7. Mireille
7
MIREILLE
February 1942
O n a February morning, thin wintry light poured through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the room. I sat at the vanity in my room at the Westbrooks’, slicing open an envelope containing a letter from my mother that had just arrived in the daily post. Before I started to read, I held it to my nose, hoping for my mother’s scent, but she was not in the fibers of paper. Instead, I could feel the heavy hand of the Germans in every redacted word. They had last touched this paper. Not my beloved Mama.
My Mireille,
I hope this will arrive before or on your wedding day. Indeed, I hope it arrives at all. I can never be certain, given everything. Yet my heart remains hopeful that a small part of me can be with you on such a happy day in your life.
This morning, I woke early and dressed quickly to go out and visit our grapes. As I walked the frozen ground between rows, I found myself thinking of the chateau’s garden in spring, with the jasmine blooming along the walls. I imagined you walking there in your wedding dress, and your head held high, and that precious smile of yours. How I wish I could be with you to see you in your wedding dress. As long as we’re wishing, I wish that it was on your father’s arm that you walked down the aisle at our church here in Bordeaux. I would be waiting at the front of the church, beaming with pride and joy.
But it is not to be. I spend a lot of time thinking about what used to be and what is now. I tell myself that I must accept our fate. That your father most likely won’t return to me. And that the [REDACTED] will win this war, and I’ll be forced to live as I am now. Working for the enemy.
It gives me such comfort to know you’ve found happiness in such a dark time. I know your father would be so pleased. He would feel great relief to know you have a successful man to look after you. Lenora has written to me of his character and charm and that he’s been in love with you since the first time he set eyes upon you. This alone shows what good taste he has.
The Westbrooks have been a godsend. I really don’t know if I could have functioned had I not known you were safe and well cared for in their home. I can feel the love Lenora feels for you in every letter she writes. She has become another mother to you. I once would have thought that would cause me jealousy, but instead, I’m merely grateful that there’s a mama’s heart big enough to take in the stray children who so badly need a family.
Life here is hard, though I will spare you the worst of it. The [REDACTED] grows bolder, more demanding. They make me cook and clean for them while taking over my precious home, once filled with laughter of our family and friends. Now, it is the [REDACTED] who laugh in the rooms of the chateau. I hate every one of them.
I’m struggling to keep up with their demands. Most of our able-bodied men left to fight. Even some of our women are gone. The ones left have grown thin and sickly. They’re slowly starving us all to death.
Your papa told me before he left that the vines are a symbol for the French people. They are strong, and their roots are deep and unshakable. Like them, we will endure.
Be happy, mon trésor. That is all I wish for. The only wish I have left, as they have broken me. I don’t know that I will make it through this war. Little by little, they’re stealing my health and my spirit.
Please write when you can and spare no detail. Your letters are one of the only things that can still make me smile. I love you forever.
Je t’aime toujours,
Mama
My hands shook as I set the letter down and tried not to cry, but it was no use. Her words brought no comfort, only fear, and sadness. I imagined her alone in our chateau with those beasts ordering her about, taking our wine and food while she starved. My only hope was the American military. They were deploying men as quickly as they could train them.
Including my George and dear Peter.
The navy had allowed George leave for our wedding. However, in two days’ time, he and Peter would have to report for duty. Because of their college degrees, they’d gone into the Navy as officers. George was now a logistics officer, overseeing the logistical operations of naval missions. He was to manage the distribution of essential supplies such as food and ammunition and ensure that ships and bases were properly equipped. This was similar to his position working for Mr. Westbrook, managing one of the factories. George had taken to it easily. Mr. Westbrook had been delighted with his work ethic and leadership abilities.
Peter, too, had been given an officer title and assigned intelligence work. As a naval intelligence officer, he would collect and interpret intelligence, such as analyzing reports, drafting communications, and managing classified information. George had teased him about doing spy work against the enemy.
I was relieved that their officer status might make it more likely they would come home to us.
Papa had been gone for nearly two years now. Captured during the German invasion of France, he had been taken to a prisoner-of-war camp somewhere in the east. We knew nothing more. No letters, no news, only the gnawing uncertainty that grew heavier with each passing day. And yet my mother kept going—fighting to hold on to the legacy that had been in our family for generations. Holding on to a sliver of hope that Papa would someday make it back to her.
“What does your mother say?” Betsy’s voice broke through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her dressing gown, her expression marked with concern.
I couldn’t trust my voice to speak; I simply shook my head.
Betsy crossed the room in a few quick strides and sat on the edge of the vanity stool beside me. “Is it bad news?”
“She—” My throat tightened. I held out the letter instead.
She took it and read in silence, her blue eyes darkening as she absorbed the words. When she finished, she folded it neatly and handed it back, and then her hand found mine warm and steady. “Mireille, I’m so sorry. I wish there was something we could do for her. For all of them.”
“We are. We’re sending them George and Peter.”
“Yes, true enough. Even though we wish we didn’t have to.” She met my gaze in the reflection of the vanity’s mirror. “I was thinking that when George and Peter leave us, we should think about getting jobs, too.”
“What kind of jobs?” Despite the ache in my chest, I sat up a little straighter. To be useful would help get me through until we won this war and sent Hitler straight to hell.
“They need French translators in New York City, where there’s a major hub for intelligence and military operations. You could live here with Mother and Father and commute into the city.”
The idea appealed to me. “If they would want me, I think I’d find that very satisfying.”
“As for me, I’ve learned of a way I can use my skills.”
“Do tell.”
“I’m going to train with the Red Cross and become a nurse’s aide. They need nurses at Greenwich Hospital, and they’ve already accepted me. I’m starting classes on Monday.”
“A nurse? You?”
She laughed, punching me playfully on the arm. “What? Do you think I’m not tough enough?”
“Oh, no, I know you’re tough enough. Physically tough, that is. But you’re a softy under all that athletic bravado. You’ll see terrible things at a hospital.”
“I know. But I have to do something. And despite our wonderful education, I have no useful skills with which to give to the war effort. However, taking care of wounded soldiers? That I can do. I mean, I’ve been mucking horse stalls since I could walk. Could it be harder than that?”
I shrugged but didn’t answer her question directly. I felt quite certain caring for sick people would be much harder, if not physically, than emotionally. Regardless, I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I told her how proud of her I was and that her friendship meant more to me than I could ever say. “You’re the sister I always wanted.”
Betsy waved her hands in front of her eyes. “Don’t you make me cry and ruin my makeup.” She wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug. “I love you, kid. Always will.” She withdrew, looking at me with a keen eye. “Now, shall we get you gussied up for your big moment? I’ve got some cream to take the puffy out of your eyes. But you have to promise me. No more crying today. This is a happy day, and we’re going to celebrate you and George as if there’s no war. Just for today, we will be hopeful and happy, no matter the truth.”
“How delusional of you, but yes, you’re right.” I wiped the corners of my eyes with trembling fingers. “Can you really repair this face?”
“It’ll take a little doing, but I’m on the case.” Betsy reached for the hairbrush on my vanity. “You can’t walk down the aisle looking like you’ve been crying all morning.”
She worked the brush through my hair, her movements brisk and efficient. Over the years, she’d done my hair many times. “Do you want it up or down?” She studied my reflection in the mirror.
“Up. Your mother said it would suit my hair and the veil.”
With deft hands, Betsy twisted my hair into a simple but elegant chignon, securing it with pins. As she worked, we reminisced about all the joyful hours we’d spent together, with or without the “boys,” as Betsy still called them. When my hair was finished, she set to work on my face. Fifteen minutes later, she stood back to admire her work. “You’re beautiful. Now, let’s get you into that dress.”
I gave her a shaky smile. “Okay.”
“I’m glad to be by your side today,” Betsy said. “And to have had your friendship all these years. You know, it’s funny, but I initially thought it would be Peter you’d marry, but I was wrong. George ended up being much less of a cad than I thought he was.”
I smiled. “He kept his word to me.” I’d told Betsy all about George’s promise on that Christmas Day so long ago now. “I’ve been head over heels for him ever since.”
She chuckled. “Don’t I know it.”
“Why would you think it was Peter I would choose?” I asked, curious.
“I don’t know. You’re both quiet and cerebral. Thoughtful and sensitive.”
“You know I adore Peter, but it was George who captured my heart the moment he made me laugh.”
A flash of something went through Betsy’s eyes—something I couldn’t interpret. It was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by her radiant smile. “Shall we get you into your gown?”
“I suppose we must.”
I stood in front of the full-length mirror, looking at my reflection with a critical eye. I’d chosen a simple style that Mrs. Westbrook’s seamstress had perfected. The ivory silk and satin gown clung to my bodice before flowing outward in soft, shimmering folds that reached my feet. Delicate scalloped lace along the sweetheart neckline framed my collarbones. Fitted sleeves ended in lace that brushed my wrists. My veil, fingertip-length and trimmed with lace sent by my mother from home, fell gently over my shoulders. Even I, who often internally lamented my lack of height and curves, thought I looked pretty good.
“You’re a vision.” Betsy’s hand rested lightly on my arm. She smiled at me in the mirror. “Absolutely lovely.”
“As are you.”
She really was.
Betsy had chosen a tea-length dress of soft sky-blue crepe, a color that brought out the brightness in her blue eyes. A fitted waist and A-line pleated skirt accentuated her figure. The pearl necklace her mother had given her for Christmas hung just below the hollow of her throat, flattering her creamy skin.
I could remember the moment she’d opened the Christmas gift from her mother as though it was yesterday. And now here we were in her parents’ home on my wedding day.
Betsy tilted her head, scrutinizing. “You look like you belong in a fairy tale.”
I tried to smile, but nerves made my lips tremble. “I feel like I might faint. What if I don’t make it down the aisle?”
“You’ll make it. You’re going to glide down that aisle like the queen you are. After all, you’re headed toward George. Your feet will take you right to him.”
A soft knock on the door interrupted us, and before either of us could answer, Mrs. Westbrook called out before stepping inside. She was a vision in deep burgundy silk, the fabric draping luxuriously over her figure.
Mrs. Westbrook paused, her hands clasped in front of her, as her gaze swept over me. “Mireille, you take my breath away. Truly, you look beautiful.”
“Doesn’t she?” Betsy said, turning to beam at her mother.
I flushed under their attention, smoothing my hands over the fabric of my dress. “Thank you,” I murmured.
Mrs. Westbrook approached and placed a gold-wrapped box on the small table by the mirror. “Before we go downstairs, I wanted to give you something.”
“Mrs. Westbrook, you’ve already done so much?—”
She held up a hand. “This is something special. Please. I want you to have it for today.”
I untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside lay a strand of pearls.
“Oh my.” I fought the lump in my throat, pulling the necklace out of the box and draping it over my hand. “Mrs. Westbrook, they’re exquisite.”
Mrs. Westbrook’s eyes filled. “They match the ones I gave Betsy. I thought it was only right that my other daughter should have a set, too.”
My throat tightened as I looked up at her, barely able to speak. She’d called me her daughter. “You’re too kind. I’m not deserving.”
“Of course you are.” Mrs. Westbrook reached for the necklace, gesturing for me to turn. “You’ve been family to us for a long time. Today just makes it official. Four children. Think of it. I’m truly blessed.”
I turned, and her warm fingers brushed my neck as she fastened the clasp. The pearls rested cool and smooth against my skin.
“They’re perfect.” Betsy stepped closer to adjust them slightly.
“They’re more than perfect,” I whispered, blinking back tears. “Thank you, Mrs. Westbrook. Truly.”
Her hand rested briefly on my shoulder, her touch so similar to her daughter’s. “You’re welcome, my dear. You’ve made us all proud—with your kind heart, courage, and intelligence. It’s an honor to welcome you into the fold and call you our own.”
Betsy took both my hands, looking me over once more. “George is going to cry when he sees you. I just know he will.”
“I feel quite certain about that, too.” Mrs. Westbrook dabbed at her eyes before nudging us toward the door. “Come along, girls. Time to make a cherished memory.”
I caught Mrs. Westbrook before she reached the door, throwing my arms around her. “I can’t ever thank you enough for everything you’ve done.”
“Be happy, darling. That’s all the thanks I need.”