Last Twilight in Paris

7. Louise

7

Louise

Henley-on-Thames, 1953

My return train is delayed and it is almost half past seven when I arrive home. As I walk through the door, exhausted, the familiar space, usually so warm and welcoming, seems confining and close after the city. The children are already in bed, Joe reading in his chair.

Joe jumps up, and a bit of his scotch drips from his glass onto the end table. “Where were you?” he asks, his voice rising. I can see how worried he has been.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you. I told you I was going to go into the city today.” As is so often the case, he must have forgotten or not been listening in the first place. “I tried to ring you at work to leave word that my train was delayed. I called the school and asked Miss Eakley to mind them until you could get there.” Miss Eakley, a teacher with no children of her own, did not mind babysitting after school for a quid or two.

“Still, I was worried. Plus, I still had to pick them up and fix supper.” Joe makes the things I do every day sound Herculean. “Ewen and Phed were asking for you and I didn’t have anything to tell them. I put them to bed for you.”

For you. As though they are my responsibility alone, and not ours shared together. As though he is doing me a favor just by helping out once or twice. I want to point all of this out, but I’m too tired for a row.

“What did you go to London for again?” Joe asks.

“Remember the necklace I showed you yesterday, the one from the thrift shop?” We had a whole conversation about it. How can he not remember? Not waiting for him to respond, I continue, “I wanted to know about its origin and Midge has a sister, Millie, who’s a jeweler on Portobello Road…”

“London for an old necklace on a whim?” he repeats, sounding almost aghast. I hear in his voice how ridiculous it all must seem. “Lou, that isn’t like you.” No, of course not. Sensible Lou does what is needed. She would never go off on a lark to satisfy her own curiosity.

“The necklace, I thought I had seen it years ago during the war. I wanted to know if it was the same one.”

“And?”

“And Millie said this type of necklace is English,” I reply, a note of concession in my voice.

“Which means it likely isn’t the one you saw in Germany during the war.”

“Not necessarily.”

“But if the necklace is English, what might it have been doing on the continent during the war?” His logic is undeniable.

He is asking for answers I don’t have. My frustration grows. “A British soldier might have brought it with him.”

“Lou, I think you’re grasping at straws. Does this have to do with the friend you lost during the war?” His voice is gentler now. I am surprised. I have never told Joe the whole story about Franny and I had not realized he’d been paying attention to the part I had. “I know how hard it can be to remember the people we lost,” he continues when I do not reply. “The chaps from my unit, I see them all the time in my dreams.”

That isn’t the same , I want to say. I know, though, that he is trying to relate, and I don’t want to lose a moment of possible connection, which comes so seldom these days. “Anyway,” I reply finally, “I’m home now.”

“I’m sorry that this isn’t enough for you,” he says, gesturing to the house around us. His voice is sad, without a trace of reproach. How has he made the leap from the necklace to sensing the discontent with my life that I feel? But he is here every day, seeing more than I realize.

“It isn’t that,” I say, feeling equal parts guilty and frustrated. “I’m sorry, too,” I say finally. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s all right,” Joe replies, forgiving me instantly. I am reminded, not for the first time, of how kind and patient he is, and despite our disagreement, how much I love him.

The next morning when I reach the shop, Midge is already there, going over some paperwork. “How was London?” I tell her briefly about my visit with her sister and the fact that the necklace is English. “I’m sorry that Millie couldn’t be more help,” she says when I’ve finished.

“Not at all. Knowing it isn’t what I thought is a kind of help, too.” I gesture to the boxes stacked by the door. “Where shall I start?”

“There are more crates in the back of the shop to be sorted.” I walk into the storeroom. It looks neater than when I was there two days earlier. Garbage day, I remember. I feel a tug of guilt that I was not there to help Midge put the boxes and crates out.

The crate. Suddenly, an image pops into my mind of the crate in which I’d found the necklace. It might contain clues about the necklace’s origin. My eyes dart around the storeroom, but I do not see it. I race to the front of the shop. “Midge, the crate I was sorting the other day when I found the necklace, where is it?”

“It was empty and the bits that were left in it were rubbish,” she says, “so I put it out.”

My heart sinks. “It went with the garbage this morning?”

Midge shakes her head. “It was a solid crate and I thought someone might want it, so I put it out for the rag-and-bone man a little while ago.” The rag-and-bone man collects things people don’t want anymore to repurpose or sell. I run out the back door of the shop, hoping that he has not come yet. But the area by the back door is empty, the crate and other rubbish gone.

Midge comes to the door. “What on earth?” she asks as I begin to sprint down the road in the direction the rag-and-bone man would have gone.

I find him two streets over, collecting glass bottles from behind the grocery. “Excuse me.” I stop, trying to catch my breath. “You picked up a crate at the secondhand shop.”

“I pick up a lot of crates,” he replies, a stub of hand-rolled cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He bends down and lifts the long poles of the wagon he pulls himself without the aid of a horse. The rag-and-bone man is a toothless veteran in tattered clothes, a painful reminder of what Joe might have been without me. Why hadn’t we done better as a country for all of those who served?

I gesture to the back of the wagon. “May I look?”

“Make it quick. I have a long route.” I begin to rifle through the cart. So many crates and they all look alike. How can I tell which one the necklace came in?

Then I see the familiar broken slats of the crate I’d gone through two days earlier. I pull it out. “Two pence,” the man says, and it seems preposterous to pay for garbage, much less the garbage Midge has just given him. But the man is only trying to earn a living and I am not about to quibble. I fish the coins from my pocket and hand them to him.

I carry the crate back toward the shop. It appears unremarkable and it seems in that moment that the whole chase and money spent might have been a waste. But as I near the shop, I turn the crate over and in the wood is etched a single word.

Lévitan.

I bring the crate inside and over to Midge, who stands behind the counter with her hands on her hips. “I just threw that out,” she says, perplexed.

“I know.” I hold up the crate to show her the bottom. “Any idea what this means?”

“Lévitan?” Midge repeats the word slowly. “I’m not certain, but it sounds familiar. Let me check something.” She walks to the back of the shop. “Here it is,” she calls a few minutes later. She returns holding a tattered magazine triumphantly. “I thought I’d read the word before.” She gestures to an open page. Moving closer, I can see that the magazine is in French. She points to an advertisement for elegant women’s hats. “Lévitan was a department store in Paris before the war.” Paris. The word ricochets around in my mind. “It might not mean a thing,” Midge cautions quickly, sensing my excitement. “People put things in random crates to donate all of the time.”

I scarcely hear her words. The necklace, identical to the one I had seen during the war right down to the place where it was nicked, had arrived in a box from a Paris department store. This is no coincidence. The necklace came from France. “Still, it might mean something.”

“It might,” Midge repeats, but I can tell that she does not believe me.

Midge returns to her paperwork and I begin my sorting. As I work, I let the information sink in. I am more certain than ever that the necklace I now hold is the very same one that I saw in Europe during the war, the one the man had given to Franny right before she was killed. Finding its owner will surely provide answers about what had happened to Franny.

I think then of my conversation with Ian the previous day. Come over to Paris , he’d said. I pull Ian’s card from my purse and turn it over in my hand, considering. At the time, the notion seemed ridiculous. But now, knowing that the necklace came from a Paris department store, and not from England, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched. If I don’t go, I’ve reached a dead end.

Ian appears in my mind. To be honest, he hasn’t left my mind since I saw him the previous day. I picture him as he strode across Whitehall toward me, more handsome than ever. I still liked him—too much. And it was evident that he felt the same. Our connection, which had lain dormant beneath the surface for nearly a decade, reared up more powerfully than ever. The attraction feels like a breath of fresh air, welcome after the troubles Joe and I are having. I’m married and I love my husband; I have no intention of betraying him. At the same time, Ian has piqued my interest. Our time together years ago had ended so abruptly, and the last chapter of our story was never written. If going to Paris to look into the necklace provides a chance to understand what exists between Ian and me, then so be it.

I look around. How can I go? More to the point, how can I tell Joe that I am going? If it seemed foolish to him that I wanted to go to London, then a trip to Paris will seem preposterous.

That night, I wait until after dinner, then take a deep breath and jump right in. “Joe, remember that necklace I showed you?” He looks up from the newspaper. “Well, it turns out it came from a shop in Paris.” Really I only know that it came in a box from the shop in Paris. But I am stretching, trying to bolster my reasons for wanting to go. “So I’d like to go to Paris for a few days to look into it.” He is staring at me oddly.

“You want to go to Paris because of a necklace?” he asks with disbelief.

“Yes, this is important to me.”

“First London, now Paris. Lou, how far is this thing going to go?”

“I need this, Joe.” There is a note of pleading in my voice. I don’t want to quarrel over this. “Plus, I could use a break.”

“I know that the house and children can be a lot, but do you really have to go so far?”

“I know I’m asking a lot. But this is important to me, Joe.”

“How long would you be gone?”

“Two nights,” I say. “Three, tops.” I’m guessing now. “Just long enough to visit the store and ask some questions.” I leave out the part about Ian.

“I don’t like it, Lou, you going so far alone. And we need you here. But if you insist, I won’t try to stop you.” His voice is reluctant.

“Thank you,” I say, putting my arms around him.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asks suddenly.

My heart breaks, because I want to say yes. A trip to Paris, anywhere really, might be just what we need. However, this is not that trip. “I love you for offering, but this is something I need to do for myself.”

“Is it even safe?” Though I appreciate his concern, I am also annoyed. Once I went into occupied Germany to do important work for the war. Why am I seen as feeble or less than, now that I am married?

“I’ll be fine. I’ll ring your sister and ask her to watch the children while you are at work.”

He hesitates and I worry that he will try to stop me. “Fine.” I’m not certain if he is giving me the space I need or simply avoiding a confrontation. “Just be safe and please leave me all of your trip information. And hurry back,” he adds. “I’ll miss you.”

“Me, too.” I am touched and yet, at the same time, feel a twinge of guilt that I am leaving.

As I finish the dishes, I consider the notion of going to Paris. Even with Joe in agreement, it seems far-fetched, almost ridiculous. I am not one to leave. Despite my restlessness at the constraints of my current life, I love my husband and children, and I would not give them up for anything. And my memories of my time in Europe are not pleasant ones. In fact, the very last thing I want to do is leave my cozy world and open up the dark trappings of the past, to return and start tearing open the old wounds.

A plate slips from my hand and clatters to the ground, breaking into a thousand pieces. “Bugger!” I swear, unable to control my frustration. “Bloody hell!” I haven’t cursed in years and the words leave an acrid burn in the back of my throat, like the cigarette habit I’d given up long ago.

The children stop playing and look up at me with wide eyes, unaccustomed to seeing me lose my temper. “I’m sorry,” I say. They already have one parent who is neither fully present nor emotionally in control; they do not deserve a second. “Mummy’s fine.” As I clean up the mess, though, I know I am not fine. The past, which has returned suddenly and unbidden, has awakened a dark part of me I’d hoped was gone for good.

Later that night as I clean up the kitchen while Joe snores in his chair, the matter nags at me still. How can I possibly up and leave for Paris? I look around the house and think of Ewen and Phed, sleeping soundly above. I have a life and people who depend upon me. I cannot simply run off.

But I can’t be any good for my family if I am not good myself. I have to sort out the past so I can put it behind me forever and move on. And there are some promises I had made, too deep and too long ago, to ever be broken.

The next morning I book the ferry to Paris.

France, 1944

The aid convoy clacked northward with effort through the hills of occupied France, breaking the night silence. I rode in the front seat of a military truck, squeezed between the driver on my left and Franny on my right. Ian was in the truck in front of us and the other volunteers followed two vehicles behind. In the distance, I heard a rat-a-tat sound that I imagined was gunfire. My heart beat faster with fear. I could not help but wish that Ian was here with us to reassure me or at least explain what was going on. We were passing through enemy territory now, under the auspices of German protection. But the guarantee of safety was an illusion, a promise that might be revoked at any time now. I shuddered, drawing my sweater closer around me.

The truck slowed as it passed through a village. Through the window of a house close to the road, I could see a mother and young child silhouetted against a backdrop of yellow light. Scenarios passed through my mind, creating a storyline for the scene. I imagined the child waking from a nightmare, the mother comforting him. What had they seen, bearing witness to war? The village receded in the background and the road grew long and deserted once more. “Almost there,” the driver said. Franny shifted beside me restlessly and I could feel her wanting to get out and stretch her legs and smoke. She did not seem to do well in confined spaces.

The driver turned onto a side road and followed the other trucks stopping on the gravelly shoulder. “Halt!” a voice barked, the first German we had heard since coming here, speaking as harshly as though we were prisoners ourselves. I froze, the reality of our situation overwhelming me.

Franny, sensing my nervousness, slipped her hand in mine. “Come,” she said gently, giving me a small smile. We stepped from the truck onto the side of the road. The caravan was inspected thoroughly for weapons or other contraband. The Germans, Ian had told me while we were in transit, were known to have impersonated the Red Cross to get information out of prisoners. It only stands to reason that they feared the Allies might use the aid mission to do the same.

The inspection was so extensive that I was afraid they might insist upon searching our persons next. But they waved us back into the trucks and we drove a few hundred meters farther until we reached the camp, a converted military barracks. The convoy stopped in front of a barbed wire fence. Through the faint predawn light, I could make out stone buildings, arranged in a U shape around an open courtyard.

The camp was an oflag, Ian had explained before we arrived, specifically designated for British officers captured as POWs and ostensibly better than the stalags where the enlisted men were kept. The Germans allowed the Red Cross in to inspect the prisoners’ conditions and deliver limited aid here.

Ian got out of the vehicle ahead and came to the passenger-side door of ours and opened it. He held out a hand to assist Franny in stepping down and then reached out to me. “Here, allow me.” His hand took mine and I felt a flash of electricity. I pushed down the reaction. I was here to volunteer for the Red Cross, not to get caught up in an affair with one of its workers. Yet when his hand lingered a moment too long after I had gotten down from the truck, I did not pull away.

At first, the camp on the far side of the fence appeared deserted. Then a shrill bell sounded. Men in gray prison uniforms, pale and skeletal and bald, stumbled from the buildings. They eyed us with interest, and I could tell by their confusion that we were the first aid convoy to reach this camp. They did not loiter or try to approach us, but went purposefully to other locations, breakfast or prison jobs, I imagined. I didn’t know what I had expected coming over here to deliver food to POWs. But the sight of the emaciated men on the other side of the fence was almost too much to bear. I was suddenly angry. These were British citizens, men who had gone to fight for their country, just like Joe. And if things were this bad for the officers, I could only imagine what the conditions for the enlisted men must be like. Why wasn’t our government doing more to get them out? There were reports, too, of camps a thousand times worse than this where the Germans imprisoned Jews. I was overwhelmed by the magnitude of the suffering. We could try to help from now until the end of time and it would never be enough.

Franny touched my arm. “We should unload the packages.” She was right. Standing here and gawking was not going to help the men. The sooner we could get the aid packages into their hands, the better.

Franny began helping with the boxes. “Don’t you have a show to get ready for?” I asked.

She shrugged. “It isn’t for hours.” She rolled up her sleeves and put her shiny curls up in a bun and worked alongside me, her hoop earrings jangling as we unloaded several dozen cardboard boxes containing basic supplies that would help the prisoners survive. We worked silently alongside one another. Despite the chill, I grew warm from the manual labor, moisture forming against my skin. Beside me, Franny glistened, her perfect makeup intact.

Ian supervised the volunteers, directing where the packages should be stocked, how wide and how high. I had wondered if his professor-like ways would make him ill at ease in the rough war zone. But with jacket off and sleeves rolled up, he seemed very much the commanding officer—and more attractive than ever.

Franny leaned close. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” she whispered, gesturing subtly toward a German guard. “The men have guns, and we don’t.” It was always that way, I mused. The odds were always tipped in their favor. But the terrifying reality was that we were completely powerless here, at the mercy of the enemy.

“That’s enough for now,” Ian said when we had unloaded about two thirds of the pallets from the trucks.

“What now?” I asked. “Can we start giving out the packages?”

Ian shook his head. “They have to be processed by the Germans. They will be distributed tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” It was only late afternoon. “But the men need this food now.” I was eager not only to deliver the care pack ages so the men could receive the much-needed provisions, but also to do our job and leave.

“I know, but there’s nothing to be done about it.” He held out his arm to me. “Come, they’re going to drive us to our rooms.”

They set us up in temporary quarters down the road from the camp, an old, single-story hotel that had been requisitioned. “That’s yours,” Ian said, gesturing to one of the doors. I opened it and stepped inside. The room was cold and drafty with worn, spartan furniture. Ian lingered in the doorway a beat. “I’m just down the hall if you need anything.”

I wouldn’t have minded for him to stay a bit longer, but instead I said, “Thank you.”

I was surprised to find Franny had the room adjacent to my own. I expected her, as a starlet, to have better accommodations, something more grand. But here, she was just one of us.

“Do you want to come in?” Franny asked from her own doorway.

“Don’t you have to get ready?” Franny had told me earlier that her first performance for the men was that evening. “I thought you might want to rest before your show.” I myself was exhausted from the long journey and the work unpacking boxes.

“I’m not at all tired. Plus, we should eat.” She gestured toward the boxed meals that had been left for us outside our room doors.

“Sure,” I said, picking up the meals and walking inside. Looking around the drab room, I wondered what Franny, with her glamorous London life, thought of it all.

But she sprawled on an old, worn chair as though it was the finest chaise at the Ritz. “This will do,” she said with a smile as I handed her one of the meals. Inside, there were preheated noodles and small pie crusts filled with unidentifiable minced meat.

“I still don’t understand how is it that you are allowed to perform for the prisoners,” I remarked as we ate. Even though Franny had tried to explain it on the ship, it was a question that nagged at me still. “They barely have food, yet they are allowed music and entertainment?”

“Like I told you before, I was asked to come perform for the German officers. I insisted on performing for the prisoners, and I was surprised when the Germans agreed. I’m not the only one, though. édith Piaf, the French singer, performed at a stalag near Berlin a few months ago.”

“But how did you wind up with the Red Cross?”

“Once I agreed to go this time, my booking agent connected me with someone at the Red Cross. They figured a convoy that was coming across was the safest way to manage it so I was not traveling alone.”

“I’m surprised the Germans would ask a British performer to come.”

“I’m half French and I actually have a French passport, which makes it a little easier. And the Germans do it for the propaganda—so the Red Cross can go back and say, ‘Look how well the prisoners are cared for. They even have entertainment.’” The very act of giving them a show is in itself theater.

Franny went to a round valise-style suitcase and opened it. Then she pulled out a black evening gown, long and jeweled, which seemed better suited to the finest nightclubs in London. I averted my eyes as she undressed without modesty in the middle of the room and shimmied into the closely fitted dress. “Zip me up?” she asked, turning away from me and lifting her hair to reveal a wide expanse of alabaster skin. After I had done so, she walked over to a cracked mirror, carrying a small leather case, and reapplied makeup and did her hair. Ten minutes later, she turned to me. “What do you think?”

“Beautiful,” I answered honestly. Despite our long, weary trip, she had transformed into a glamorous starlet. I followed her outside, where a car waited to take her into the camp. She climbed into the back and gestured that I should join her. I hesitated. I would have to go inside tomorrow, of course, to deliver the aid packages. But I didn’t know if I was ready. I didn’t want to stay in the dreary hotel, though, or make her go alone, so I got into the car.

We drove slowly down the road, past where we had unloaded the packages, to a guard booth. A German soldier scrutinized us before opening the gate to let us inside the barbed wire fence. I did not see any prisoners as I had earlier, and it felt almost as though the camp was deserted.

The driver took us past the barracks to the back of the camp where a makeshift stage of wood planks had been erected in the courtyard between the stone buildings. I understood now why I had not seen anyone: the men were all here by the dozens, waiting for Franny. There were no seats, so the prisoners in front sat on the ground while others stood behind them.

Someone announced Franny and she came onto the stage. She stepped out and I gasped. I had seen her get ready, put on her gown and apply her makeup. Yet here onstage, she was larger than life, transformed. The men who had gathered lifted their eyes to take her in, faces rapt.

She began to sing an American song, “The Way You Look Tonight,” and I was mesmerized. There was nothing overtly tawdry or sexual about it—she was wholesome, the girl next door. But she drew the men in and captivated them, their faces lit with awe and admiration.

Still, watching them, I was overcome by sadness. We could bring them a few moments of joy with Franny’s entertainment and perhaps a care package. But the reality was that we would leave, and they would be forced to remain here as prisoners. We couldn’t actually help them.

I spied Ian across the courtyard. I expected him to be watching the show, but his gaze was fixed on me. I looked away quickly. This was not the time or place. There was an undeniable attraction between us, though, that was impossible to hide.

Then just as quickly as it started, the show was over. It was not a full-blown concert, but rather a handful of songs before the whistle sounded for their curfew. After, the men surged forward to get an autograph or to be closer to Franny. I even saw one man pose with her while another prisoner snapped a photograph, and I could not help but wonder where they had gotten the camera. She was clearly embarrassed by all the fuss.

The whistle blew again, and the crowd dispersed. As the men walked away, their steps were lighter, spirits lifted. This had not been a thrown-together show on the edge of a prisoner camp. To them, she had been Ella Fitzgerald and Greta Garbo all rolled into one, the performance of a lifetime.

After most of the men had returned to their barracks, one man lingered by Franny’s side, as if he had not heard the bell or was not worried about getting in trouble for failing to heed it. He was talking to Franny with great intensity and I knew there was something more to it than mere admiration. I tried to catch her eye to see if she needed me to rescue her. But Franny was engrossed in whatever the man was telling her and did not see me.

“What did that man want?” I asked her when she finished and walked over to me.

“Just a fan,” she said vaguely, and I suspected she was lying.

I noticed for the first time that she was holding a camera, the same one I had seen the prisoners using to take photos. “That’s yours?” She nodded. “It’s rather macabre, don’t you think, taking pictures in a place like this?” There was a new sharpness to my voice. “I mean, these men are suffering and here we are acting like tourists.”

“The photos aren’t for me.”

“Then who? You can’t possibly get them to the men.”

“You’re so naive,” she said, putting her arm around me like a big sister. She lowered her voice. “The photos can be used to make new documents for the men to help them escape.”

“Escape?” My mind whirled. Franny was secretly helping POWs. If she was caught, she would be arrested and possibly killed. We all might be. I was seized with fear for her—and myself.

She nodded. “We take the photos and crop each for an identification card. Then someone else will smuggle the card back in to the prisoner along with a compass and map to help them try to escape.” I remembered then how she stood slightly apart in the pictures. I had thought she didn’t want the men getting too close, but looking back now, I could see that she was trying to get a photo that could be cropped to show the man alone so that it would work on an identification card. Franny continued, “Last time we performed in a camp we were able to smuggle out a few prisoners by pretending they were part of the musical ensemble. Unfortunately, we don’t have a big enough ensemble to manage that this time.”

I tried to comprehend what she was telling me. Franny had not come just to perform; getting inside the camps was a way to help the prisoners. There was so much more to her than I had ever guessed. “How on earth did you ever come up with this?”

“I didn’t, really. It was a personal assistant of mine back in London, a Jewish refugee. Her brother was involved with the resistance work, and when they heard I was coming over, they asked me to get involved.”

She explains this as though it was the most natural thing in the world. I can imagine it, Franny being asked to help, and saying yes without giving it a second thought. “But Ian said if we angered the Germans…” I began.

“Ian’s an ox. He has no idea what I am doing. The Germans are killing people by the thousands. Do you think it matters if we anger them or not? For goodness’ sake…” She stopped midsentence and turned abruptly. “Smile,” she whispered to me under her breath. My gaze followed hers to where a German guard stood watching us, looking suspicious. “Dodgy, are we?” she whispered through gritted teeth. I froze. But Franny jutted out a hip in an exaggerated pose and blew him a kiss. The officer turned away, crimson appearing around his collar.

“We should go,” Franny said. As we were driven from the camp, I felt a sense of relief.

“Good night,” I said reluctantly when the car dropped us in front of the hotel. I didn’t want to be alone and wished that Franny and I shared a room.

“Do you want to come stay?” she asked, gesturing toward her door. I realized then that she did not want to be alone either.

I collected my things from the room I’d been assigned, then went to join her. We lay down, pressed close in the narrow bed. I thought of the camp and the prisoners we had seen. “It’s so awful here,” I remarked.

“It’s an abomination,” Franny agreed glumly.

“I thought there were rules of war to ensure prisoners are treated humanely.”

“In theory. In reality, the prisoners, even the officers, are subjected to brutal conditions. Unheated barracks, little food or medical care. Hard labor.”

“The British government, why isn’t it doing more?”

“There’s a prisoners’ department in the War Office in London. But it’s poorly staffed and organized with no funding. The government is focused on fighting battles and winning the war. Trying to repatriate soldiers and giving the Germans their own in return goes against that. You know, the British dislike the Red Cross,” she added, lowering her voice even though we were the only two people in the room. “They regard them as interlopers, meddlers who hinder the war effort and whose efforts cannot be trusted.” I was surprised. I had imagined the Red Cross volunteers as heroes, angels of mercy bringing aid. I had not realized they would be subject to criticism or disdain.

Overhead, there came the rumbling noise of an airplane, followed by the whinnying sound of a bomb dropping. Moments later, I heard it explode in the distance. The ground shook. I bolted upright in bed, terrified. But Franny remained nonplussed. “It’s just the Allies.”

“But if they bomb the camps, we’ll be hit.”

She shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t think so.” I realize once more that by coming to help, we might be killed, not just by the Germans, but inadvertently by our own side, because of our proximity to the enemy.

Franny drifted off to sleep, breathing heavily. A moment later, she began to snore. Hearing it the first time, I had to laugh. The glamorous starlet snored like a pissed sailor—a secret that only I knew.

The next morning, we awoke early and dressed in preparation for delivering the packages. “Be nice or I’ll tell them you snore,” I teased as we walked from the room.

“Oh, Louise!” She laughed, but then her face grew serious. “You see, that’s the problem with getting close to someone—you let them expose all of your flaws.”

“I was just joking,” I said quickly. “I would never tell any of your secrets.”

“I know,” she replied darkly, and I could not help but wonder what other secrets she might be keeping.

After being driven from the hotel to the camp, we walked to the place near the gate where the trucks stood and continued unloading the packages. They were handed to German guards for distribution, and I regretted that we did not get to give them out ourselves in order to make sure they found their way to the hands of the prisoners.

I reached for another pallet of boxes, these unlabeled, but Ian put his hand on my arm, halting me. “That’s all we are permitted to give out.”

“But why are we stopping? There are more packages in the trucks and more people who need them.”

“The Germans only permit us to deliver packages addressed to specific prisoners. We only have so many names of prisoners, given to us by the War Office. We are only allowed to deliver one package to each of the named men.”

“And the rest?” I asked, placing my hands on my hips.

“The rest we send back.”

“That’s senseless!”

“I don’t make the rules,” Ian replied, “but I am obliged to follow them. You must understand, the Red Cross has to be sensitive to state interests while firmly pushing ahead its mission.” It was in itself a kind of diplomacy—perhaps the hardest kind. “Do you understand how precarious this is? The Red Cross is not allowed access to POWs in Asia or even on the Eastern Front. The belligerent nations, they get to tell us yes or no as to whether we can come across their borders and they can tell us to leave.”

“But you saw those men.” I moved closer, looking deep into his eyes, imploring him to do more. “The conditions they’re being kept in are inhumane. If someone doesn’t help them soon, many will die. We must do something.”

“We are doing something with these care packages, getting them to as many as we are able. The practical, that’s what concerns us. Food, water, clothes if we are able. Little things that give people a chance to survive until this awfulness is over.”

But what about those who had no chance at all? “Doing something for some,” I countered. I liked Ian and I did not want to quarrel with him. But this was too important to let go. “What about the others?”

“They get nothing, I’m afraid. We are helping as many as we can. I’m trying to get more names. I’ve lodged a formal protest.”

“That will do a lot, I’m certain.” My voice was riddled with sarcasm.

“I’m sorry, but we have to play by their rules or be denied access entirely.”

I stormed away, frustrated, tears stinging my eyes. Franny appeared then and followed me. “What is it?”

I explained to her what Ian had said. “These packages will go to waste because we don’t have the names.”

She cracked her gum. “So get more names.”

“How?”

“Talk to the men and ask them what they’re called.”

As if it were that simple. “Ian said that’s against the rules. If we break them, our access will be cut off and we will not be able to help anyone. There’s no way to do more.”

“There’s always a way,” Franny said curtly. Then she walked away without speaking further.