Lovely War(74)

“Some cruel Fate hates me,” Colette whispered. “It enjoys watching me suffer.”

Hazel’s heart bled. “We don’t know,” she said “I pray it wasn’t him.”

“I’m less than a pawn.” Colette’s eyes were hollow. All light had left her. “I’m a plaything to a vindictive god.” She gazed at the ceiling. “Where have I sinned?”

Hazel wrapped her arms around Colette and tried to still her shaking. “It can’t be that.”

“But it can.” Colette broke free. Her eyes were wild. “A loving god would never allow this. And if there was no god at all, surely chance would occasionally favor me, non? Probability alone might sometimes spare me?” She laughed bitterly. “But no. There is a god, a malicious one, and it despises me. My tears are its favorite sport.”

Hazel rubbed Colette’s back, and brought a cold cloth for her burning forehead.

Colette did subdue in time, but that, Hazel found, was worse. She seemed almost lifeless.

“Oh, Aubrey,” Colette whispered. “What did they do to you?”

Hazel brought her blankets and a pillow, and her camp mattress, and slept in Colette’s room that night. After Hazel had drifted off, Colette roamed Hut One in the dark, dressed in her nightgown and robe. She sat at the piano bench. She sat upon the couch.

She had sharp words for me, but I’m not offended by the bitterness of heartache. I would be unfaithful indeed if I abandoned my own when love slips through their grasp.

The Goddess of Passion understands. It is no blasphemy to blame me when a love is lost. Only to surround a heart in hatred, prejudice, greed, or pride until I can no longer find it at all.





APHRODITE


     Do You Deny It?—March 19, 1918





AT SOME POINT before dawn, Colette slept. I helped; the poor child needed oblivion. Her rest was brief. A sharp knock at her bedroom door woke both Colette and Hazel. The door pushed open.

“Ah. Miss Windicott. Miss Fournier. Please report to my office.”

They dressed quickly, smoothed their hair, and went to Mrs. Davies’s study.

She wore the look of a woman who has prepared her remarks in advance.

“It has come to my attention,” she said, “that many evenings, after I had gone to bed, you entertained male soldiers in this very hut.” Mrs. Davies’s lips quivered. “Do you deny it?”

Cold water closed over Hazel’s body. She had no experience, none, with serious defiance or rebellion. Not an inkling of how to respond.

Colette wanted to laugh. She was going insane. This British busybody, on top of all else.

“It seems you believe the reports you have heard, Madame Davies,” she replied coolly.

Hazel wanted to bow to Colette. Where did she find such strength, such control?

But Mrs. Davies was having none of it. “Brazen girl!” She turned to Hazel. “What have you to say, Miss Windicott?”

Be Colette. “I say,” Hazel began, “that in light of your fixed opinion, it appears Miss Fournier and I should pack our things.” She rose.

Mrs. Davies hurried toward the door, as if she to block them from leaving.

“The Young Men’s Christian Association was formed to improve the moral character of young people. Not to corrupt it!”

“Mrs. Davies,” Hazel said, “please excuse us.” Boldness was intoxicating.

“I do not excuse you!”

“We resign,” said Colette.

“You are dismissed in disgrace,” cried Mrs. Davies. “Your families will receive letters describing your conduct. You’ll be barred from any future association with the YMCA, and you will receive no reference. Other charitable organizations will be warned not to engage you.”

Hazel yearned to tell her what she could do with her nasty blacklist letters. “Good day, Mrs. Davies,” Hazel said. “We will gather our things and go.”

They left the office. Hazel felt a pang as she looked around at the great room, the stage, the piano. So many memories here. She retrieved her music from the piano bench, then returned to the room she and Ellen shared to pack. Perhaps, Hazel thought, she could find Father Knightsbridge before she left. She wasn’t a Catholic, but at the rate she was going, she probably needed a priest to take her confession. Before she was struck by lightning and cast down to hell.

Ellen sat up in bed and watched Hazel pack through sleepy, bewildered eyes.

“What’s most shocking,” cried Mrs. Davies, who had followed them, “is that you mingled romantically with Negro soldiers.”

Rage filled Hazel. Aubrey Edwards was worth ten of Mrs. Davies. Twenty. Fifty.

“Have you no shame? No pride in your race?”

“None at the moment,” Hazel said, “but I do take pride in my friendship with a brilliant young man who was always decent, kind, and a perfect gentleman. Which is more than can be said for plenty of my own race that have passed through these doors.”

Colette had already finished her packing and emerged into the corridor. “Madame Davies,” she said sweetly, “our final pay.”

Mrs. Davies had anticipated this. “This way, and sign for it.”

“What’s going on?” Ellen whispered.