of us … we are after all both adults now and I want to tell you that”—she was getting breathless now—“saying all this gives me no pleasure, I don’t feel any sense of revenge … only, to tell you the truth, the loss of a mother I never had. …Well, I trust you and Uncle … your husband will continue to have a pleasant life. …” And then she had turned and run to the front door and was out before Magda could say a word.

  Somehow—she barely remembered it later—Magda was able to climb the stairs to her room … and then she went completely to pieces, crying deep sobs that would not stop. Alexis, hearing her, came in and held her, like a broken
child, in his arms. Barely coherent, she tried to tell him what had happened, what Jeanette had said about Rubin. “Oh, God, Alexis, I know what she meant … that I killed him … and in a way I did. …And it seems I killed my daughter too. …”

  And try as he might to console her, to tell her that Jeanette was understandably an overemotional young lady who had got some of her facts out of perspective, she would not be consoled, and there seemed no relief from her torment …

  Time and the seasons did pass, though, following the events of that terrible day. Christmas came, and many of the Duprés attended midnight mass at Nôtre Dame, after which they went home to enjoy the traditional supper, sleeping late on Christmas morning—at least as late as the children would allow them.

  Then, astonishingly, blessedly, it was spring once again. The chestnut trees were green once more and the sidewalk cafés were filled with the lovers of Paris. …May, and Henri became one year old. He took his first toddling steps into the outstretched arms of his father. There was a party for him in the garden, and Henri sat in his high-chair, pounding on the attached tray with a spoon. The icing of the cake all over his face was wiped away by his doting grandmother, who held him, but he struggled and reached out for Etienne as Jeanette and Jean-Paul looked on. …

  Etienne in fact now spent most of his time with Henri, taking him each afternoon after his nap to his studio, where he sketched and painted. He tried to paint Henri, but his son was a less than cooperative model, never still for a moment, getting into the paints, smearing his hands and face, which made Etienne give up in helpless laughter, and he would pick up the little boy and hold him above his head, which delighted Henri, who matched his father’s laughter, and then Etienne would give him a mock-frown and say “We will try again tomorrow.”

  The first word Henri said was “Papa.”

  In July, the family again went to Deauville. Jean-Paul had found a secret place for their rendezvous—which at first Jeanette resisted, then could not. At least neither of them was missed from the house, since Madame napped in the afternoon and Etienne painted prodigiously here, there and everywhere during the afternoons. Although their time together was hurried and shorter than it was in Paris, both, in their fashion, were satisfied. Jean-Paul loved to spend time with Henri, taking him out by himself, which not only benefitted the status of an uncle, but a godfather too. For Jeanette, less was better. …

  Jeanette did everything she could to become pregnant by her husband, wanting very much to give Etienne a child. But all her efforts were unsuccessful, and she decided to have a talk with Dr. Bernier. When she got bade to Paris she went to see him her second day in town.

  “How are you getting along?” he asked.

  She half-smiled. “I’m afraid your question is more pregnant than I am. I’ve been trying but …” She shrugged.

  He nodded, then examined her thoroughly. “I find no reason why you can’t conceive. I see nothing wrong.”

  “Then what should I do?” She tried not to sound anxious.

  He smiled. “The same thing you’re doing now.”

  Her cheeks began to burn. Imagine, and she with a lover as well as a husband, but with the doctor she did feel uncomfortable and ashamed … he knew Henri was not Etienne’s …

  “Sometimes,” he said, “you can try too hard. Anxiety itself can be a deterrent. Perhaps you’re just too tense when you have relations with your husband.”

  “Yes, I think you may be right. I want so badly to give Etienne a child. …You must be right. I watch my period dates, hoping they won’t appear, and when they do I become upset and sometimes very depressed.”

  “Then my advice to you, young lady, is one word—relax.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Bernier, I’ll try to take your advice.”

  And she tried, but still nothing happened.

  That winter she and Jean-Paul began a more serious and frequent round of arguments. The last confrontation had been the worst. He had wanted her to visit her uncle in London, where he would meet her for three weeks in January. This, of course, was doubly impossible and she refused, which infuriated him. In a rage, he went away for two weeks, ostensibly on government business. He would telephone the house and talk to his mother, then speak to Etienne, but never ask for her.

  When he returned he apologized for his behavior. He asked her to forgive him and she did, but somehow, for her, it now seemed to matter less.

  And the baby was still a source of conflict At least once a month Jean-Paul had a fit of jealousy—sometimes mild, sometimes worse—during which he accused her of alienating the baby from him. This was nonsense, and she told him as much. But in spite of her efforts to reason with him—perhaps even because of them—Jean-Paul seemed to become more and more resentful about the role he was playing. …She tried to explain that his jealousy was destroying what they had together. But Jean-Paul didn’t see it that way. He badgered her; his demands were becoming unbearable. When she got home after one of those scenes she often felt ill, too weary to go down for dinner. Nothing ever seemed to be settled. It was as though they were on a seesaw—up, down, no balance or equilibrium.

  Jeanette observed the new year of 1938 by coming down with a cold. It started innocently enough with a runny nose and a slight fever. But two days later she had a very sore throat, making it painful to swallow. Etienne summoned the family doctor. When Dr. Roget examined Jeanette he suggested that an ear, nose and throat specialist be called in for consultation, since he was only a general practitioner. However, he did diagnose a strep throat. This diagnosis was corroborated by the finest specialist in Paris, Dr. Oubert, who prescribed a complete rest. Jeanette should be placed in isolation. She was fed intravenously because swallowing was so difficult Nurses were brought in around the clock, and she was carefully watched. But her temperature rose and her condition grew worse. At times she was delirious, calling out for Etienne, who now—to hell with the doctor’s instructions—slept in a bed by her side. She cried for Papa, for Henri, for her mother. …Her temperature finally was reduced some by alcohol rubs and ice packs, but the whole family kept vigil. Jean-Paul moved temporarily to his mother’s house in order to be near her. His inner moods were black. He blamed himself for causing her so much grief with his jealousy, vowing to make it up to her and never again question her or make demands on her. If only she lived.

  Finally, on the eleventh day, Dr. Oubert said, “I think we have reason for some hope. I find her condition slightly better this morning. Her temperature has stayed down within reason during the last twenty-four hours, and if this continues I feel reasonably sure we can expect to see a day-to-day improvement.”

  “Thank God,” Etienne said. If prayer did any good, then God must have heard his.

  With the major infection gone, Jeanette was brought a little nourishment and was spoon-fed by Etienne. Now that she was on her way to becoming herself again, the entire household relaxed from the gloom of the past week and a half. …

  Three days had passed since her recovery, and Etienne had fallen asleep that night at ten o’clock, exhausted from the many days of anxiety. Suddenly he was aroused out of his heavy sleep by moans threatening to become screams.

  “My God, what’s wrong?”

  “My back … Etienne, I can’t stand the pain—”

  “When … I mean, how long have you—”

  “Around midnight, I think. …”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I hoped it would go away. …”

  He immediately called Dr. Oubert, and within half an hour the doctor was examining Jeanette as she now screamed out in pain. He took a syringe from his bag, filled it with morphine and injected it into her vein. Soon after she relaxed and her breathing became more even.

  When she had fallen asleep, Dr. Oubert asked Etienne and Jean-Paul to join him in the hall. “Her condition is serious. The complications from the streptococcal infection have affected her kidneys. I’d like to call in Dr. Villon. He’s the best urologi
st I know.”

  “Of course, Doctor,” Etienne said, thoroughly shaken and ash-white.

  “I’ll have a nurse called at once … injections will be necessary from time to time.”

  At four-thirty A.M. Dr. Villon was shown in to Jeanette’s room. He discussed her condition with Dr. Oubert while Etienne and Jean-Paul waited in the hall. Then Dr. Villon spoke to Etienne.

  “Monsieur Dupré, Madame should be hospitalized at once for tests and x-rays.”

  Stunned, Etienne nodded and asked, “How serious is it?”

  “Let’s wait for the tests.”

  At the hospital, Jeanette was wheeled in to X-ray immediately. Tests were taken but the results would not be known for several hours. She was wheeled in a bed to a large corner room where the two brothers waited.

  At eight o’clock, Jean-Paul left to inform his mother, who nearly collapsed with fear and thoughts of Denise and Marie Jacqueline, then somehow managed outwardly to compose herself and accompany him to the hospital.

  The news was not good as the doctor spoke to Etienne privately. “The former infection has indeed affected her left kidney. It’s so badly damaged, I’m afraid the other one will also become involved.” Dr. Villon’s expression was very serious.

  Etienne slumped down in his chair, barely able to speak. “What can be done? …”

  “Monsieur Dupré, the truth is there is very little hope if both kidneys are involved. The left one is almost completely atrophied, and if the other one becomes worse …”

  Etienne went white as the doctor hurried on with … “I have considered one possibility—”

  “Yes, anything … Good God …”

  “There’s a physician, a professor, Erlichstein, who was at the University of Heidelberg until 1936 when he was forced to leave Germany because of Hitler. He was offered a fellowship in London to … experiment with kidney transplants.”

  “Well, for God’s sake, what are we waiting for? Get him—”