by Gene Wilder
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MY FRENCH WHORE. Copyright © 2007 by Gene Wilder. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Book design by Jonathan Bennett
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wilder, Gene, 1935-
My French whore / Gene Wilder.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-37799-1
ISBN-10: 0-312-37799-1
1. World War, 1914-1918—France—Fiction. 2. Soldiers—United States-Fiction. 3. Americans—France—Fiction. 4. Impersonation—Fiction. 5. Prostitutes—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.I5384 M93 2007
813’.6—dc22
2006038377
First St. Martin’s Griffin Edition: February 2008
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Karen Wilder, the heart and part of the personality
of any love story I write
&
To Elizabeth Beier, my editor, who always seems to
know when and how and what to say
Dear Captain Harrington,
I was going to burn all of this—I thought I was writing it just to help me stay sane, but then I realized the real reason was because I wanted you to understand why I did so many strange things. I hope this notebook reaches you one day, after the war. I hope you’ll remember me kindly.
With great respect,
Private Peachy
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
ONE
MARCH, 1918
I USED TO BE A CONDUCTOR ON THE TRAIN THAT ran back and forth from Milwaukee to Chicago. Two or three times a year I acted in our local community theater, playing small roles mostly, but occasionally I was given a featured role. When the Milwaukee Players were putting on a play called A Brave Coward, by Winslow Clarke, I was given the part of a cowardly soldier during the Civil War who chooses, for the first time, to do something heroic. This was the biggest role our director had ever given me.
Our community theater gave only three performances for each of our plays, and on the last night of A Brave Coward I was in the men’s dressing room applying some Skolgie’s theatrical glue onto a mustache I’d made out of crepe hair, pressing it hard above my upper lip, when our director walked in. His name was John Freidel, but all the actors called him “sir” because we were a little afraid of him.
He walked past the other men, who were getting into costumes and going over their lines, and came up to my chair. “You’re late, Peachy,” he said.
“Sorry, sir, I came right from work. The train was late.”
“Sir” could be very sarcastic when he was giving notes, but I hadn’t heard him yell at anyone yet. He was a tall man and I thought his knee would hurt when he kneeled down next to me on the hard wooden floor, but I certainly wasn’t going to interrupt him. He spoke confidentially, but he was very intense.
“You’ve been way too soft these last few nights, Paul. Terribly gentle and polite. A coward isn’t a coward all the goddamn time, you know? You’re starting to act like you’re scared to death. Will you loosen up for me tonight?”
“I’ll try, sir,” I said.
“When the curtain goes up, forget the goddamn audience! Pretend it’s just a rehearsal. Will you do that for me, Paul?”
“I’ll try.”
Twenty minutes later my heart was in my throat. I heard the stage manager whisper “Go!” and the curtain went up. There was silence for a moment as the audience waited, and then the first line was spoken.
Thank goodness the play went well, and I know the audience liked me because they clapped especially loud when I took my bow during the curtain calls. I looked out into the audience while I was bowing and saw our director sitting in the front row. He gave me a smile and a little nod of approval.
When the play was over I kept my mustache on, which I had purposely made the color of my wife’s auburn hair. I kept trying to picture Elsie when she saw it. Elsie and I had only been married for four and a half years, but the romantic part of our relationship seemed to have faded away, like the yellow roses in our backyard at the end of summer. I lived with Elsie and her mother in three rooms on the second floor of a small but clean house in the German-Polish section of Milwaukee.
On the bus ride home a pretty girl and a soldier were sitting across the aisle from me, holding hands. The girl smiled at me. Without thinking, I touched my mustache and smiled back at her. Her boyfriend turned and gave me a hard stare. I dropped my head, pretending to be reading my theater program.
When I got home I raced up the stairs and unlocked the kitchen door. There was a soft light coming from the half-open door of our bedroom. I stuck my head into the doorway.
“Look who’s here!” I said, as rakishly as I could. Elsie was asleep, propped up against two big pillows, her long auburn hair spread out around her. A gas lamp was burning on the nightstand. The sound of my voice woke her.
“Oh, Paul,” she said, still half asleep.
“I’m sorry, honey—I didn’t know you were sleeping. How do you feel?”
“I was waiting up, and then I just dozed off,” she said.
I made a tiny leap, trying to feature my mustache. “Look who’s here!” I said.
“What time is it?” Elsie asked, trying to see the little table clock on my side of the bed.
“It must be a little past ten,” I said. “How do you feel, Elsie?”
“Is my mother’s light out?” she asked.
There wasn’t any light coming from the adjoining bedroom.
“Yes, it’s out,” I said.
Still trying to get Elsie to notice my mustache, I made another little John Barrymore leap in the air and said,
“Look who’s here, Elsie.”
“Paul, if you’re going to eat something, please hurry.”
“I’m not hungry, Elsie.”
“You must be starving,” she said.
“No, I had something on the train. Honestly, I’m not hungry. How do you feel?”
“If you cared how I felt, would you have left me tonight?”
“Well ... I did care, even though I left, so the answer must be ‘Yes.’ You look so pretty with your hair that way.”
“I don’t feel pretty.”
“Isn’t life funny, because you do look so pretty?” “Thank you.”
I walked up and sat beside her on the bed. “I brought you something, sweetheart.”
“You didn’t bring me another pastry?” she asked. “Oh, Paul, why do you do that?”
“It must be love,” I said, taking her hand.
“You’ve still got makeup all over your face. Did you know that?”
“I must have forgotten—I was so excited after the play, and I wanted to get home before you went to sleep.”
I leaned down and kissed her, then took off my trousers and underwear and socks, leaving on my shirt. I turned down
the lamp and got into bed.
“Don’t touch me like that, Paul.”
“Why?”
“I don’t feel like it,” she said. “Why?”
Elsie turned away. I lay next to her for a while, until I finally fell asleep.
The next morning I was punching tickets on the ride back to Milwaukee. The car was stuffed with soldiers and their girlfriends or wives. Mostly girlfriends, I think. Standing or seated, all the couples seemed to be kissing. A few of the older men and women were trying not to look. As I walked down the aisle my attention was caught by a passenger’s newspaper.
SIX THOUSAND GERMAN GUNS OPEN FIRE AT 4:50 A.M.
2,500 BRITISH GUNS REPLY.
FRANCE WAITS FOR YANKS
After repeating “Tickets please” three times to one passionately kissing couple, I lost heart for punching tickets. When we reached the Third Street station in Milwaukee, I hopped off the passenger steps onto the station platform and helped some of the older people get off the train. Then I made my way through the crowd. Most everyone was hugging and kissing their loved ones good-bye. A little girl was clutching her mother’s leg while the mother was squeezing her husband’s waist as she kissed him. I stood and watched the three of them for a moment. That afternoon I wrote a letter to my wife.
Dear Elsie:
I’ve joined the army. I don’t think you’ll ever be happy with me, and I know that I’m terribly unhappy. I’ve left you all of the money we have in our savings account, and I’ve paid the next three months of rent.
Mr. Kazinsky says that you and your mother can have your old jobs back at the bakery, if you wish.
Good-bye,
Paul
TWO
I WAS SENT TO CAMP PIKE, NEAR LITTLE ROCK, Arkansas. On our third day of basic training, I was assigned to Company B. I can’t say that I loved basic training, but I did find two good friends during those six weeks: Wally and Murdock.
Wally came from a Greek family and his last name was Tsartsarlapidith, but our sergeant couldn’t pronounce it during our first roll call. He said, “Wally, somebody—what the hell’s your last name?”
“I forget, sir,” Wally said.
Sergeant Krodecker was a tough professional soldier. He hollered, “DON’T CALL ME ’SIR’—I’M NOT A FUCKING OFFICER. All right, smart-ass, from now on your name is just WALLY.”
Murdock was always just “Murdock”; I don’t know why. He never used his first name. Not in front of us, anyway.
One day we were going through what they called the “Simulated Battlefield.” We had to crawl under barbed wire, holding our rifles out in front of us, until we reached a grassy clearing. Murdock got through without trouble, and I followed him; but Wally, who was quite chubby, had a terrible time. Sergeant Krodecker hollered out, “WALLY, YOU’RE SLOWER THAN SHIT GOING THROUGH A TRUMPET!” I didn’t like what he said, but I couldn’t help laughing with all the others.
The next day I was on the firing range, which I was looking forward to. After I fired one shot with my rifle, it gave me a splitting headache and I thought I was going deaf. I also missed the target. I heard a voice behind me say, “What’s your name, son:
I turned and tried to see who was talking, but I had to look directly into the sun, and the man was just a silhouette. I couldn’t really see his face except for a black, curly hair that looked like it was sticking out of his nose. I assumed he was an officer, so I said, “Pvt. Paul Peachy, sir.”
“I’m Captain Harrington,” the voice answered, “your company commander.”
I started getting up as fast as I could, but he stopped me. “You don’t have to get up,” he said. “I just want you to try something for me. Before you fire your next round, take aim, take a small breath, hold it for a second ... then squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it. Let me see you do that.”
I did exactly what he said, and it worked. No bull’s-eye, of course, but I hit the target. I was excited and I turned to him, but Captain Harrington was gone.
That night several of the boys in B Company began making up a song about Captain Harrington. They kept repeating it while they tried to find the harmony.
“Captain Harrington, as every soldier knows,
has a curly black hair
inside a wart upon his nose.
“But ‘Hair Nose Harrington’ is really quite a sport.
He never screams or yells,
unless you stare right at his wart. “
Poor Captain Harrington. I hope he never hears it.
I’d never been on anything bigger than a rowboat before, but at 6:30 A.M. on May 7th, 1918, the Ninth Regiment sailed to France to fight the Huns.
Wally, Murdock, and I leaned over the ship’s rail, watching New York disappear as the wind blew through our thoughts. I was wondering how Elsie reacted to my letter. Not that I regretted writing it—I just wondered if she was sad or relieved now that I was gone. I also wondered if I was going to die in France. I suppose all the fellows were thinking about that. I think that’s why they told so many dumb jokes and made up stupid songs. We were all scared and didn’t want to show it. I’m lucky I found Wally and Murdock. I would be so lonely without them.
THREE
WE LANDED AT SAINT-NAZAIRE, FRANCE, ON JUNE 1st, 1918. It rained almost every day that first week, except for one break in the weather that only lasted for an hour; and we had to walk halfway to our destination when the trucks couldn’t get through the mud. I don’t know what I expected—a train ride I suppose.
We all wondered which little town we were being sent to. I had a birthday coming up in a few days, and we wondered if the French food would be as good as rumors said it was. When we arrived at our destination, our little French town turned out to be miles and zigzag miles of muddy trenches, all lined with what they called “duckboards,” which were wooden slats on the floor of the trenches. They were higher than the ground level so that soldiers could walk on the duckboards, over the water and mud.
Every soldier in the regiment was given three pairs of socks, to keep our feet dry, and we were told to change socks at least twice a day in order to prevent trench foot. We also had to rub our feet with whale-oil grease to stop water from getting to them. To top it off, the food wasn’t any consolation.
On my thirtieth birthday, while we drank warm French beer and ate some soggy brioche, Wally and Murdock started singing “Happy Birthday” to me; but before they finished the song, Sergeant Krodecker ran in quickly, interrupting the last line.
“You speak German, Peachy?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Captain Harrington wants to see you. Now!” I grabbed my rifle and started running.
“AND DON’T LOOK AT HIS NOSE!” he hollered.
When I arrived in front of Captain Harrington, I saluted and then stayed at attention, stiff as a board. I tried to avoid staring at the black hair that curled out of the wart on his nose.
“Peachy, we’re not formal in the rain and the mud—stand at ease!” he said. After I relaxed a little, he said, “Is it true you speak German?”
“Yes sir.”
“Fluently?”
“Yes sir.”
I think he began to notice that I never looked directly at him when I answered a question.
“You haven’t done anything wrong, Peachy. Just relax. By the way, is ‘Peachy’ your real name or is that just a nickname?”
“Yes sir, it’s my real name, but not my father’s.”
“What does that mean?”
“My father didn’t speak English when he and my mother arrived from Germany. When Immigration asked for his name he kept repeating, ‘Paquet,’ but it sounded like ‘Pachay’ to them, so they wrote Peachy. Doesn’t make sense, I know, sir, but that’s what they did. His real name is Emil Paquet.”
“Were you born in Germany?”
“No sir, Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”
He let out half a laugh. “Where the beer comes from.”
“Yes sir,” I answered. I ca
n’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that joke.
“Well, I’m from Rhinelander, Wisconsin,” he said. “Do you know it?”
“Oh sure, I mean, yes sir, I’ve heard of it. I always wanted to go fishing there someday.”
“I hope you will—when this stinking war is over.”
“I hope so, sir.”
“The reason I sent for you is because a small reconnaissance just captured a German soldier who was wandering around in the woods about a quarter of a mile from here. I don’t think he realized how close he was to his own side ... or else he’s lost his marbles. He won’t speak to any of us—just keeps repeating, ’keine English, keine English.’ He was wearing a muddy corporal’s uniform, but I believe he’s an officer. I don’t know that he’s an officer—I just think he is. But keep my hunch in mind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s using the latrine now. I asked the two guards who captured him to take him to a dugout that has a few chairs and a cot. He looks starved, so bring him some coffee and a few sandwiches. We also have some cognac and some beer if he wants it.” He smiled at me. “Not as good as Milwaukee beer, of course.”
I faked another laugh.
“How much education have you had?”
“Through high school, sir, but I went to night school after that. For two years.”
“Studying what?”
“English and German literature, sir.”
“Good for you. You have an honest face, Peachy, and the prisoner is exhausted—maybe he’ll let his guard down if he talks German with someone. Any information you can get might be useful: Where did he come from? ... Division? ... Battalion? ... Officers? ... To what rank? ... Tanks? ... How many? Artillery support, cavalry ... you understand what I mean?”
