Someday You Will Understand

by Nina Wolff Feld

  “This is undrinkable. I’m sending it right back to our little barmaid.”

  My father politely explained to her, “I had asked for Cognac and not for rubbish. You could take the varnish off the table with this swill!”

  The barmaid’s eyes grew wide. She looked at my father’s uniform up and down and then, in what seemed like a single gesture, swept his glass away and returned with a freshly poured shot.

  “Now that is a Cognac. Look at the color. Merci.”

  My father and the RAF pilot began to chat, and he told the pilot about his experience running his RAF compatriots to safehouses when he lived in Lyon. Before it got any later, he excused himself to call the airdrome, to confirm his departure time. He thought he had an early flight, so he had already left his baggage at the ATC Terminal and given up his hotel room and he had absolutely no intention of going to bed because it was much easier to stay up than to wake up. His departure had been delayed to 10 a.m., though, and suddenly he was without a room in Paris on New Year’s Eve. Within ten minutes, he had a room at the neighboring hotel. By 2:30 he was ready for bed. Before going to sleep, he asked the woman downstairs to wake him at eight o’clock. She swore up and down that she would. At 9:30 the next morning, the telephone rang. “Sir, was that you who wanted to be woken up this morning?”

  “Why, yes, and my plane is leaving at 10:15!” He couldn’t even take the time to really yell at her. “France never changes!”

  He jumped out of bed and into his clothes. No taxis. He took the métro to Gare St. Lazare and found one there.

  “Aérodrome d’Orly. Vite! Wait! Oh, my God, my baggage! First make a quick stop at Gare du Nord. Keep the meter running. I’ll run in and grab my bags! Vite!”

  In the car, he changed uniforms. He took off his long jacket, switched his tie for a white silk scarf, and switched his shoes for boots while the driver careened through Paris at the extraordinary speed of twenty-five to thirty kilometers per hour. The driver was crazy with confidence they’d arrive in time, but he got lost halfway there. They arrived at the airdrome at 10:30 and my father paid the driver, grabbed his bags, and ran into the terminal just in time to hear, “Last call for Master Sergeant Walter Wolff. Last call. Please report to the scales to be weighed in. Walter Wolff, please report to the scales.”

  He ran to the weigh station and heard them announce that the plane would not take off until 12:30. Join the Army and see the world. Hurry up and wait.

  The plane had every comfort. In an hour and a half they were grounded in Frankfurt due to a change in the weather. This time, because of the priority stamp on his ticket, he was given a comfortable room to share with the pilot and the radioman. The next day they left at 10:30, had lunch in Prague, and arrived in Vienna for tea. When my father finally reached his destination, he readied himself for an onslaught of hostile questions relating to his whereabouts after his furlough had run out. He had been gone twenty-five days on a ten-day furlough, but all they said to him was, “Oh, you’re back. Very good.”

  Since they hadn’t even missed him yet and he could easily have stayed for another week, he applied for another furlough to ski in Chamonix and then decided to push the envelope and stay for another three days to catch up on the pleasures of culture in Vienna.

  By the end of January, my father received notice that his tour of duty was coming to a close. He left for New York from the port of Le Havre on the USS Le Jeune in March 1946. After he returned from his furlough, his letters home slowed to a trickle. The returning soldiers marched on board to the beat of a military band playing farewell songs, and as the sun set over the damaged French landscape, the ship pulled out to sea. Finally, after nearly six years of war, his life could resume in safety and in peace for the first time since he was very young. My father always found the orchids among the ruins no matter where he was.

  New York harbor, April 1946. My father is second from left, facing Weehawken, New Jersey, as the Le Jeune pulls up the Hudson escorted by a tugboat with a band playing and the message “Welcome Home Troops” on the shore.

  9 April 1946

  Au soir

  Hello, my Darling,

  Yes, I’m home now and I’m a civilian again. Again an individual instead of a number in a card file. I was demobilized on the eighth, and this is my 2nd evening home. It really feels wonderful. As a pleasant surprise, I found a letter of yours in my little apartment—the letter you wrote on the 14th of March. Thanks—it was a nice thing to find it right on my table.

  My Darling—I feel so guilty—guilty about having made you love me—and thus unhappy. I long for you too, believe me; I long for your tenderness, for your pretty smile, for the softness of your lips—for you. But let’s both be reasonable—and not “chase rainbows.”

  You tell me in your letter to please help you—“if I ever loved you.” Francine, Chérie, there shouldn’t be any doubt in your mind: I did love you—and still do—and will in the future. You are one of the most beautiful events in my life so far. I have liked many girls, and thought I loved some; but I never told a girl that I loved her, except playfully—before I told you—“je t’aime, je t’adore.” And I still mean it.

  But you know, my Darling, life is not that simple; there are so many factors that separate people—even people who sincerely love each other. Only few people are fortunate enough to be able to enjoy the privilege of true love. Most people have to be content with a reasonable facsimile.

  Darling, as your picture on my desk smiles at me—the only picture on that desk—I feel so sorry for having met you, for having loved and having held your body close to mine—sorry for you, because doing so you came to love me. I don’t believe I’m worthy of such beautiful sentiments. I would be much happier to know that you hate me—hate me for having done that to you. If you did—I wouldn’t be an obstacle to your happiness—But then again—I’m happy if you just love me a little—because I DO—and will never want to forget you. Let’s keep our relationship as a beautiful thing to remember—it was brief—but pure. I say pure because I see nothing impure about those unforgettable nights when you gave yourself to me.

  April 14, 1946

  Well I carried this letter around for days now, and it is time that I mail it—and finish it. My family and I have gone to a beautiful resort some two hours from N.Y. For ten days. I am not used to such luxury any more—I have to get used to it. Plenty of girls here—but there is not so much beneath their pretty smiles and nice clothes. I still feel a little awkward in civilian clothes—but keep changing shirts, ties, suits, shoes—just for the hell of it.

  I still can’t believe it!

  All my love

  Yours,

  Walter

  CHAPTER 11

  The Key to the Wine Cellar

  Are you getting off at Noyelles-sur-Mer?” I asked the blond boy traveling alone, after he stopped talking on his cell phone. I looked out the window. Rain was coming down in sheets moving sideways. Wind was whistling through the closed doors of the train.

  “Eh, oui,” he answered.

  “Perhaps you’ll know, then, where the Château de Noyelles is?”

  By this time I had taken my rain gear out of my suitcase and pulled my British oilcloth hat over my head, before folding my overweight garment bag and yanking it toward the exit. What was I thinking I’d need for a week’s expedition? The boy looked at the map on his iPhone for a moment and answered that in fact he only knew the château where he was going and that it had been in his family for generations. For a fleeting moment, I thought my story might not be so uncommon, if châteaux in the region were so numerous. No matter, we left it at that. The train finally pulled out from between the vast fields of Picardy wheat, dotted with white cows and horses whose manes blew in the wind as they galloped through the summer rain. We came to an unceremonious stop, and the train conductor in her short blue skirt and high heels announced our arrival at Noyelles-sur-Mer and proudly blew her whistle.

  “Voilà, madame, vous descend
ez içi.” As the conductor helped me pull my suitcase off the train, I watched the boy climb into his grandfather’s car. I quickly went over and knocked at the window.

  “Oui?” he asked nicely. The boy told him what I needed.

  “Je vous apporterai. . . . Mais,” he paused, “ce n’est pas loin, madame” (I’ll take you. . . . But . . . it’s not far, madame.).

  Okay, I thought, and blew air through my cheeks. The website did say it was close to the station, and I was completely forlorn. It had been a bit of an exercise getting to Noyelles in the first place, after missing my 8:13 train from Brussels Midi to Paris Nord in the morning. Things were looking up. The man explained that, since he wasn’t expecting another passenger, and with a full trunk and a small car, he would try to accommodate me, since it was raining like a monsoon. Had this been a silent movie, his facial expressions and constantly moving hands would have been explanation enough.

  “Vous êtes tellement gentille. Merçi, monsieur.” I thanked him profusely for his kindness, took the boy’s suitcase, and put it on my knees. Voilà! The doors were shut, and we were on our way. Like a Marx Brothers movie, piled in the car as we were, the man drove over the train tracks, went a few hundred feet, and announced once and for all that we had indeed arrived at the château. With a certain degree of panache, I thanked them once again. That degree of politesse has been lost in other countries, particularly in America, to a much more casual set of manners. I threw my worn leather knapsack over my shoulders and pulled my suitcase up the wet gray stone steps of the château. I walked through the old metal and glass doors and was greeted by a young woman, Ludivine, the concierge and caretaker: the one in charge.

  “Bonjour, je suis Madame Feld,” I announced, letting the “e” hang off the end of “Feld-e” just for a moment. I would never sacrifice my well-cultivated Parisian accent, no matter how tired and jet-lagged I was.

  “Ah, oui.”

  The words rolled out of her mouth and a smile broadened across her face as she realized who I was. Finally, I took a breath and looked around. I had crossed a personal Rubicon and made it to my family’s past. This quiet, exquisitely restored château had held its own through not one but two world wars and within its stone walls kept the secrets of generations of people. I was going to caress some answers out of it for the following three days. Without missing a beat, Ludivine left my bags at the tiny front desk and asked if I would like a tour. I smiled and said, “Absolutely.” We walked through the rooms on the main floor and we got to the dining room, with the huge wooden fireplace and wood stove. Original plans and elevations for the château hung on the walls. I stared out of the window, looking for the famous garden and the strawberry patch. Later, when the rain stops, I promised myself.

  “La cave, do you want to see the cellar?” She knew.

  I smiled and said, “Plus que vous pouvez imaginer!” (More than you can imagine!)

  The wine cellar. I have never wanted to see any place so badly. We descended the winding wooden steps and she opened the door.

  “Watch your head.”

  The stone ceiling would be a firm reminder of the building’s age, and mine, if I smacked my head. No concussions today. No time. I took it in slowly, one step at a time. This was it. I walked toward the rear of the cellar; Ludivine unlocked the door and switched on the light. Once upon a time, a young boy sat and faced fear with comedy. You could hide the boy from the dangers of falling bombs, but you couldn’t take his playfulness away from him. In this cool, moist place, they had sat together, five Jews and a bunch of scared Wehrmacht soldiers, waiting for the air attacks to stop. How my father ever kept a straight face while those guys drank the olive oil that he’d switched with wine, I will never know. Or, as I like to remind myself, the clues were always there. Even comedy has a price tag. His life depended on the outcome of the prank, and with that kind of straight-man tactic he became an intelligence officer and followed in Mr. Kresser’s footsteps.

  After the cellar, we went upstairs to the area where my family had lived. It had been totally rebuilt after it was damaged in a bombardment. The footprint remained, and I couldn’t help but notice how small it was. The windows faced the front of the château, from which you could look out into the distance as the sky changed with every passing cloud. The driving rains ended and the sun was now dominating the Norman landscape. Simplicity lay in the details, allowing my imagination to transport me. As if on cue, to fill in another blank, a group of red planes flew past the château in formation. That was a sound I was looking for: the planes were from that period. Their rumbling through the cloud-filled sky reverberated clearly in the gusting wind. The loud buzzing sound got even louder as they approached. This was an answer. They could look into the distant sky and hear as well as see incoming aircraft. They had a built-in warning system to go to the cellar and enough time to get there.

  “Ludivine, did you see the planes?” I asked rhetorically. “Now I know, it’s not at all different than I imagined. C’est incroyable!” (It’s incredible!)

  We stood in the room a moment longer, wondering how five people had lived for six weeks in such a small place. I followed her out, and she locked the door. The rain had stopped, and we headed outside toward the garden. The garden. We walked over the white gravel toward the open wooden gate to the trees already heavy with summer fruit. Everything was growing in neat rows; any remnant of the past lay buried in the earth below. I looked for the strawberry patch where the bomb fell, leaving my father unharmed in the crater. We walked through another open gate at the other end of the garden, and I noticed that the thick walls were made of flint bricks. Before we left, I pulled a pear off a tree and bit into it. Through the garden were a second garage and some living quarters for the Polish groundskeepers. In the distance I could see a crater and asked if that was left over from the war.

  “Non, mais c’est un peu bizarre.” (No, but it is a bit weird.)

  “Oui,” I said.

  Ludivine excused herself and walked back to the château, leaving me to my thoughts. I wandered everywhere. I went off the manicured grounds, sometimes sinking into the thick mud. I looked deep into the ground wishing to find something, anything. I walked carefully over a path made of broken tiles and bricks, remnants of old houses laid like a carpet so a person wouldn’t sink. They created a bridge, from which I could observe my surroundings in the forest behind the château. I looked at the trees, hoping to see my father’s initials carved deep into the bark. I took a walk around the perimeter. I walked along the Rio River, staring deep into its waters for a shadow of its war-torn past to surface with a clue. When I got to the end and turned down the narrow path, the white cows stared at me, looking for their own clues. We had a lot of questions for each other. Anyway, they were too young to remember anything, and so was I. The river was much too narrow at one and a half meters wide to be the one that my father spoke of, when he explained during his interview that, while he was standing at the side of the road, enemy tanks were approaching from one end moments before the firing started, and he turned around and saw a small French troop behind him across the river. Yes, it had to be Le Dien; it was just up the road behind a farm. That was where the firefight took place, requiring them to hide under their car. I absorbed what I saw and began to walk back along the banks of the narrow Rio, passing a couple of farms until I reached the main street and followed the flint wall to the front gates of the château. I felt strangely at home in a place where I had never been.

  Instead of going back in, I walked toward the train station. Wet grass, smells of lavender and chamomile wafted in from the fields. Le Relais de la Baie stood on the corner across the street. I wandered into the café. To my surprise, my French was greeted with a Scottish hello. I ordered a tea for the jet-lagged me and some crêpes with cream and jam. A bar in the middle of northern France run by a Scottish painter who came on holiday and never left. It was a quirky place, with beautiful landscapes done by the owner, Pippa Darbyshire. Art books were stacked
on tables and overflowed from the bookshelves. After I ate, I got up and took a walk around. Swing tunes carried my thoughts back in time. As if on cue, I turned to find a piece of the old wall exposed but framed. I looked closely and read:

  Pte. B. Mc Cubbin, 7th Argyll’s f. Sutherland, Highlanders;

  PTE. R. Bowerman. No.17276 2nd Oxford A. Bocke, Light Infantry BE 7.

  Behind me I heard gravelly, heavily accented voices ordering a bottle of wine and turned to see who had walked into the bar. Pippa introduced me as “l’Américaine” to her Belgian and Dutch friends, Christine and Jaan. Christine was a potter from across the road, wearing clay-covered overalls and a green T-shirt that was never changed during my three days in Noyelles. She rolled and lit one of her many filterless cigarettes, inhaling deeply.

  “I like de smoking,” she would always say as she blew smoke through a deep, hacking cough.

  I dubbed her “Crazy Christine.” She had a heart of gold. This was a woman with a past. She soothed her darkness with alcohol and cigarettes and could not have been kinder. Both she and Jaan took a keen interest in what I was doing and wanted to help find people and information for me. Crazy Christine thought of someone who might have more historical background about Noyelles and offered to get in touch with her friend Jean from Vron. If he was available, she would take me to see him the next morning.

  I found it impossible to believe that such a bucolic place could play a role in the theater of not one but two world wars. The odd thing was, this little village was a shell of its former self. From the turn of the last century through World War II, it was home to many small hotels and shops of all sorts. There had even been a movie theater in what appeared to be an old carriage house. In the days to come, history would reveal itself and people related to my family’s past would appear by degrees. I watched from the café window as cars sped by on the narrow road where General Heinz Guderian, the champion of the Panzer assault, once passed through to congratulate his troops. Hitler’s train had no choice but to stop, for the Führer to gaze upon his prize. The move toward the Channel had occurred so quickly that it left even Hitler confused about how the troops should proceed. Rumor has it that on his way to Abbeville the tracks had been sabotaged and Hitler was delayed at Noyelles for a short time. The château was only a one-minute walk from the train station, so it’s possible that he even spent a short time there.