CHAPTER 16 - LILLE, FRANCE—DECEMBER 6, 1916 #2
“You said that the last time you were here,” she said, looking up at him.
He paused, placing a hand on the banister.
“You’ll feel much better after you’ve eaten.”
“All right.”
Bruno washed, shaved, and put on a clean shirt and pants, which Celeste had placed by his door. Carrying his dirty uniform, he went downstairs and was drawn to the kitchen by an aroma of sautéed shallots. Celeste, standing by a stove, stirred a pan with a wooden spoon.
“It smells good,” he said.
Celeste glanced to him. “Place your uniform in the corner. Your food will be ready in a few minutes.” She placed two plump sausages into the pan. The meat hissed and crackled.
“Will there be others joining me?” he asked.
“Non. Two men are billeting here tonight, but they’ve chosen to eat at the officers’ casino.”
A memory of his dinner with Celeste flashed in his head. “Have you eaten?”
She rolled the sausage. Oil spattered. “I’ll eat after I clean your clothes.”
“That’s what you said the last time I was here.”
She smiled, and then nodded.
He took a seat at a small wooden table with two chairs.
“It’s much nicer in the parlor,” she said, dividing the food onto plates.
“Here is good,” Bruno said, “as long as it’s okay with you.”
Celeste nodded. She placed the food, napkins, and silverware on the table, and then retrieved a bottle of white wine, corkscrew, and glasses.
Bruno stood and slid back her chair.
“Merci,” she said, sitting.
Bruno opened the wine, poured two glasses, and sat. “To an end to war,” he said, raising his glass.
She clinked his glass and sipped her wine.
He took a bite of sausage, rich with fat and salt.
“Did you have bad day, monsieur?”
He took a swig of wine, crisp and citrusy, and then nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said, cutting her sausage. “Would you like to talk about it?”
He shook his head, but his mind drifted to their last conversation.
She’d survived by becoming a mistress to a German officer, who is now dead.
Her aunt, one of thousands of Lille women rounded up by the German military to farm the French countryside, was taken from her home.
Celeste confided in me, and I’d said little.
A surge of selfishness swelled within him.
He put down his fork and said, “My unit requires me to perform hellish duties.”
She looked at him. “I can see the burden on your face.”
He swirled his wine. Although he’d never spoken to anyone about the emotional toll of his work, he felt he could trust her. “I feel like my soul is rotting away.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please remember that it is not your fault. War compels soldiers to perform terrible acts.”
But I have committed war crimes. He gulped down his wine and refilled his glass. “What I’ve done is far worse than most men.”
Celeste slid her hand toward his, but stopped short of touching his fingers. “Do you regret doing these things?”
“Ja.”
“Then all is not lost.”
Bruno looked into her eyes. “I pray you are right.”
She lowered her hand to her lap. “Have you confided in your fiancée about this?”
He shifted in his seat. “Nein. If she learns of my duties, it will be over between us.”
“Maybe your fate will be better than you believe it to be.”
“Perhaps,” he said, despite a dread gnawing at his gut.
She took a deep breath. “I know how you feel. After the war, my family will spurn me, too.”
“You collaborate to survive,” he said. “They’ll forgive you.”
“I wish you were right,” she said. “But I believe it will never happen.”
Bruno nibbled his food. “We come from different worlds, but we share a similar dilemma.”
Her eyes met his. “Oui.”
They turned their conversation away from the war, and for the remainder of the meal they discussed fond prewar memories.
He learned that Celeste was raised in a prosperous Parisian family, given her private schooling and holidays in Switzerland and the French Riviera.
Although he was cautious with revealing details of his military experience, he told her about his childhood, his chemistry studies at Ludwig-Maximilians-Universit?t, and his vater’s expectations that he would join the family ink and dye business after the war.
“You will have a burgeoning career when you go home,” Celeste said.
“Ja.” Bruno finished his wine. “But I wish I could do something else with my life.”
“Like what?”
“I’d prefer any profession that does not work with chemicals,” he said, his head buzzing from alcohol.
“If I had it to do over again, I would have loved to have studied art or literature at the university. It would have compelled me to pursue a life of my own, rather than follow in the footsteps of my vater.”
“It’s never too late to take a different path.”
“True. However, I’ve done things that cannot be changed, things that will forever couple me to—” War atrocities. He refilled his glass and took a long gulp.
“It’s all right if you don’t want to tell me,” she said. “Maybe you could write your fiancée about it.”
He shook his head.
“I understand.” She gently touched his sleeve. “Sometimes, it’s okay to keep a secret.”
Bruno’s skin prickled.
She removed her hand and poured wine into his glass. “Secrets are not lies.”
His pulse quickened. “I suppose you’re right.”
Celeste’s lips formed a flirtatious smile. She crossed her legs; the hem of her skirt rose, revealing a bare calf.
His eyes wandered.
She lowered her voice. “Maybe you don’t have to give up what you need in order to have what you want.”
He swallowed.
She ran a finger over the rim of her glass.
Bruno, his conscience clashing with his desire, forced himself to drain his drink and stand. “I should go.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, tucking strands of hair behind her ear.
“Ja,” he said. “Danke for the food and conversation.”
She stood. “You are quite welcome.”
“Good night, Celeste.”
“Sleep well, monsieur.”
Alone in his room, Bruno’s pain and loneliness swelled.
Despite the risk that his conversation with Celeste could lead to something he would regret, he wished he would have stayed with her.
Part of him felt guilty for divulging things that he hadn’t revealed to Anna in his letters.
It’s easy to speak with Celeste because there’s no risk of her rejecting me because of my role in the Disinfection Unit, he rationalized in his head.
The wine that he’d drunk exacerbated his craving for solace.
Unable to sleep, he lit a candle and sat in a chair.
But as minutes passed his restlessness spiraled.
A knock came from the door.
“Come in,” he said, standing.
Celeste, carrying a stack of folded clothing, entered the room. “I saw light coming from under your door. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” he said.
She extended her arms. “I cleaned the mud from your uniform.”
“Danke.” He approached her and took the clothing, their fingers touching and slipping away. His skin tingled.
She looked at him. Candlelight flickered in her green eyes.
His pulse accelerated.
“Will there be anything else?” she asked, her voice soft.
He shook his head.
“If you should need me, I’ll be in my room.” She turned and left, glancing to him as she passed through the doorway. Wood creaked on the stairs that led to her attic bedroom.
Bruno tossed the clothing onto the bed. His mind and heart raced.
How will I face Anna? But when I return to the front, I could be killed at any moment by shellfire or an Allied gas attack.
Smothered with pain and dread, he desired comfort, regardless of the consequences.
Before he changed his mind, he retrieved the candle and left his bedroom.
His heart rate rose as he climbed the stairs.
At the landing, he found her waiting for him.
Celeste took the candle from him and placed it on a dresser. She turned to him and slowly unbuttoned her blouse.
His breath quickened.
Candlelight glowed over her porcelain-like skin. She gently clasped his fingers and placed his palm to her chest.
He felt her heart pounding beneath her sternum. A subtle scent of lilac perfume filled his nose. He pulled her close and closed his eyes as her lips approached his own.