Paris: The Novel (131 page)

They walked down the old rue du Renard, crossed the big open space in front of the Hôtel de Ville and then crossed the Seine to the Île de la Cité. The sun was in the west, the light on the Seine was golden, but there
was a certain coldness in the air over the water that made her shiver. They paused in front of Notre Dame.

“It’s too early to eat, but I’m hungry,” she said.

They found a bistro nearby. There were only a few tourists there, and the place was quiet. They ate a light meal and talked of all sorts of things. She could see that he was becoming even more intrigued by her than he had been before. Then she said that she wanted to go home, and he insisted on walking her back, as she knew he would.

Their affair began that evening. It was conducted, usually, on a Sunday. Sometimes he would drive her somewhere in the Voisin. Sometimes they would stay in and she would cook for him. They always found things to talk about.

By the end of the year, they had made love in every room in the house.

They were not seen together socially. She suspected that he had not told his father and stepmother about her existence. She didn’t mind in the least. She had her own plan for the relationship.

And the plan worked very well. Before Easter 1938, she told him she was pregnant.

“It must have been the Wild West room,” she said.

•  1940  •

When Marie looked back, she wished that she could have done more herself, but she understood that she could not. And she wished that Charlie had not hurt his father—though she knew he never meant to.

But what was the use of wishing? It was a time of trial, when everything was changed.

It was not that the French had been unprepared for war. The huge Maginot Line of fortified defenses along France’s eastern front was virtually impregnable. Six years ago, whatever Hitler’s grandiose plans, the French army had outnumbered and outgunned him. Had he attacked even three years ago, she thought, he might still have been crushed.

Back in 1936, when Hitler occupied part of the Rhineland, and the Western powers had agreed to it, Marie had told herself it was for the best. In 1938, when he’d taken a bite out of poor Czechoslovakia—and France and Britain, despite their treaties with the Czechs, had accepted Hitler’s assurances at Munich that he meant only peace—she had felt uneasy.

But it was meeting an Englishman at a cocktail party in Paris soon afterward that had really alarmed her. He was a ramrod-straight, somewhat peppery British officer, on secondment from the British army to the French Staff College, where he was teaching military intelligence. Was he worried about the situation with Hitler? she asked him.

“Of course I am, madame.” He spoke excellent French.

“People always say that it would take Germany twenty years to be ready for war,” Marie suggested.

“Yes, madame. That is the received wisdom. And the original estimate was probably accurate. Unfortunately, it was made just after the Great War—nearly twenty years ago.”

“You do not think Hitler’s intentions are peaceful?”

“Why should I, when
Mein Kampf
says explicitly that he wants war, and when he is rearming Germany at a fantastic rate?”

“Is this a widespread belief?”

“My brother-in-law is the military attaché in Poland. He tells me that everyone in Eastern Europe knows exactly what Hitler is up to. Our air attaché in Berlin told London that all the new commercial and private airports Hitler is building in Germany could be converted to military airfields in days. He was recalled home in disgrace for saying it.”

“I lived for years in England, you know, and I always follow the British Parliament. Mr. Churchill makes the same warnings about rearmament, but he seems to be almost a lone voice.”

“He’s only saying what the whole diplomatic corps and military intelligence know to be true. The conference at Munich was a farce.”

“It’s hard to believe that anyone would want another war.”

“Hitler does.”

“The French defenses are still strong.”

“The Maginot Line is magnificent, madame, but the cost of building it has been so great that it doesn’t go all the way north to the sea. The Germans could come across the north, and if we mass our armies there, that still leaves a convenient gap between the Maginot Line and the northern plain.”

“But that’s the Ardennes. It’s all mountain and impenetrable forest.”

“ ‘Impenetrable’ is a big word, madame. Come through the Ardennes and you’re in the open fields of Champagne with a clear run to Paris.”

“Our army is still large.”

“It is, madame, and your men are brave. Moreover, you actually have more tanks than the Germans. But the tanks are scattered all over the place, whereas the Germans have a large, concentrated force of tanks with the proper air cover which can advance with devastating speed. There’s a thoughtful officer in the French army who advocates tank formations like the German ones. His name’s de Gaulle, and you’ve probably never
heard of him. He’s not senior enough to get the general staff to listen to him. But he’s absolutely correct.”

Marie told Roland about the conversation afterward.

“I’ve never heard of de Gaulle either,” he said, “but your Englishman may be right.”

For Marie and Roland, the rest of 1938 and the first half of 1939 passed quietly. Charlie was spending the month of August with them at the château when the news that stupefied all Europe arrived.

“Russia and Germany have made a pact?” cried Marie. “I can’t believe it. They’re sworn enemies. They hate each other. How can they be allies?”

Roland had little doubt.

“It must mean war,” he said. “The logic is inescapable: Stalin has seen that his Western allies are too weak to help him against Germany, so he’s done a deal with Hitler. And why’s Hitler done it? Russia has raw materials he needs. But above all he wants to neutralize the Soviets while he attacks the West. He doesn’t want a war on two fronts.”

“You think he’ll attack soon?” asked Charlie.

“Probably.”

“I’d better get ready to fight, then.”

August had scarcely ended when it came. And with a speed that was breathtaking.

Blitzkrieg. Hitler’s armored columns swept through Poland and crushed it. France and Britain declared war and began a naval blockade of German shipping. But they were powerless to save poor Poland, which Germany soon divided up with her new ally, Russia.

As for Charlie, he didn’t even wait for the call. He went straight to Paris to offer himself to the army.

It was a sunny day when he departed. As he was leaving his Voisin at the château, Marie and Roland saw him off at the train station.

How handsome he looked, waiting on the platform. It seemed to her that she felt just the same pride, and secret fear, as if he’d been her own. Then the little steam engine puffed and clanked its way up the line
toward them, and the railway cars slowed to a halt, and he prepared to swing himself up.

“One small thing,
mon fils
,” his father said. And he reached into his pocket. “This little lighter, as you know, was made for me by a trooper in the Great War. It’s nothing much to look at, but it brought me luck. Take it, and perhaps it will do the same for you.”

Charlie looked at the little shell casing, slipped it into his coat pocket and grinned.

“I shall keep it with me at all times.” He embraced his father. After stepping into the carriage, he turned to look out the open window. As the train moved off, he waved to his father and blew a kiss to Marie. She and Roland stayed on the platform until he was out of sight.

“I’m sure he’ll be all right,” she said.

The months that followed were a strange time. The French army was deployed. A large British force had come to northern France. Yet nothing seemed to happen. Hitler made no further western move. October and November passed. Then Christmas. Still nothing. “The phony war,” the British called it. The funny sort of war, said the French:
la drôle de guerre
.

As usual, they spent most of the months of winter and spring in Paris. And during this time Marie was interested to observe a new mood setting in. By year end, their friends were starting to talk about what they might do in the summer. In January, a fashionable neighbor who also had a son in the army remarked that it was high time her boy had some leave. “I dare say this war will fizzle out soon enough,” her neighbor concluded. “The Germans won’t dare attack France.” It seemed to be the general view.

Marie couldn’t share it. To her clear mind, this attitude was evidence of how quickly human nature will take a temporary reprieve from disaster as a sign that the threat can be discounted.

Yet as it turned out, the development that would change everything for the family was one she hadn’t foreseen at all. It happened late in March.

She had just returned to the rue Bonaparte from a visit to her brother Marc when a telegram came from Charlie. It was addressed to her, rather than his father. It told her his leg was badly broken, and ended with the single plea:
HELP ME
.

“Why the devil did he send it to you and not me?” asked Roland, puzzled rather than angry.