I flipped through the postcards. Château de Chaumont. Château Masgelier. Villa La Chesnaie. All once-stately French mansions converted to orphan asylums. They returned confirmation cards upon receipt of the aid packages I sent. I hoped a sweet soap, a pair of clean socks, a candy, and a piece or two of Mother’s lovely hand-sewn clothes, all wrapped in neat brown paper, would raise a child’s spirits.
I stood and pinned the cards to my bulletin board. It was already crammed with pictures of French children. One of a dark-haired angel holding a sign that read, MERCI BEAUCOUP, CAROLINE! Another of children posed in plein air art class, one child at an easel, the rest on campstools, assembled by age, pretending to read their books under a linden tree.
I assumed that photo was snapped by the lovely sounding Mme Bertillion, director of Saint-Philippe in Meudon, an orphanage southwest of Paris. I’d become friendly with Mme Bertillion by mail and waited eagerly for her letters, filled with charming anecdotes about the children and how much they appreciated my packages. There was a new letter from her in this batch of mail, and I pinned up the enclosed crayon drawing of Saint-Philippe, the imposing stone façade colored goldenrod yellow, smoke swirling out of the chimney like the icing on a Hostess Cupcake.
What would it be like to adopt one of these children? A boy? Girl? Our place up in Connecticut, which we called The Hay, was absolute heaven for children. Mother maintained my playhouse, still there in the meadow, complete with woodstove. Adopting a child would give me someone to pass it all down to. Great-grandmother Woolsey’s loving cup. Our lovely duck-footed table. Mother’s silver. But I put it out of my mind, for I would never raise a child alone. I knew too well the difficulties of growing up without a father, that aching hole Mother had tried too hard to fill. Feigning sick every father-daughter day at school. Being reduced to tears at the sight of fathers and daughters holding hands on the street. The gnaw of regret that I hadn’t said goodbye.
At the bottom of the pile, I found a letter, written on onionskin airmail stationery in a lovely hand. The postmark read ROUEN. Paul.
As well as I knew Paul, how had I never seen his handwriting before? It suited him.
Dear Caroline,
I decided to write right away, since, as you say, waiting is not your strong suit. So much is happening here. Rouen has been remarkably sane about this Phoney War, but many have already left, including our neighbors who wheeled their grandmother away with them down our street in a baby carriage last night. The rest of us now are just hoping for the best. I am in talks to commit to a new play in Paris. All’s Well That Ends Well, can you believe it? Shakespeare. I like to think it is your good influence on me.
Rena may have to close her shop. There is little fabric and notions to be had, but she will be fine. Her father has taken to smoking sunflower leaves, for there is no tobacco to be found.
I hope this counts as a newsy letter, for I have to go now to make the embassy bag. Do put a good word in with Roger for our visa situation. I think of you often, there at work. Make sure you don’t let Roger bully you. Remember, he needs you.
With much love and until next time,
Paul
p.s. I dreamed last night I watched you on stage, here in Paris, in a very steamy version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and you played an angel. Could this say something about your acting career? About my missing you? My dreams always come true.
Paul had made it home to Rouen, past the U-boats. At least he was safe.
For a gregarious man, he wrote a succinct letter, but it was better than none at all. A new play? Perhaps things would blow over in France. Maybe the French producers knew more about the situation than we did half a world away. And the dream! He really did miss me.
I found an April 23 copy of Le Petit Parisien, one of the many French newspapers Roger had delivered by bag, somewhat outdated but precious nevertheless. The lead headline read: THE REICH IN SCANDINAVIA! BRITISH TROOPS FIGHT ON LAND AND SEA. CONSIDERABLE SUCCESS IN THE WAR IN NORWAY DESPITE LARGE DIFFICULTIES. My mood lightened at reading that good news. Maybe the United States