Lovely War(72)

“You left without a word?” Europe asked. “She’s got no idea what happened to you?”

Aubrey looked up. “Wasn’t that the point?”

Europe filled in note heads and stems and flags with astonishing speed. “I wasn’t trying to break apart your love affair,” he said. “Just wanted to get you out of a bad mess.” He blew on the wet notes. “You know Saint-Nazaire wasn’t safe for you.” He yawned.

“You should get some sleep,” Aubrey said. “Sir.”

The lieutenant sat up and stretched. “Not finished,” he said. “I told the fellas I was up all night, copying out three million notes.” He grinned. “Didn’t tell ’em I’ve got a secret helper.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Europe resumed his scribbling. “It seemed to me,” he said, “that you thought that girl was worth an awful lot of risk and trouble.” He hummed a snatch of the tune, his fingers tapping it out on an imaginary piano. “Didn’t you care for her much?”

The fastest way to get Europe to drop the subject would be to lie, to say, No, he hadn’t cared for her all that much, not really.

He thought of Colette’s tragedies at the hands of the Germans. She’d lost so much. Just when she’d begun to have hope again, Aubrey had abandoned her without a word.

“I guess, if she wasn’t much more to you than some laughs,” Europe said, “you’re better off just letting it die. It’s painful, no doubt, but maybe it’s for the best.”

Aubrey leaned onto the stack of musical staff paper.

“Edwards,” Europe said, “you’re not doing Joey any favors by staying miserable.”

Aubrey lowered his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant Europe didn’t seem satisfied. He waited until Aubrey looked him in the eye.

“If she was worth it then, she’s worth it still,” he said. “Don’t be a dope.”

“No, sir,” Private Aubrey Edwards replied. “I mean, yes, sir. I won’t be.”





APHRODITE


     Note for Note—March 16, 1918





Dear Colette.

On his final night in Aix-les-Bains, Aubrey pulled out his own musical staff paper.

Some Romeo I am, Aubrey thought. Writing to Colette because a commanding officer ordered me to.

He tried to think of what to say. Sorry I disappeared? I know we said a lot of things to each other, but, you know, I’ve been busy?

He never should’ve kept her waiting. It was selfish. Stupid. You don’t throw aside a girl like Colette Fournier.

It would be so much easier if he could tell her about Joey, but Lieutenant Europe had warned him, repeatedly, to say nothing to anyone. The truth would devastate her. No need for yet another heart to be racked with guilt. He already had that job covered.

The thin lines of musical staff stared up at him.

He knelt down by the side of his bed and fished underneath it for his knapsack. At the bottom, he found his notebook, and in it, the songs he’d begun to write for Colette.

He chose the first song, and copied it out, note for note. At the end he wrote, Love, Aubrey.





APHRODITE


     Digging—March 18, 1918





THE SEA BREEZE in Hazel’s face brought a whiff of spring as she made the trek to Camp Lusitania and its YMCA relief hut. Hope hung in the air. Saint-Nazaire was on the move.

New shipments—what a word!—of American soldiers poured into Saint-Nazaire almost daily. There was barely a place to put them. Daily, trained divisions shipped out toward the Front. The moment would soon come when the American impact on the war, if there was to be any, would be fully felt. Let it be swift, Hazel prayed, and let it be decisive.

Hazel entered the hut. It was quiet inside at midday, though there were soldiers and YMCA volunteers about. Hazel noted the young ladies with some surprise. Their uniforms were just like hers. Why hadn’t she met them when she’d been introduced to the other Y volunteers at Saint-Nazaire?

Because they were black.

A young woman approached her. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Are you bringing a message from Y headquarters?”

Hazel shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m here with a question of a, er, more personal nature. About a soldier from the Fifteenth New York.”

The young woman eyed her sideways. “Come with me.” She ushered Hazel toward a pair of low chairs in one corner.

“My name is Jennie,” she told Hazel.

“Pleased to meet you,” Hazel told her. “I’m Hazel.”

“You’re British, aren’t you?”

Hazel nodded. “Guilty as charged. Do you know a Private Aubrey Edwards?”

Jennie blinked. “Have you seen him?” she whispered urgently.

Hazel was taken aback. “Do you mean, have I seen him play the piano?”

Jennie shook her head. “No. I mean, have you seen him lately?”

Hazel’s heart sank. This young woman didn’t know either.

“You know him, then,” Hazel said. “No, I don’t know where he is. I came hoping someone here might.”