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Authors: Michael Wallace
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money—money we didn’t have—and I found you. And I
figured out why you never wrote or came like you promised. You got
married.”
“I had no choice.”
“ Conneries! You had a choice.”
“It was the war. I was going to lose my
business, everything. I couldn’t marry a French girl. I needed
help, contacts. Loise was the daughter of a man who could—”
“My god, I don’t want to hear her name,” she
interrupted with a grimace. “Listen to you, you make it sound like
you’re some Jew, who needed to flee the country in the middle of
the night. You’re a man of privilege, no doubt you and your family
have prospered greatly by the war. I can tell just by looking at
you and your car too. So you got married, you probably have
children. Well good for you, but after everything that happened
between us, everything you promised to me, everything that’s
happened to me since then? Excuse me for not wishing you well.”
“I understand,” he said. He hadn’t expected
hugs and kisses and tears of joy, but he’d hoped for understanding
and forgiveness. This vitriol hurt and it hurt more to think about
what she must have suffered in the past few years. Look how thin
she was, the pain etched on her face.
“You don’t understand. There’s no way you
could understand. Not yet. Maybe some day, when the war comes to
your own country, maybe then.”
“I brought you something.”
“You said that already. And I said I don’t
want it.”
He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat
for the ration cards, which he tried to hand to her.
“What is this merde? ” she asked.
“You’re not blind, look.”
“Yes, ration cards, so what?”
“Look, this isn’t just rotting potatoes. Look
at these cards, you can get milk, grain, even pork and sugar.
Cooking oil! I brought enough cards for four people to live well
for six months.”
Ration cards were more valuable than money,
at least for a French girl like Marie-Élise and her mother. And
these were T-cards, for manual laborers, which gave extras to
compensate for the heavier work load.
She shook her head as she stared at the
cards, wide-eyed. “No. Don’t do this, no.”
“There are only two of you, it could last a
year. Maybe longer, maybe the war will be over then. But you’ll
have to be careful. This much food could attract attention.”
“I don’t want your help, why won’t you listen
to me?” Her voice was anguished.
He stepped forward with the cards, but
Marie-Élise snatched them up and threw them to the ground. She
came down off the porch as if to stamp them down in the mud and he
seized her wrists to stop her. She beat her fists against his
chest and cried.
That day, he could only think of that day.
The day they had walked hand-in-hand along the banks of the Cher.
The chateaux were still open then, and they had visited Chenonceau
and the gardens of Diane de Poitiers. It was a brilliant, sunny
day and the flowers were in bloom in the garden. They’d perched on
the stone wall overlooking the river and kissed like naughty
teenagers. A pair of old French widows in black had clucked their
tongues as they walked past.
A policier eventually tapped Helmut
on the shoulder. “This is not Paris, monsieur . We behave
properly in the Loire, n’est-ce pas ?” Marie-Élise blushed
and they shared a guilty laugh after the policier straightened his hat and continued on his way. That night they
made love in the hay loft above the horses. He was certain
Monsieur Molyneaux knew what the young lovers were about, but
Helmut had not disguised his intention to marry Marie-Élise in a
proper Catholic ceremony. Those were the days when many people
still thought the war would be averted.
“I’m so sorry,” he said as she wept. “It was
the war. The war.”
She looked up at him. “Go away, Helmut. Do
not come back.”
They stared at each other for a long
figured out why you never wrote or came like you promised. You got
married.”
“I had no choice.”
“ Conneries! You had a choice.”
“It was the war. I was going to lose my
business, everything. I couldn’t marry a French girl. I needed
help, contacts. Loise was the daughter of a man who could—”
“My god, I don’t want to hear her name,” she
interrupted with a grimace. “Listen to you, you make it sound like
you’re some Jew, who needed to flee the country in the middle of
the night. You’re a man of privilege, no doubt you and your family
have prospered greatly by the war. I can tell just by looking at
you and your car too. So you got married, you probably have
children. Well good for you, but after everything that happened
between us, everything you promised to me, everything that’s
happened to me since then? Excuse me for not wishing you well.”
“I understand,” he said. He hadn’t expected
hugs and kisses and tears of joy, but he’d hoped for understanding
and forgiveness. This vitriol hurt and it hurt more to think about
what she must have suffered in the past few years. Look how thin
she was, the pain etched on her face.
“You don’t understand. There’s no way you
could understand. Not yet. Maybe some day, when the war comes to
your own country, maybe then.”
“I brought you something.”
“You said that already. And I said I don’t
want it.”
He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat
for the ration cards, which he tried to hand to her.
“What is this merde? ” she asked.
“You’re not blind, look.”
“Yes, ration cards, so what?”
“Look, this isn’t just rotting potatoes. Look
at these cards, you can get milk, grain, even pork and sugar.
Cooking oil! I brought enough cards for four people to live well
for six months.”
Ration cards were more valuable than money,
at least for a French girl like Marie-Élise and her mother. And
these were T-cards, for manual laborers, which gave extras to
compensate for the heavier work load.
She shook her head as she stared at the
cards, wide-eyed. “No. Don’t do this, no.”
“There are only two of you, it could last a
year. Maybe longer, maybe the war will be over then. But you’ll
have to be careful. This much food could attract attention.”
“I don’t want your help, why won’t you listen
to me?” Her voice was anguished.
He stepped forward with the cards, but
Marie-Élise snatched them up and threw them to the ground. She
came down off the porch as if to stamp them down in the mud and he
seized her wrists to stop her. She beat her fists against his
chest and cried.
That day, he could only think of that day.
The day they had walked hand-in-hand along the banks of the Cher.
The chateaux were still open then, and they had visited Chenonceau
and the gardens of Diane de Poitiers. It was a brilliant, sunny
day and the flowers were in bloom in the garden. They’d perched on
the stone wall overlooking the river and kissed like naughty
teenagers. A pair of old French widows in black had clucked their
tongues as they walked past.
A policier eventually tapped Helmut
on the shoulder. “This is not Paris, monsieur . We behave
properly in the Loire, n’est-ce pas ?” Marie-Élise blushed
and they shared a guilty laugh after the policier straightened his hat and continued on his way. That night they
made love in the hay loft above the horses. He was certain
Monsieur Molyneaux knew what the young lovers were about, but
Helmut had not disguised his intention to marry Marie-Élise in a
proper Catholic ceremony. Those were the days when many people
still thought the war would be averted.
“I’m so sorry,” he said as she wept. “It was
the war. The war.”
She looked up at him. “Go away, Helmut. Do
not come back.”
They stared at each other for a long
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