Lovely War(31)

“‘Carry Me Back to Old Virginny’?”

One mortifying no after another. Mrs. Davies, watching, shook her head.

Hazel’s hands shook and notes swam before her eyes. Fortunately, she’d memorized “La Marseillaise” and “God Save the King” and “Rule, Britannia!” so she played those.

European anthems. They failed to rouse the troops. Her terror turned to paralysis.

She didn’t know the American anthem. Something about their flag? In desperation, she played familiar pieces. Brahms, Schubert, and Schumann, and Chopin. The Yanks cheered.

Hazel played until Professor Henry’s lecture was to begin. The Americans stomped and whistled. This would take much getting used to. Sure enough, the chairs were packed for the professor’s first lecture on British history, starting with the early Iron Age.

A doughboy swaggered over to talk to golden-haired Ellen, leaving Hazel to herself.

“Pardon.” A soft voice spoke in her ear. “You are the new pianist?”

She turned to see a young woman in a YMCA uniform. Her accent was French, and her hair jet-black, bobbed short, in sleek curls closely coiling around her face. Hazel had never seen such a look outside the more daring fashion magazines.

“Wow,” she whispered, “you look just like Irene Castle.”

The stranger smiled. “I can’t dance like her. Too bad for these soldiers.”

Hazel felt embarrassed at her reaction. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was rude of me.”

The other girl pursed her lips. “Rude, how?” She paused. “You don’t like Irene Castle?”

Hazel laughed. “Don’t I, though!” She held out her hand. “Hazel Windicott.”

The girl’s smile transformed her expression. “I’m Colette Fournier. Bienvenue à Saint-Nazaire.”

Hazel smiled. “Merci beaucoup.”

Colette nodded appraisingly. “Not the worst accent I’ve heard from une anglaise.” She nodded toward the soldiers. “The Americans with their tourist’s phrase book French are unbearable. They think they’ll sweep me off my feet. Parles—tu fran?ais?”

“Umm . . .” Hazel laughed. “Not really, no.”

“No matter.” Colette pulled open her pocketbook. “Want some chocolate?”

I always say, chocolate makes all the difference. And friendliness, of course.

“How long have you been with the YMCA?” Hazel asked Colette.

Colette gestured toward a low couch under the building’s eaves, and they both sat.

“Four years.” She smiled ruefully. “They’ve been an education. I volunteered early on in the war, because I desperately needed something useful to do.”

“What did your parents say?” Hazel asked. “Mine weren’t thrilled about me going.”

Colette hesitated. People treated her differently once they knew. Trust Hazel, I told her.

“My parents and all my family are dead,” Colette said simply. “I volunteered soon after my village was destroyed by the Germans.”

Hazel gasped. The girl’s matter-of-factness astonished her.

Then something Colette had said caught her attention. “Your village destroyed, early in the war . . . Then that must mean you are . . .”

“That’s right. Je suis belge.”

Not French. Belgian. Even worse battle scars. The better part of Belgium had fallen to the lightning aggression of Germany’s August 1914 invasion. The Rape of Belgium, they called it. The stories of women raped, children crucified, nailed to doors, of old men executed . . .

Hazel’s breath caught in her throat. “Oh, I am so sorry!”

Colette looked amused. “It’s not such a terrible thing, you know, being Belgian.”

Hazel flushed. “I don’t mean that. I mean, all that Belgium has suffered!”

Colette wondered why she was telling this English girl so much. “My father, my brother, my two uncles. My cousin, and many friends from my childhood. All gone. My home, everything.”

“Oh, no.” Hazel pictured her own father, and boys from her neighborhood. Even James. Tears ran down her cheeks. “I’m sorry I’m such an idiot.” She wiped her eyes. “For years I heard about all the atrocities in Belgium, and about the need to help the refugees, but . . .”

“But they didn’t seem real to you?”

Hazel hung her head. “I suppose not.” She wiped her eyes. “Which is your village?”

“Dinant,” Colette said. “What’s left of it, that is.”

“How did you survive?” Hazel asked.

Colette paused. The first wrinkle in her steady calm. Hazel’s heart broke for her.

“I hid,” she said. “While those I loved were murdered, I hid in a convent.”

And there was the grief, and guilt, overflowing the dam that had held it in.

“That is exactly what all those who loved you would have wanted you to do,” Hazel said.

Colette had been through these memories a thousand times, yet at Hazel’s words, Alexandre and Papa and cousin Gabriel and oncles Paul and Charles appeared. And Stéphane.

When Colette’s eyes met hers, Hazel saw a glimmer of gratitude there.

“Where is home for you now?” asked Hazel.