Lovely War(73)

Jennie drew back a bit, as if a new caution had occurred to her. “Has there been trouble?” she asked. “Why are you looking for him?”

“No trouble,” Hazel said quickly. “No, none whatsoever.”

Jennie’s face relaxed. “Aubrey Edwards is well-liked around here.”

“It’s plain to see why,” said Hazel. “But you, also, think he’s missing?”

Jennie’s brow furrowed. She nodded.

“He and my friend had grown . . . close,” Hazel said, “and even the night before the band left on its tour, they spent time together. He assured her that he wasn’t going.”

Jennie’s expression was unreadable.

“After that, he disappeared,” Hazel said. “He hasn’t been around, and no one has seen him. My friend sent him a letter at Aix-les-Bains, and heard no reply.” She realized how this must sound. “Of course, sometimes friendships do, er, end. But there was no indication that this one would. Quite the contrary, in fact. And my poor friend is quite distraught.”

She saw Jennie’s eyes scan the room nearby, as if to make sure they were really alone.

“I was hoping,” Hazel went on, “you might know someone to whom we could write a letter, to ask if Aubrey made the trip? We just want to know he’s all right.” Her words spilled out. “Even if he’d rather break things off.”

Jennie was silent for a time. “Nobody knows where he is,” she finally said. “He wasn’t on the list of soldiers to travel.”

Hazel nodded. Jennie seemed to be holding something back, but whatever it was, she finally laid it aside.

“Here’s what I do know.” Jennie leaned closer. “Some soldiers here are grave-diggers.”

Hazel blanched. “Grave-diggers?”

“Between the sickness and casualties, there are hundreds of graves here at Saint-Nazaire.”

Hazel feared what Jennie would say next.

“The day the band left, one of our soldiers, who’s a grave digger, told us, in confidence, that he’d been given a hush-hush assignment to bury a young black soldier.”

Hazel’s brain began to whir. She would not allow this idea in.

“He’d been murdered,” Jennie said. “Clubbed to death. Beyond recognition.”

“But . . . there are thousands of black soldiers here,” Hazel protested.

“Shh.” Jennie held a warning finger over her lips. “I know. When I first heard about it, I felt terrible, of course, but I had no reason to connect it to anyone I knew.” She looked around the room once more. “Aubrey stopped coming around when the band left. But he’d told a lot of folks that he wasn’t going on the tour.” She sighed. “So when he was nowhere to be seen, I asked his friends in K Company. Nobody knew anything.” She dropped her voice even lower. “The grave-digger told me that the body was brought in on a stretcher by Lieutenant Europe and Captain Fish.”

“The bandmaster? That Lieutenant Europe?”

Jennie nodded. “Captain Fish was Aubrey’s CO.”

Hazel pressed her hands into her temples. It couldn’t be. Aubrey was more alive than ten people combined. Killing him should be impossible. He should have more lives than a cat.

Poor Colette!

“This still isn’t proof,” Hazel said. “We might be wrong.”

Jennie said nothing. She seemed like someone who’d tried and failed to convince herself of the same thing.

“Would it be worthwhile to write to someone stationed with the band?”

Jennie pressed her lips together. “I can’t get my grave-digger friend in trouble by divulging what he said.” She looked sadly at Hazel. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

Hazel took her hand briefly. “I’m glad I met you,” she told Jennie, “though your tale is terrible to hear. But it’s clear that you care about Aubrey too.”

The young woman stiffened slightly. “He was a good friend.”

Possibly, Hazel thought, Jennie had hoped he could be more.Who could blame her?

Hazel nodded, thanked her once more, and took her leave.





APHRODITE


     Treason—March 18, 1918





WHAT IS WORSE? A lover’s heart growing cold? Or losing a love to death, having doubted them?

Worst of all is being caught unknowing in the clutches of both agonies. Too many sweethearts found themselves in this nightmare during the war. When letters stopped, were they killed or captured? Dead, or drifting away? If you are humane, and Colette was, you hope they’re still alive to love again, God willing. An agonizing treason of the heart against itself.

When Hazel shared her report, the color drained from Colette, leaving her waxen. She rocked back and forth, shivering. Hazel took her hands in her own. They were cold to the touch.

“Aubrey?” Colette whispered. “You can’t be gone.”

“I’m sure he isn’t,” protested Hazel. “That could’ve been anyone.”

“His whole life before him,” Colette said faintly. “His music. His friends. His family.” Her face contorted. “It can’t be true.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” protested Hazel.