Lovely War(37)

“I just hope the war doesn’t . . . change him, you know?”

Colette watched her thoughtfully. “It’s unavoidable that the war will change him.”

Hazel’s heart sank.

“But that doesn’t have to change how you care for him. Nor how he cares for you.”

Hazel tried to imagine what the future might bring. She saw nothing but fog and smoke.

“His last letter was three weeks ago,” Hazel admitted. “I get so worried. That he has . . .”

“That he is hurt, that something has happened to him, non?”

Hazel couldn’t acknowledge the question, that it was even a possibility.

“Of course you do.” Colette answered her own question. “But cheer up. There are many reasons why letters are slow. Soldiers catch colds. Letters are misplaced. Misdirected. And you just arrived here, yes? Maybe his letters are going to your old address.”

“Colette,” Hazel said cautiously. “Have you ever been”—oh dear, say something else instead—“in love?” Too late.

My favorite question.

Colette hesitated. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I was.”

Sweet Stéphane. What a man he would have made. What I could’ve done with them.

“What happened?”

Colette was surprised Hazel hadn’t realized. “The Germans shot him.”

“Oh, God.” A sob burst from Hazel’s throat, and she clutched Colette’s wrist. The pain of this death, of this boy she never even knew, crashed down upon her like a tidal wave. “Oh, Colette, how can you bear it?”

Colette found a handkerchief and some chocolate. Hazel accepted both in good humility.

“How ridiculous is it,” she said between sobs, “that you sit there, calmly comforting me, while I bawl over your old beau?”

“Not ridiculous at all,” said Colette. “Your tears are for your Jacques. You pray that the worst will never happen, and then you meet someone to whom it has.”

The storm passed, leaving Hazel puffy and spent.

“How have you gone on, Colette?” she asked. “You haven’t shriveled up with grief.”

“Who says I haven’t?” She smiled, then her face sobered. “I light a candle each year for my poor Stéphane,” she said. “And my family.” She held up the photograph of James. “By day, I keep busy. But I don’t really sleep much. It’s at night when they come back to me.”

Hazel looked up in surprise.

Colette smiled sadly. “I don’t mean ghosts,” she said. “Unless ghosts are memories.”

Hazel wished she hadn’t dragged her friend into such a painful conversation.

“The Americans are wild about you. Why hasn’t one of them swept you off your feet?”

“The ‘Yanks’?” Colette aped the accent. “Non, merci. They are only passing through.”

“Maybe one of them will come back for you, one day.”

She shrugged. “He’d be wasting his time.” She handed back the photograph. “You asked me how I have survived.” She looked around at the stage, the coffee station, the shelves of books and games. “It’s the work that has helped. Just having something to do each day. It’s very powerful. It requires me to help others with their troubles.” Colette paused. “To make them smile a little bit. It is a better cure than anything the doctor gives.”

Hazel waited.

“I think about the soldiers,” Colette said. “The war, it did not kill me. But it might kill them. So, I am the lucky one. I try to give a little kindness. A little patience.” She wagged her finger. “No patience, though, for when they get . . . what is your word . . . frisky.” She winked.

Hazel shuddered. So far, she’d been spared such unpleasantness. But Ellen had stories to tell nearly every night of some soldier more confident in his charms than he ought to be.

And I thought the soldiers wanted piano music, Hazel thought. I am so na?ve.

Hazel unrolled the wrapper off her chocolate and popped it in her mouth. Colette took another piece and did the same. They sat there, sucking on the bonbons, and thinking. Each pictured a different face. Hazel’s was far away. Colette’s was gone forever.

“And then, of course, there’s the music,” Colette said, still at odds with a glob of caramel.

Hazel nodded. The music.





ARES


     Target Practice—January 7, 1918





GUNS, GUNS, EVERYWHERE GUNS.

Guns slung against the sides of corrugated steel Nissen huts like rows of baseball bats.

Heavy guns at the Front booming, missiles shrieking.

The crack of Webley revolvers, and the bang of Lee-Enfield rifles.

Guns in the arms of not-so-new recruits, all lined up for target practice.

A gun in James’s hands.

His Lee-Enfield Mk III. A heavy wooden beauty, smooth and silky. He cradled it against his shoulder and peered through the aperture to the square that aligned his sights.

How many soldiers held you before? he asked it. Are they now dead? In hospital?

How many Germans have you shot? Did they die quickly, or suffer?

The weapon kept her secrets.

“Your rifle is your life,” the trainer said. “When you go on a raid. When Jerry raids you. In no-man’s-land. Keep her clean and loaded. Your speed with the rifle will determine whether Jerry gets to die for his country, or you. Let Jerry be the hero, and you go home to kiss your gal!”