The French War Bride Read Online Free PDF Page A

vegetables she bought at market (prior to this, she only canned the vegetables she grew in the summer in the little garden patch behind our townhome), and fitted our windows with ugly blackout curtains. Papa said she was spending money like a drunken sailor on shore leave; Maman said we couldn’t eat money if things got scarce.
    Papa still went to university every day, but his classes held only one-eighth of the students initially enrolled. Foreign students had gone home, coeds were staying indoors, and young Frenchmen had abandoned school for the military. From what I overheard in hushed, worried conversations with Maman, Papa’s pay had been cut in accordance with the diminishment of the student body.
    The war news grew more ominous and complicated. At Hitler’s apparent urging, Russia invaded Poland on September 17. We waited for word of the British or French entering the fray, but nothing happened. All of France seemed to hold its collective breath.
    And then . . . it seemed to be over. On October 1, a month after the invasion had begun, Poland surrendered to Germany. The Germans made no move to invade France. We were still technically at war, but nothing occurred that affected life in Paris.
    Yvette and I went back to school. Maman and I went back to the dressmaker, but Maman was so high-strung since my brothers had left that I didn’t have the heart to argue about the zipper. I pretended to like the covered buttons she selected.
    In mid-October, Germany made an offer of peace. First Great Britain, and then France, rejected it. As with everything, this was great cause for debate. Some thought our leaders were foolish not to accept a peace treaty; others said it was only a German trick.
    Most French were relieved that an offer had been rendered. There was much hopeful talk that it meant the Germans would not invade us. Our fortified Maginot Line along the eastern border was too daunting, most people said; the Germans must realize that France was impenetrable. Many hoped that France and Great Britain would broker diplomatic peace, and the state of war would soon be rescinded.
    The days wore on. Life returned to normal—or as near normal as it could be at our house, without Pierre and Thomas. The house seemed vast and lonely without them. We heard from them regularly—they were posted together at an undisclosed location in the Alps, at a station of the Maginot Line. Mother and I knitted warm socks and mittens.
    Yvette and I were restless. When one of the brasher girls at our school suggested an outing to a jazz club in Montmartre, we eagerly agreed to join in. We would have to sneak behind our parents’ backs—they had antiquated ideas about unescorted young women being out at night, and Montmartre was a racy part of town—so we said we were going to Lisette’s apartment to listen to records.
    Lisette’s parents required more of an explanation, so I forged a letterfrom my mother, inviting Lisette to our place for the evening. (Lisette’s parents were sticklers about invitation protocol, and I had a real talent for exactly copying other people’s handwriting.)
    It was so easy, I felt guilty. Yvette came to my door at seven, and we scampered to the Métro like a couple of thieves, the little money we’d saved from birthday gifts and the occasional babysitting job tucked into our purses. We met up with Lisette and our friend Madeline and rode the train for about twenty minutes, then found our way to the La Grosse Pomme—The Big Apple. The club was founded by the beautiful black jazz singer Adelaide Hall, but Adelaide, like so many Americans in the last few months, had fled France.
    As we neared the cabaret, the haunting wail of a saxophone wafted through the closed door. When a doorman in white gloves opened it for us, the music tumbled out, wrapped around us, and pulled us in. We giggled as we stepped inside the crowded club.
    It was like entering another