Curel was standing at the pump, running water over a washcloth. He saw Laura and signaled for her to take it.
Laura did so, saying in a low tone to him, “How is she?”
He shrugged. “Do you have any brandy?”
“No, but I’ve sent for the doctor,” she said. “He’ll be able to give her something.”
“How’s Henri?”
“He’s not waking up. I don’t understand it. I didn’t think he was hurt that badly.”
“What brought him outside?”
“I think he heard the commotion and then saw that Brigitte was in danger. He grasped that much.”
“I’ll go sit with him. You stay with Brigitte.”
“Thank you for coming tonight,” Laura said.
“I wish I’d gotten here sooner.” He shook his head. “The worst thing about this war is the way it’s turned us against each other.” He went into the hall.
Laura sat next to Brigitte and offered her the cloth. When she didn’t take it Laura wiped the other woman’s face with it, gently cleaning away the dirt.
“Are you all right?” she said.
Brigitte didn’t answer.
Laura got up and filled the kettle at the pump.
“I’ll heat some water for your bath,” she said. “You’ll feel better after a good soaking.”
When she turned to put it on the stove she saw two large tears slip from under Brigitte’s lids. She set the kettle in place and rejoined Brigitte at the table, taking her hand.
“You can’t give in to this,” Laura told her softly. “You have to think of your baby.”
“Kurt,” Brigitte whispered.
“What?”
“I was supposed to visit him tomorrow.”
“At the clinic?”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes. “When he sees me he’ll know.”
Laura didn’t know what to say. “Maybe you shouldn’t go,” she ventured after a moment.
“I’ve never missed a visit,” Brigitte said. “He’ll think something’s wrong.”
“Brigitte, he loves you,” Laura began soothingly. “He’ll...”
“You don’t understand!” Brigitte cut her off. “He’ll blame himself for this. I know he will.”
“Brigitte, you’re just upset.”
“He’ll kill Lenoir,” Brigitte said stonily.
“He won’t know who did it unless you tell him,” Laura replied, exasperated.
“He’ll find out. He knows Claire Lenoir. He saw how she acted toward him. He’ll put it together.”
“Then don’t let him come back here,” Laura said suddenly.
Brigitte looked at her.
“Leave with him, go to Germany or wherever else you want. There’s no future for you here with a baby on the way.”
Brigitte was listening.
“These people aren’t going to forget,” Laura said simply. “Even if they believe you weren’t a collaborator they’ll never accept Kurt. He’ll always be a German to them, not your husband or the father of your child.”
“I know you’re right,” Brigitte murmured. “I’ve thought so myself. I was just waiting for Kurt to get well to decide what to do.” The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “I guess I waited too long.”
“Does Kurt know about the baby?” Laura asked.
Brigitte shook her head. “I wanted to wait...”
“...until he was well,” Laura finished for her.
They gazed at one another ruefully.
“Do you think he’ll be happy?” Laura asked.
“Yes,” Brigitte said. “He comes from a large family. He wants kids.”
“Brigitte, why didn’t you tell me?”
Brigitte looked away. “I was afraid you’d think...”
“Think what?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s wonderful. Now you have to take care of yourself so you’ll have a healthy baby. Let’s start with a nice hot bath.”
“All right,” Brigitte said resignedly. She knew from past experience that when Laura was on the case it was better to give in easily; you wound up doing what she wanted anyway.
“And then tomorrow we’ll get you a proper haircut in Bar-le-Duc, straighten out that mess,” Laura went on, dragging the tub out of its corner. “I’ll bet it won’t be half bad once it’s styled.”
“Cool, too, in this weather,” Brigitte said, and Laura laughed harder than the joke deserved, relieved that Brigitte’s sense of humor was returning.
“You know how fast your hair grows,” Laura said. “It’ll be long again before you know it.”
Brigitte stood, still a little shaky, and went to get some towels.
After Laura got her into the tub she went into the front room to check on Henri, shutting the hall door behind her.
“Brigitte?” Curel asked.
“Taking a bath.”
Curel nodded approvingly. He obviously felt that was a good sign.
“Why does he look so yellow?” he asked, gesturing to Henri.
“I don’t know. He has a fever too. Something’s really wrong.”
“Where the hell is that doctor?” Curel muttered.
Laura sat down with him to wait.
Henri died that night without ever regaining consciousness. The doctor said that Lenoir had probably kicked him in the kidneys, causing renal failure.
Brigitte and Laura could not believe it. They wanted satisfaction but there was no place to go for it. The Germans had functioned as the police for so long that in their sudden absence there was no one to prosecute a case against Lenoir. By the time a force was reassembled the incident would be old news. And even if someone did listen Curel said it would be almost impossible to get a French gendarme to press a charge against a loyal citizen for the death of a known collaborator.
Most people in the country would think that Henri got what he deserved.
The two Duclos women felt like survivors of a long and bitter siege that had decimated their family. They buried Henri beside his sons and inscribed his stone with the legend, “Père des héros.”
That much, at least, was true.
Laura went in Brigitte’s place to visit Kurt, explaining that Brigitte had singed her hair rather badly in a kitchen accident and was having it cut short as a result. Once assured that Brigitte was all right he seemed to think no more of it, and when he saw her again he laughed at the pixie fringe. If he heard about the other women in France that summer who were also forced to accept a new hairstyle, and sometimes a lot worse, he was too preoccupied with his future to connect their experiences with Brigitte.
She came to get him the day he was released from the Saint-Dizier clinic in early September. She steered Langtot’s wagon to a clearing by the side of the road and jumped down, tethering the horse on a bush.
“Why are we stopping?” he asked, watching her.
“I want to talk to you,” Brigitte said.
He got down and followed her a distance to a shady spot under an ash tree, where they both sat in the ground.
“The Americans are in Lyons,” Brigitte said.
Kurt looked away, lifting his stiff arm into his lap. He hadn’t realized they were so close.
“At first I thought we could stay in France and tough it outbut now I don’t know,” she went on. “Maybe the Americans would believe me about your helping the Résistance but maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they’d detain you and put you in a camp behind the lines until they could hear all the witnesses and make a decision. Curel told me they’ve been doing that down south and it scared me.”
He watched her, listening.
“Everybody here knows you were in Becker’s unit, Kurt. There’d be no chance of us lying about it. You were very visible.”
He took her hands in his. “And?”
“I can’t bear to be separated from you now,” she said, biting her lip. Her short fair hair framed her small heart shaped face, making her look almost boyish.
“You still have your papers from the army, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“And you could get back into Germany?”
“Of course,” he said. “I thought you didn’t want to go to Germany. You said it was too dangerous with the Allies on our heels, bombing all the roads out of France. You thought we’d be better off staying and taking our chances with the Americans.”
“I know what I said. I’ve changed my mind.”
“Why?”
She looked directly at him. “I’m pregnant.”
His face lit up and he pulled her into his arms. “Oh, my darling, I’m so happy.”
She pulled back and managed a small smile. “I’m happy too, but don’t you see that this changes things? I want us to be together.”
“We will be,” he said hastily. “We’ll get married. That priest can do it.”
“Father Deslourdes?”
“Why not? He’s supposed to marry people, isn’t he? And then we’ll go.”
“Where?”
“My parents’ house. They’ll take us in and then later we’ll find our own place.”
“Is it far?” she asked.
“We’ll make it. The roads are full of refugees. I’m not in uniform so no one will look at us too closely. And when we get to the border we’ll have my papers and a license to show you’re my wife.”
Brigitte was amazed at how easily he accepted the change in plans. “I don’t think you should go back to Fains with me,” she said.
He waited.
“There have been some...incidents,” she said, masking her expression carefully, her tone neutral.
He sighed. He could well imagine.
“My brother Alain told me about an abandoned hut in the woods by the river,” she said. “He met somebody there once. You can’t see it from the road. I’ll take you to it and then tomorrow I’ll come back with my things. And the priest. All right?”
He nodded. He didn’t like to let her go, even for one night, but they didn’t appear to have much choice.
“Come on, then,” Brigitte said, standing. “Let’s see if we can find this hideout.”
They climbed into the cart and set off down the road.
* * *
Kurt was greeted the next morning by a little procession threading through the woods to the cabin where he waited. Laura and Brigitte, accompanied by Father Deslourdes, were picking their way around the underbrush, swatting flies and dodging fallen branches. He straightened and tried to look like a bridegroom, despite his borrowed and wrinkled clothing and the brown stubble on his face.
The priest looked rattled, his face flushed, his long black skirt studded with burrs. Kurt wondered what the two women had told him in order to get him to come on this unconventional excursion. Probably that Brigitte was pregnant. That piece of information was guaranteed to spring any member of the Catholic clergy into action.
Brigitte was wearing a traveling outfit consisting of Alain’s trousers cut off at the knee, hiking boots, and a short sleeved polo shirt. Kurt felt a momentary pang for the wedding dress she should have had, and promised himself that he would make it up to her during their life together.
Brigitte greeted him with a kiss. “I have all my things in the cart,” she said.
“But that’s your neighbor’s trap,” he said.
“He gave us the wagon and the horse as a wedding present,” Brigitte said.
“We let him have Henri’s horse in exchange,” Laura chimed in. “You got the better deal.”
The priest listened to this exchange, looking from one to the other as if they were three lunatics.
Kurt caught his eye and said, “Well, are you ready? Did you bring the license? Is it filled out properly with Laura as the witness?”
Father Deslourdes nodded. “The only civil form I have is the one the Germans used.” He patted his pocket.
“Fine.” That was exactly what Kurt wanted. He looked at Brigitte.
She nodded, smiling.
“Then let’s get on with it,” Kurt said firmly.
So they were married. Bees buzzed and gnats circled their heads as they said their hasty, churchless vows. Laura listened to the abbreviated ceremony, designed to be used without a mass, doing her best to ignore the shimmering, drugging September heat. And when it was done she embraced both of them, trying to realize that Brigitte was actually leaving with this man and she might never see her again. Or her baby. Alain’s niece or Thierry’s nephew? Now the Duclos family would all be gone from Fains-les-Sources, except for Laura, the in-law and the last.
Brigitte was crying. “Kurt wrote out his parents’ address,” she said to Laura. “That’s where we’re going.”
Laura took the paper from him and put it in her pocket.
Brigitte hugged her again. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” Laura responded.
“It wasn’t all for nothing, was it?” Brigitte pleaded. “Alain, and Thierry, and the old man? We won in the end didn’t we?”
“Of course we did,” Laura said briskly. “You know that. Now go to your new life with your new husband and be happy.”
Brigitte smiled. “You’re the best, Laura. I couldn’t care about you more if you were my blood sister. I hope you find Harris, or he finds you.”
Laura was going to be crying soon too. “Go,” she said. “It’s getting late.”
“Say goodbye to Curel,” Brigitte called back as she walked away.
“I will.”
The two of them headed off together and Father Deslourdes turned to Laura.
“You’ll be all alone now,” he said, touching her arm.
Yes, Laura thought. But I hope not for long.
The house was fearfully empty and silent with Brigitte gone. Laura even missed Henri. He hadn’t been much company but he had supplied the comfort of another living body, and Laura never minded taking care of him. Now the abandoned rooms on the second floor mocked her, and she began to sleep in the parlor where she felt less lonely.
Laura prepared to open the school without Lysette, thinking that the war had taken everyone away in one fashion or another. Her days were long, uneventful now that Vipère had little to do with the Germans driven from France. She read a lot, cleaned the house, and slept badly—waiting, waiting, for what would come. There was no mail, no communication of any kind except the radio, which became her lifeline to the world. France was in transition, existing on rumors and hope and the promise of freedom purchased at a high, bloody price.
A few days after Brigitte’s departure Laura rose in the morning and dressed, intending to go into Bar-le-Duc and do a book inventory at the school. She was walking through the hall to the kitchen when the sound of raised voices in the street got her attention. She went out to see what was happening.
People were running from all directions, shouting and gesturing wildly. She went out the door and looked into the distance, following the gaze of the noisemakers.
A tank was making a slow, stately progress down the main road into the village, leading a procession of other vehicles. As it came closer she could see the green uniforms of the soldiers, armed with rifles. They were sitting in it and on it in relaxed attitudes, some wearing their metal helmets, the rest bareheaded. They were dressed for war but behaving as if at a party, smoking, grinning and waving, making Victory signs at the gathering throng. People called to them joyously as the news spread and the houses emptied, some parents holding their children aloft to see the newcomers.
Laura’s eyes misted when she saw the white star on the side of the tank, and the red, white and blue flag flying from its turret.
The Americans had arrived.
Chapter 15
The reception for the Americans was a week long gala that involved every citizen of the Meuse. French flags, carefully folded away in drawers and closets since the occupation, made a triumphant reappearance. They hung from the windows of private homes and flew from poles everywhere (with an appreciative
nod to the stars and stripes, often displayed alongside the tricolor.) The bars and restaurants were thrown open and the sound of music and laughter emanated from them at all hours of the day and night. The soldiers, most of them young and battle weary, away from home for a long time, responded like celebrities to their tearful, ecstatic welcome. They kissed girls and babies, cheerfully accepted gifts of food and rounds of drinks and joined family celebrations as if they were relatives. They didn’t feel quite like heroes but if the French wanted to treat them that way, what the hell.
The main street they’d used to enter the village was renamed, and remained forever after Rue de Libération.
The convoy that Laura had seen arriving passed on through to Bar-le-Duc, establishing its headquarters in Hôpital Sacre Coeur, which the Germans had just left. It wasn’t difficult to understand the decision since there was hardly another suitable building in the area. Laura found it a shock, albeit a pleasant one, to see the stars and stripes flying where the swastika had once hung. The lanky, drawling Americans flowed up and down the steps lately frequented by the correct and silent Germans. Watching from the school across the way, Laura reflected that appearances truly were deceiving. These kids, never in a hurry, so quick to smile and stop for a chat, were beating the pants off both the Germans and the Japanese. There was, Laura thought happily, a lesson there for everyone.
During her lunch hour one day she spotted a lone soldier working on a jeep outside the hospital. She crossed the street, nodding at the uniformed men who grinned at her and called “Bonjour” in terrible accents. She stopped almost at the mechanic’s elbow, noting the stripes on his sleeve. The upper half of his body was concealed under the hood.
“Sergeant?” she said.
He backed up and a blond head appeared. His broad face split into a grin when he saw her.
“Yes, ma’am!” he said smartly.
“I wonder if I could talk with you a moment.”
“Sure thing.” He wiped his greasy hands on a rag and faced her eagerly, still smiling.
“What division are you with?” she asked.
“U.S. First Army, ma’am, liberating France single handedly,” he said, saluting.
Laura laughed.
“I think the British and the Canadians might have something to say about that,” she replied.
Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama) Page 35
