The French War Bride Read Online Free PDF

world. The decor was luxe—red-flocked wallpaper, crystal chandeliers and sconces, white linen tablecloths. The air was thick with smoke. The mellow tones of Gypsy jazz—a violin wrapping its sweet notes around the bluesy blare of a saxophone, softened by melodic clarinet and a brush-stroked drum—mesmerized us. We hesitated to check our coats—it would cost money to retrieve them, would it not?—but we didn’t want to seem simple, so we did.
    I looked at the crowd, and immediately felt out of place. Men—many of them our fathers’ age—fawned over shockingly younger women. Everyone’s dress was far more formal—and far, far more chic—than mine. The men wore suits, and the women wore fitted silk and rayon with low-cut décolletés, their skin aglow in candlelight.
    Yvette and my other classmates had somehow managed to get out of their homes wearing dresses, although all of us were sadly mis-attired. In my woolen skirt and round-collared cotton blouse, I felt like a schoolgirl at a ball.
    We were escorted to a table on the far edge the room, away from the stage, and a bored-looking waitress in a scandalously short red frock came to take our order.
    We had planned to share drinks to save money, but she wasn’t having it. “If you don’t drink, you don’t sit.” Her tone was so like one of our harsh teachers that I whispered to Yvette, “Do you think she works as a nun during the day?” Smothering giggles, we all ordered the cheapest wine available.
    No sooner had we settled in than a man in a slick blue suit approached our table. He looked to be in his early twenties—an older man from our perspective. He introduced himself as Herman Beck, and said he was a Swiss banker in town on business. We nodded and smiled. He looked at each of us, one at a time, for several discomfiting moments. And then he bowed before Yvette. It was no surprise; Yvette was stunning. With her impressive bosom and self-possessed bearing, she seemed older than her years—and certainly older than the rest of us. “Would you care to dance?”
    Yvette smiled and batted her eyes. “Only if you can provide a partner for my friend, as well.” She gestured gracefully to me.
    Herman turned, raised his hand, and flicked his forefinger at someone. A young man in a white apron came over. His dark curly hair flopped over his forehead.
    â€œMademoiselle would like to dance,” Herman said, gesturing to me.
    â€œOh.” The young man brushed his hair off his face. He had high cheekbones and a square jawline. It was a nice face. He looked puzzled as to what he was supposed to do.
    â€œTake off your apron and dance with her,” Herman said.
    â€œBut I—I have to work.”
    Herman’s eyes narrowed. “I am sure your boss would want you to make the customers happy.”
    The young man shifted from one foot to the other, apparently weighing the consequences of refusing Herman’s request against the consequences of acquiescing to it. “Yes, of course.”
    â€œGood.” Herman took Yvette’s elbow and led her out to the dance floor, as if the matter were settled. Yvette smiled back at me over her shoulder. The young man quickly untied and yanked off his apron, then pulled out my chair.
    â€œI don’t want to get you into trouble,” I said as I awkwardly rose.
    He lifted his shoulders. “I will get in trouble either way.”
    The girls at my table giggled. The young man placed his apron on the back of my chair, took my arm, and led me to the dance floor.
    â€œWill you really get in trouble?” I asked.
    â€œDo not worry yourself about it.”
    He spoke French with a heavy foreign accent. “Where are you from?”
    â€œAustria.”
    That was a country the Germans had taken over the year before. I didn’t understand all the reasons, but it had something to do with a treaty, and I knew it