The Charmers: A Novel(52)

“Madame Matthews?”

I glanced up at the man who had, without my leave, taken the seat opposite. I knew he could not be French. No Frenchman would have been so impolite. I chose to ignore him.

“I wish to speak to you on a matter of importance for La France.” He leaned forward, gazing earnestly at me, as though making sure no one could overhear.

Now, when anyone speaks of La France, and not simply “France,” you understand immediately it is important.

“You speak of my country,” I said, arranging my cheese on a morsel of bread and taking a bite. “Though you are not French.”

“I am speaking of what you can do for your country, Madame. And you are correct, I am English. But it is your country that I, and others like me, wish to help. And you are in a position to help all of us.”

I listened carefully while he explained that he was a member of the British Intelligence Service, that they needed to connect with French people who had access to the Nazis because of who they were, and who they knew, or who they might meet at social events where gossip flowed as easily as the wine, and where many a detail of a planned raid or a troop movement or the whereabouts of important enemies might be overheard, and noted. And then passed on to the trusty intelligence officer, who recruited me right there and then, as a member.

I put on my old finery, and sometimes my old flirt face, and it was astonishing what secrets a man would let slip when he needed to boast to a woman like myself. Flattery, with those men, I discovered, got you everywhere.

At first it was not difficult. I was able to help in several cases, which I was told later resulted in lives saved, positions altered, a safer escape route taken. I played only a small part, but I helped in my own way, and I hoped some of those saved lives were because of me.

I also picked up my old self, the singer, the entertainer. I offered my services to the War Office and put together a pianist, or sometimes an accordion player for when there was no piano, as well as a guitarist, and the woman who had for many years been my dresser.

I unpacked some of my “glamour” from the trunks full of stage clothes, unearthed myself from my farm, and I went out and sang to those troops, most of whom were too young to remember who I was, but who showed their appreciation loudly with whistles and cheers. And I showed them my legs and got more whistles and cheers.

I’d had my uniform tailored in London. Not that it was a real uniform, since I belonged to no armed service. I designed it myself. A soft olive green, with with a Sam Browne belt like the Americans had, only mine had a polished gold Hermès buckle. Breast pockets with crested gold buttons; a silver flask of good brandy tucked into the hip pocket of my trousers—I only wore skirts when I was “on display,” so to speak. Trousers were much more comfortable and more discreet when walking and climbing or driving in bumpy jeeps was involved.

We jolted in an ancient jeep across the deserts of North Africa, constantly breaking down, tires too worn to cope with the blazing hot sand, sleeping in small tents at night, me always worrying about scorpions and bugs. They placed lighted candles around to keep them at bay. And if occasionally some delightful young man I had met at dinner in the officers’ mess, came to ask if he might join me, who was I to say no? When this might be his last, forever, chance to hold a woman in his arms. Call it promiscuity, if you will. For me, what I offered was comfort. And the best sex he’d ever had. And in case you are interested, oh yes, I did enjoy it. But then, I always had. Remember?

Would I be wrong in saying I enjoyed that part of the war? That it took me back to who I once was? For a brief time, yet all the while I was aware that some of those boys cheering me would not return. It was a love-hate affair, at best, but I tried to do my part. Until it was over, and I returned to normal. The forgotten woman with a past.

Did I not say the war saved my life? It did more. It saved my self-respect. I did whatever I was asked. I drove ambulances to the front line to bring back the wounded, and too often, the dead, young men I had probably met the previous evening. I steeled myself to go on, told myself this was war, this is what men did to each other. And I prayed it would never happen again. Every night I prayed. And sometimes during the daytime too, when guns flared their lethal fire at us, at anyone, anywhere. It was the world gone mad.

Then, one day, when I know we all thought we could take no more, the American troops walked into Paris and we were free again. God bless you, the crowd yelled, women rushing to kiss these super men, so tall, so strong, so handsome in their uniforms and helmets, handing out candies to the eager, sweet-deprived children, and with kisses to the womenfolk.

Life returned to normal, but I would miss that world forever.

A few years later, anonymous on my farm in the Luberon valley, I received a letter from the French government, the Department of Affairs. The president, it was said, had decided to honor my war work and courage with a medal. Unfortunately the president himself could not pin this emblem on my shoulder since he was away, but I would receive it in the mail.

And I did. I took it out of its velvet box, stroked its blue, white, and red grosgrain ribbon, kissed the small golden emblem of honor and then I put it away with the pearls and the Ceylon sapphire ring, forever. Or at least, until the next generation.





43

It is an odd thing to say but somehow that terrible war had brought me back to life. And to its responsibilities. The defeat of my country, my lovely Paris with jackbooted German soldiers marching triumphantly through its streets, arms held in a stiff salute in front of them, and steel helmets jammed over their heads so we could not see their faces. They were so young, most of them, like our own boys, called to serve their country. At first we’d had some sympathy for their youth, their bewilderment, but then not for the insane desire to obey commands that could mean the death of civilization as we knew it. Nor for their sadistic treatment of our men, or for raping our country. Of course, there are good men to be found any place, anywhere in the world, but then it was power gone mad.