The Girl in the Blue Beret - By Bobbie Ann Mason Page 0,113

had heard from someone in Hootie Williams’s hometown who would be writing to Marshall in Paris.

“That’s good,” Marshall said. All the crew was accounted for now.

Hootie. He had thought he was free from the memory of Hootie, but Hootie kept coming back, like the soldier in the old story of Martin Guerre, an impostor who returned to a family that wasn’t his.

IN THE WEEK of busy preparation for the hike, Annette told him nothing more about her deportation to the camps. The book seemed to be closed. “I’ve told you enough,” she said. “Now we can go forward.”

Her resilience, her insistent good nature reasserted themselves. She seemed unburdened now. But he knew that she was willing herself to be strong. He could not look at her now without seeing, behind her mature grace, the thin girl working on the airstrip—hungry, latched to her mother, fighting snow and wind. Death all around her, bodies in the snow.

Annette consulted guidebooks, located a hiking club, and reserved a hotel room at the edge of the mountain pass. By driving up to the pass, they could hike across the border in only a day. It would be simple, she said. He did not want to read the guidebooks. He did not want to go trekking across those mountains again, but he wanted to please her.

He fed the animals, gathered the eggs, cleaned out the horse shed. There was more flower deadheading. Lost in the immediacy of the chores, he relaxed and was content. She would not let him help her snip the ends of green beans, because the task had to be done a certain way with the fingers, and his were too large and clumsy. He wondered at himself as he trundled a wheelbarrow of compost to a fenced-off pile. Back home, his aversion to yard work had been notorious.

At meals, he marveled at the everyday calm of her life now, the ease and expertise of her hands in the kitchen. She fed him well. She was generous but not wasteful. She gave him the last stalk of asparagus. Carefully, she stored the leftovers. The bread would go to the chickens. At the end of each meal, she presented three cheeses—a wedge, a flat slice, and a small round—like treasures brought out on special occasions. Marshall was agog—gorging and lounging in a way he didn’t remember ever doing at home.

Every day, to build up their stamina for hiking, they walked for several miles. They walked early before having coffee and again late in the day. On the terrace, Marshall read a Japrisot mystery novel from Annette’s study shelf. And he browsed through her histories. The workmen had finished the stone walk, and the courtyard was quiet, except for the bees in the ivy. Bernard began sitting at his feet when Annette was busy elsewhere. She arranged for her son and daughter to care for the animals and the garden while she was away. They did not ask suspicious questions, and Marshall suspected they would not be surprised even if their mother planned to learn deep-sea diving, or decided to go to Africa to nurse lepers.

Annette promised to invite Marshall for a grand family Sunday after they returned from the mountains. It would be an important occasion, she cautioned. Her mother, impatient to see him again, would come from Saint Lô. He met the daughter, Anne, briefly, the day before he and Annette planned to drive toward the mountains. He had been apprehensive about meeting Anne, for fear he would see in her the young Annette who was sent in a cattle car to Ravensbrück. There was something familiar in her eyes, but Anne had a less delicate face, straighter hair. She seemed to be the new liberated woman, with her hair cut severely short, her manner brisk.

“Maman, I plan to take Bernard home with me,” she said. “We will come every two days, and Georges will come the other days. Don’t worry. Everything will be just as you want.”

“Bernard, you poor thing,” Annette said, bending to hug the dog. “You would insist on going with me over the mountains if you knew. But now Anne needs you.”

“I’m going to give his face a trim,” Anne said, ruffling the dog’s fur. “Maman, he can hardly see through that curtain.”

“Don’t tease him, Anne.”

53.

THEY WOULD HIKE INTO THE MOUNTAINS ON A WELL-DEFINED trail in the general region where Marshall had crossed the border in 1944, southwest of Oloron-Sainte-Marie. Marshall never knew the exact location of his