“Violette, I may be in a terrible predicament. I’m so uninformed. I lost my mother at an early age, and no one has ever explained things I should know. I’m afraid I’m pregnant. Until what happened to me in the farmhouse, I’d never been intimate with a man. It never crossed my mind that a baby could result from such violence. I’m terrified. Oh, Madame Violette, please tell me I’m being an innocent fool.”
“All right, Mon Cherie, let’s chat. Obviously the beasts who assaulted you didn’t use any protection. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. No - no - none of them did.”
“The filthy swine! Well, then it is entirely possible that you’re going to have a baby. Do you remember when you had your last monthly?”
“I’d have to look at a calendar. It was before those men attacked me. I’m sure of that. Perhaps about two weeks before. I remember running out of necessary supplies. I’d intended to go to the village to buy more. My curse never came. I was so anxious about everything else, it completely slipped my mind. But all of a sudden, today I remembered.”
“How are you feeling? Are you at all ill?” asked Violette.
“For the last few weeks, I’ve been rather nauseous in the mornings. Sometimes I feel a bit dizzy. Oh - and my, my, breasts…“
“Yes, dear. Your breasts. Are they tender and swollen?”
“Oh yes. Is that a sign, too?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so, Elise.”
“What am I going to do? I’m so frightened.”
“We have to find out for certain. You need to see a physician.”
“A doctor? Oh - I couldn’t. How perfectly revolting.”
“It’s the only way you can be absolutely certain. After we have the answer, we can discuss plans.”
“But where would I find a physician?”
“That’s no problem. I have a man who calls regularly to check my girls. This sort of establishment calls for very strict health assessments. Each girl is examined monthly. The doctor is a very kind gentleman. You needn’t be frightened. I’ll ring him, and he’ll pay a visit. I’ll stay with you. You were a nurse, Elise. Surely you know what a gynecological examination is?”
“Yes. I do. It’s just that I’ve never had one. It seems so – so – embarrassing.”
“Dr. Rice is very professional. You won’t be embarrassed. Go back to your room. I’ll let you know when he’ll be here.”
Elise left Violette’s office, relieved to have allowed the older woman to help her, but still terrified. Having a baby, when she wasn’t married, was bad enough. But to have become an expectant mother in such a deplorable way – not to know which of three men had impregnated her - was repugnant.
***
By nightfall, Elise knew with certainty. Violette had been right. Dr. Rice was a kindly, older gentleman. Violette made it clear to him that the lovely, French girl was not one of her employees. With Elise’s permission, she shared the tragic story of how she’d come to be in such a wretched state. It was clear that the doctor was infuriated when he learned about Elise’s dreadful ordeal. He was very gentle and didn’t make her feel ashamed. Unfortunately, he couldn’t alter reality. She was pregnant, nearly thirteen weeks. She tried to keep her composure, but when he left, she turned her head into the pillow, sobbing pitifully. Violette sat beside the poor girl, trying to calm her.
“You aren’t alone, Elise. I’m here with you. You’ll get through this. I know it’s a terrible situation. But we have to talk calmly. We must make plans and decisions.”
“What sort of decisions? What plans?” Elise sobbed. “Why is God doing this to me? What did I do to bring on his wrath? I’m not a bad person. Why, why Violette?”
“There aren’t any answers. You need to accept that there are reasons for all things – even something as frightening as what you’re going through. You have to move beyond the past. What do you want to do about this?”
“What do you mean? What can I do about it? I’m going to have a baby. It seems impossible, but that’s the way it is. I don’t know how I can bear it.”
“Would you want to do something to rid yourself of this child?” Violette asked.
“Rid myself of it? What do you mean? You aren’t speaking of – of –an operation?”
“Yes. Women do have them. I can make certain you’d be cared for by a physician - not a butcher.”
“Oh, but Violette, that’s murder. I’d be condemned to Hell for eternity.”
“Some people believe that, yes. Others don’t. Because of the way you became pregnant, I’m not certain the church would think you should be forced to carry the baby to term. Would you want to speak with a Priest?”
“No. Even if it weren’t considered evil, I just don’t think I could ever do such a thing. It isn’t the child’s fault. The baby is innocent. My God, Violette, I know enough from my nurse’s training. The baby already has a tiny heartbeat. Why should it be destroyed because it was conceived in such a crude, wicked way? All babies deserve to be loved. The poor little one in my womb will face a hard enough life as it is - never knowing who its father is – not being wanted. But I don’t believe I have the right to choose whether it lives at all. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mon Cherie. I do understand. I’m not telling you what you should do. I simply want you to be aware of your options.”
“No – let’s move on to other options. I don’t want to consider that one.”
“All right. Then I want you to know that you’re perfectly welcome to stay here as long as you wish. I told you that when you first came to Brighton. It’s more important now. You certainly can’t be alone. You’ll have the best care.”
“What will people say? What will they think? I know the ladies who work here will be kind. But, how can I walk down the street?”
“You’ll wear a wedding ring. You haven’t been here long enough to have met many people. I’ve already told others that you’re a niece of mine from France, who escaped the Nazis. Now, I’ll add that your husband was killed at Dunkirk. With a baby on the way, the fictitious husband will be added. No one will think you’re one of my girls. Don’t fret about that. Remember, you’re my niece. I know most everyone in this town. Believe it or not, most are friendly to me. While wives don’t invite me for tea, they don’t turn their heads when I walk by, either. It’s very unlikely anyone would believe you’re anything but what you appear to be– a sweet, innocent girl, whose life has been turned upside down because of this ghastly war.”
“Thank you, Violette. I’m so fortunate to have found you. Now that this pregnancy has happened, thank God I got out of France. I can’t imagine what would have become of me.”
“Yes, that’s true. So. The next question is what to do when the baby is born? I’d understand if you didn’t want to keep it.”
“But where would it go, if I didn’t keep it?”
“There are always families who can’t have children of their own. You could make arrangements to have the child adopted. The Catholic Church is known to work with such families. I don’t think you’d have much difficulty finding loving parents for him or her.”
“Oh Violette. It’s so difficult to know, isn’t it? While I loath those men who assaulted me, I wonder if I can carry a baby inside of me for nine months, and then just pass it over to someone else, like a piece of merchandise? Have you ever had children?”
“Yes, I have. I was married before I opened my business. My husband was killed at Ypres, during the Great War. I had a son, Yves. We lived in Paris. I was a designer of hats. When he was three years old, he came down with the deadly flu sweeping the globe in 1918. I lost him, and it broke my heart. I went to London. I was a pretty, young girl, not yet twenty-three, but nothing mattered to me anymore. It was easy to find work in an upscale house. I became a great favorite. French girls always find favor. Brighton was a popular get-a-way. I knew I could establish my own business here, making a good income. I’d learned a lot, of course. That was in 1934. I’d reached an age
where I was able to assume the responsibilities of ownership, and that’s what I did. Anyway, Mon Cherie, yes, I know what it’s like to give birth. I understand how a woman feels when she becomes a mother. There’s nothing to compare with it. I’m like you. Giving a child up would have been awfully hard for me. Of course my situation was different. Only you can decide what’s right for you.”
“I suppose I don’t need to make that decision right now. I have many months ahead of me. This is all so shocking. I’m very frightened.”
“There’s nothing to be frightened about. One way or another it will work out. Whatever you decide, you’ll know in your heart it’s the right choice.”
CHAPTER FOUR
1940-1941
Besides the terror associated with learning that she was expecting a baby, the war became more frightening and real. In June, Paris had fallen to the Germans. Elise found it nearly impossible to imagine the German flag flying over the Place de la Concorde. She was so pleased about having made the decision to escape France. It was hard to picture the village of Bergues, so near their little farm, under Nazi occupation. She wondered if the monsters who’d stormed the house now held positions of authority in the area that she and her brother had once considered a haven of peace.
In midsummer, terrible air battles began. English and German planes fought for supremacy in the skies over the English Channel and eventually London itself. What became known as the Blitz turned the capital city into a nightmare of carnage. Whole blocks were completely destroyed. Businesses and homes became piles of rubble, and streets were filled with shattered glass. On Sunday, December 29th, there was intense firebombing in the East of London. St. Paul’s Cathedral stood in the midst of the wreckage, but amazingly, it escaped severe damage and became an inspiration to residents of the besieged city. Lives were lost, and hospitals overflowed with the wounded. The stories filtering back to Brighton were heartbreaking. Citizens lived in constant fear, and Anderson shelters became their second homes. Air raids often began as soon as darkness fell and continued throughout the long, dark nights, until dawn appeared in the eastern sky. The odor of cordite filled the air, and no one was allowed to venture out of doors without a gas mask draped over their shoulder. Elise read every line in the newspapers. It was ghastly and terrifying. She wondered if her brother, Josef, was a part of it.
Other cities in England also experienced horror. Only fifty miles from Brighton, where Elise suffered her own anxiety and despair, Southampton was struck. The entire High Street was completely obliterated. The worst came at the end of November, when fires from detonated bombs were easily seen at Maison de Violette. It was said that the flames were visible as far away as the coast of France.
As months rolled by, Elise’s pregnancy advanced. She wore a gold wedding band and held her head high. She also changed her surname to one sounding more French. She called herself Elise de Baier. The people of Brighton grew to know her, and everyone was instantly attracted to her beauty and sweetness. She became involved with the war effort, knitting socks and jumpers for soldiers. In addition, she was active in her local parish, taking part in jumble sales and helping prepare meals for the poor. People admired Elise’s obvious kindness and compassion. No one questioned that she was a grieving widow, facing motherhood alone. The tale was told so many times, Elise began to believe it herself. The first time she felt the baby move, she knew she couldn’t give it up for adoption. The circumstances surrounding the child’s conception became more and more insignificant. Elise believed that although the rape was the worst nightmare she could have imagined, God had created the tiny life in her womb as a reward for such terrible degradation.
Deep inside, she wondered if she could ever stand the touch of a man again. There was no question that the awful, physical attack had left deep scars on her psyche. She had no desire to ever marry, nor to feel the warmth of a decent man’s embrace. She was wary of men, believing they all wanted the same thing from a woman. She reflected on her brother, Josef, and thought he was the only man she could ever trust. Living at a brothel didn’t help. She witnessed men coming and going, and was well-aware that many were supposed to be upstanding husbands in the community.
Occasionally, she thought about the handsome RAF pilot who’d come to her home the same day the German soldiers paid their visit. She still remembered his name. Sloan. She always smiled when he came to mind. He’d been so absolutely certain they were soulmates. It was a silly fantasy, yet he’d been unequivocally definite. She wondered if she’d shy away from him, too, if they ever met again. There wasn’t any doubt in her mind that if he knew what had happened to the virginal, shy girl he’d met on a rainy day in the French countryside, he’d be repulsed. That hadn’t figured into his whimsical illusion. Obviously the man was a dreamer. But the grim reality of her assault would strip away his delusions of perfection. She firmly believed it would leave him, or any man, with feelings of distaste toward her. He was clearly the sort who worshipped perfection and hated defects or flaws. So when Sloan entered her mind, she chased away his memory. She’d shrug her pretty shoulders and imagine the look on his face when told how she’d been defiled. It was good that they would never meet again.
***
Ironically, during the times Elise was thinking about Sloan, she was on his mind, too. In fact, she was on his mind a lot of the time. He could scarcely get her out of his thoughts. He carried her picture with him, always in his breast pocket, close to his heart. Finally, in the early months of 1941, when it had been nearly a year since he’d so briefly and randomly met her, Sloan decided he could no longer go on pretending he hadn’t changed as a result of their encounter.
Therefore Anne Whitfield received a letter from him in the summer of 1941. He’d been back at his base in England after Dunkirk, but was now stationed in Africa. Anne wondered how long it would be before she saw him again. She expected this latest letter to be another of his usual missives, filled with talk of aircraft– spitfires and hurricanes – but this one was vastly different. He was releasing her from their engagement. Her hands shook as she read.
He told her that he’d purposely waited over a year to write. It wasn’t fair, he said, for her to continue believing they had a future together after the war. His thoughts had taken a completely different turn. He admitted that what he was about to tell her would undoubtedly cause Anne to think he was reckless and immature. Nonetheless, he believed that he was honourable, and the feelings he had were so strong that he had to share them with her. All he could do was hope that the years they’d spent as childhood companions would keep their friendship intact. He said he didn’t want to lose what they’d always shared. But, he didn’t love her the way a man should love the woman he wanted to marry. He thought of her as a sister – nothing more. Certainly a beautiful, sweet sister, but a sister nonetheless.
Then he launched into an account of the day he’d wounded his leg near Dunkirk and of a beautiful French girl who’d provided aid. It was a romantic anecdote, but Anne found it difficult to believe that he’d alter his life’s plan because of something so trivial. Her heart ached when he described the girl – Elise – and try as she might, she couldn’t help but feel intense envy when she read his description of golden curls and an angelic face. Anne had always been told that she was a rare beauty, but now she was reading a letter from the only man she’d ever loved, telling her he’d found a girl he thought even lovelier. He said Elise was his soulmate. Anne put her head down and sobbed. It didn’t seem possible that such a thing was happening. Not once in her entire life had she thought of marriage to any man besides Sloan. She’d met many men in her life – had gone through a London Season and been presented to the King. There’d been no shortage of suitors. But never had she been remotely interested in the multitude of young men who’d worn a path to her parent’s doorway.
Sloan’s letter spoke of love, as though she didn’t know what it was. Of course she did. When Sloan returned from Oxford, the childish admiration she’d always
felt, had subtly changed to a deeper and different sort of feeling. She knew what love was, because it was what she felt for Sloan - what she would always feel for him. And now he was throwing her away, for a fantasy about a French farm girl. The entire muddle was rubbish. She tore the letter to shreds and stuffed it in her waste bin.
Anne fell upon her bed and sobbed hysterically. She felt as though someone had opened her chest and ripped out her heart. Heartbreak turned to anger, and anger to rage. She pounded the pillow with her small fists and mumbled words to herself.
“How dare he? How dare he? He wants to throw me over for some farm girl from the French countryside. My God! Has he lost his mind? This can’t be happening. I have to think this through. I can’t let anger get in the way of intelligent thinking. I need to find a way – develop a plan. I’ll do whatever it takes. He’ll pay for what he’s doing. I want him to hurt as much as I’m hurting. I want his life to be ruined. He’ll be begging my forgiveness someday.”
***
Sloan sincerely cared for Anne. But, love had become a very serious matter. He didn’t view it lightly. He’d always had the dream about his soulmate, never quite believing she existed. But, now fate had placed him at that small farmhouse near Bergues, and everything had changed. He knew that when he told his parents what had happened they’d consider it immature and senseless. “Such things don’t happen in the real world,” he’d be told. He’d been fond of Anne as a child, with the sort of affection often existing between small children. But he’d never told her he loved her. She’d been a sweet playmate. Nothing more. He was not in the slightest degree in love with her. Anne was dark-haired, and he preferred blondes; brunette beauty held no charm for him. He liked gentle, fair-haired women. A tender-heart was essential. Anne would never be described that way. She was strong-willed and a bit self-absorbed. Why, oh why had he proposed to her?
No Regrets: A Novel of Love and Lies in World War II England (The Thornton Trilogy Book 1) Page 3
