9. Mireille
9
MIREILLE
T wo days went too fast, as I knew they would. George and I had spent most of them in our room at the inn, only leaving for meals. We talked and made love and laughed and cried a little, too. I’d had this sense during those forty-eight hours that we had to love each other well enough for a whole lifetime. I couldn’t shake the feeling. Even though George teased me that he had no plan of dying on me, I couldn’t let go fully enough to enjoy the stolen moments as well as I should have. I’d heard once that knowing you might lose something made it all the more precious. But I also think it makes one cautious and careful. Too afraid to give in to the present for fear of how the future might hurt if we were to do so.
George and Peter were being shipped out from the New York Harbor on the same day. Because it was a short train ride to the city, the Westbrooks and I accompanied them to the harbor together, all of us dreading the goodbye.
By the time we arrived, the harbor was chaotic and loud, so much so that I felt almost faint with anxiety. Massive warships loomed in the distance, their steel hulls gleaming under the overcast sky, while cranes creaked and swung overhead, unloading crates of supplies destined for war. The salty tang of the sea mixed with the scent of oil and smoke from tugboats churning in the water. Men shouted orders over the din, their voices blending with the groan of machinery and the occasional blare of a ship’s horn.
I clung to George’s arm, struggling to match his steady pace as we wove through the crowd. Sailors in crisp uniforms darted past, their faces set with determination or strained with quiet nerves. I barely noticed the other wives and sisters and parents who were here for the same purpose—to send their precious boys off to a violent and turbulent war.
It was Betsy who pointed them out. “How many of us there are. All here to say goodbye.” She gestured to the families that lined the piers, saying goodbyes, sobbing, hugging, trying to be brave.
“It would be beautiful if it wasn’t so sad,” Peter said in that calm, soothing way he spoke as if everything were a marvel to be discovered. It was the writer in him, I supposed. Noticing all the details and the emotions around him. While I could see only George and Peter and the four of us who could barely hold ourselves together.
Indeed, courage seemed to have left me that morning. I wanted to beg the world to stop. To let me keep my George and our Peter for just a moment longer. That did me no good. The world did not stop. It kept moving on, chugging forward just like the warships waiting in the water to snatch away the men we loved.
Perhaps the most bitter sight of all was that of Mrs. Westbrook. She clutched her husband’s arm, her steps faltering. I’d never seen her thus, so completely undone. I’d thought she would be the one we would all lean on, but she had not been tested this way. Not yet. How cruel it was. Taking her sons away.
It was Mr. Westbrook and Peter who were as steady as the old oak trees that lined their estate. They stood tall, heads held high, mouths set determinedly. Betsy and George, who were usually merry and made jokes even when no one felt like laughing, had gone quiet and pale. The fear in their eyes chilled me to the bone. Without them to pull back clouds and let sunshine in, it was impossible for any of us to see through the fog, to cling to any hope.
We stopped near the gangway, where sailors were boarding one of the waiting ships. The enormous vessel loomed above us, its deck bustling with activity as men prepared for departure. For a moment, the six of us stood there, gazes directed toward the ship the boys would soon board. How did one say goodbye? None of us seemed to know.
Betsy stepped forward, smiling brightly. She punched George on the arm, her voice low and husky with emotion. “You’d better not get yourself killed, George Winchester. I swear to God. I’ll hunt you down in the afterlife and make you pay.”
George grinned, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of getting myself killed, Boo.”
Betsy adjusted his collar almost maternally. “I love you. I’ve no idea why, but it’s true.”
“It’s impossible not to love me,” George said. “You know that.”
Betsy nodded, blinking quickly as if to clear her eyes. Then, just as he started to step away, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. “Don’t be a hero just for a hero’s sake.”
George hugged her back. “I’ve no idea what that means, but I’ll do what I can.”
Betsy squared her shoulders, turning her attention to Peter. She placed her hands on her hips and looked at him sternly. “You stay with the brains in the ivory tower or wherever it is, intelligence officers do their work and stay away from anyone trying to kill you. Do you understand?”
Peter laughed, pulling her into an embrace. “I understand. Take care of the folks while I’m gone. Mireille, too.”
“I will,” Betsy said. “Don’t worry about us.”
Mrs. Westbrook stepped forward, her hands trembling as she reached for Peter. “Peter. My darling boy. How can I possibly let you go?” She wrapped her arms around him, clutching him tightly. “Promise me you’ll be careful. Promise me you’ll come home.”
“I’ll do my best,” Peter said quietly, his face pressed against her shoulder.
She released him reluctantly, tears streaming down her cheeks as Mr. Westbrook stepped in. The two men exchanged a firm handshake that became a hug. “You have made me prouder than any father could hope for. From the moment you arrived, all pink-faced and annoyed.”
“I’ve wanted nothing more,” Peter said.
Peter turned to me next, his gaze soft. “You’ll do well working as a translator. Throw yourself into the work. It’ll make the time go faster, and before you know it, this lug and I’ll be back.”
“Thank you for teaching me to ride a horse and giving me books and being…so wonderful. You’re such a good man. So solid and pure. The world’s better with you in it, so please come back. Please do.”
Peter hesitated, then reached out and squeezed my hand. “George and I both have a lot of reasons to come home.” A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. “We’ll do whatever it takes to make sure we do.”
Spontaneously, I threw my arms around Peter and hugged him tight. He was stiff in my arms at first before he gave in and embraced me back. When he pulled away, his eyes were filled with tears. “Be good, Mireille. And keep watch over that one.” He gestured toward Betsy.
“I will.” I returned his smile.
George pulled me slightly apart from the others. I tightened my grip on his arm, my throat feeling as if it might close on me. God, please don’t take him. Make this all a bad dream.
“Not yet,” I whispered more to myself than my husband. “Please. You can’t go.”
“I’m afraid this is it.” His brown eyes were impossibly tender as he looked down into mine. “I haven’t said it yet, but I want you to know that if I don’t come back, the two days we spent together were enough. They were my purpose. My destiny. I’m grateful to have had them, no matter what happens.”
I shook my head, tears spilling over despite my best efforts to hold them back. “I can’t let you go. It’s too soon. It wasn’t enough time.”
He cupped my face in his hands, his touch warm despite the cold breeze cutting through the harbor. “If it were two days or a thousand years, it would never be enough time. I would always want one more day.”
I nodded, though the lump in my throat made it impossible to speak. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against mine, his breath mingling with mine in the cold air. “I love you more than you could ever know. You’ve made my whole life, given it meaning. Splashed my black-and-white world with color.”
“That’s what you’ve done, George. Not me.”
He smiled, tears catching in his lashes. “What a life I’ve had—to be loved by a woman like you. Thank you for marrying me, my love.”
“It’s the only thing since I left home that’s made perfect sense. You and me. Forever.”
“That’s right. Forever.” He kissed me, firm and deliberate. Again, I had the feeling of time slipping through my fingers. This precious moment gone before I could catch it at all. “I love you.” When he pulled away, his hand lingered on mine for a moment before he turned toward the ship.
I told him I loved him, more than once, perhaps. I don’t know. I was so distraught that I had lost all sense of myself. George and Peter disappeared into the line of sailors climbing the gangway, their dark uniforms blending into the sea of movement. The ship’s horn blared, a long, mournful sound that seemed to vibrate through my chest. I stood frozen, my arms wrapped tightly around myself as the massive vessel began to pull away from the dock.
Mrs. Westbrook’s eyes spilled countless tears, but she made nary a sound, as if she were holding her breath. Mr. Westbrook pulled her close, his arms steady as they leaned into each other. Beside me, Betsy slipped her arm through mine. “We’re all going to be all right. We will get through this, and soon, we’ll all be together again.”
I nodded, clinging to her words as I watched the ship disappear into the gray horizon. The salty breeze stung my cheeks, or maybe it was the tears I couldn’t seem to stop. All I know is that watching that ship depart was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I’d not thought it was possible to hurt more than when I left home, but I was wrong.
Two days after we sent the boys away, Betsy and I left for our own adventures. I was up early to take the first train into the city, as nervous and fidgety as I’d ever been. Mrs. Westbrook had made sure to send me with a bagged lunch and reminded me to take a book with me on the train, which I’d stuffed into my handbag. I now clutched my handbag against my chest as I walked into the office where I was to report for work.
The office was a hive humming activity of rustling papers and clattering typewriters. Clumps of workers gathered together at various desks, wearing expressions serious and focused. This was not a place for child’s play. I hesitated in the doorway, smoothing my skirt with damp palms, my eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the drawn shades. The scent of coffee and ink somehow managed to make it through despite the cigarette smoke that drifted upward, hanging just below the ceiling.
“Miss Perrin, welcome.” A woman in a navy-blue skirt suit greeted me with a handshake. “I’m Mrs. Wakefield, your supervisor.”
“Thank you. I’m glad to be here.” I held my hand up to show her my wedding ring. “I’m actually Mrs. Winchester now. I got married since I applied for the job.”
She gave me another one of her twitchy smiles as she glanced down at my hand. “Congratulations. Let me guess. He just left to fight.”
“Yes. He’s in the navy—an officer.”
“Well, let’s do our best to help get him home, shall we?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
Mrs. Wakefield had the same appearance as the room that she ran with what I suspected was precise efficiency, slightly gray, and very serious. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pinned back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck, with only a few wiry strands escaping punishment. She didn’t exactly smile at me—more of a twitch of the corners of her mouth. “We’re grateful to have a fluent French speaker. As you know, the language flummoxes most of us here in America. We need you. There’s much to do.
“Yes, let’s go over your duties. You may ask me whatever question comes to mind.” Mrs. Wakefield’s tone was brisk but not unkind. “You’ll primarily be handling three types of documents: personal correspondence, official reports, and intercepted coded messages. Each has its own level of priority, and you’ll find a red, blue, or green stamp in the upper-right corner to indicate urgency. Red means immediate action, blue is routine, and green is a lower priority.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, clutching my handbag tighter as I followed her into the room packed with desks. Maybe a dozen in total, perhaps more. I was too nervous to count. My heels clicked softly on the wooden floorboards as we walked down an aisle between desks. No one looked up as we passed. Perhaps they were too focused, or maybe they simply didn’t care that I had joined the team. Either way, it didn’t matter. I hadn’t come here to make friends.
Mrs. Wakefield led me to a desk tucked into a corner, already piled with papers next to a shiny typewriter and a black phone with a coiled cord. “Much of your work will involve translating intercepted letters and documents—some routine, others more sensitive. Speed and accuracy are crucial.”
I nodded, my pulse quickening as I took in the stacks of papers that bore official stamps and unfamiliar handwriting. “I’ll do my best.”
Mrs. Wakefield placed a small leather-bound notebook on the desk. “You’ll need to note anything unusual or suspicious in these. Some of what you’ll read might be incomplete, as many documents arrive damaged or censored. Do your best to reconstruct the intent.”
She tapped the edge of the desk for emphasis. “Your job is to translate the content into English, word for word, when possible. However, many of these documents will contain nuances, idiomatic expressions, or deliberate vagueness meant to obscure their true meaning. When that happens, use your judgment. Context is key. If you suspect something might hold additional significance—code phrases, subtle references to movements or supplies—note it clearly in your report.”
I nodded, my fingers already itching to open the nearest file. “What should I do if I encounter something I can’t fully translate or understand?” I realized I was still clutching my handbag to my chest. I set it under the desk and sat in the chair. Mrs. Wakefield took the other one.
“Flag it.” She pointed to the black leather notebook. “Write down the details, along with your questions, and pass it to me. I’ll take it to another, more experienced translator to see if they have ideas for us. And don’t hesitate to ask rather than guess. No one will think any less of you. We’re a team here. Accuracy could save a life.”
I swallowed hard, nodding.
“You’ll also notice some documents are damaged—torn, smudged, or partially redacted. Do your best to reconstruct the missing pieces. Use logical inference, but mark anything that’s an assumption.”
I glanced at the stack of papers, each one bearing official stamps, and shivered. What had I gotten myself into? “Understood.”
Mrs. Wakefield gestured toward the typewriter. “All translations must be typed. When they’re complete, copies go directly into the ‘Processed’ tray here.” She motioned to a wire basket on the corner of the desk. “Anything flagged or incomplete goes in the ‘Requires Review’ tray.”
She stood, peering down at me. “I trust you’ll take this work seriously.”
“I will,” I said, straightening my posture.
“Good. We’re counting on you.”
Counting on me. What if I failed and missed something crucial? What if I made a mistake that cost lives? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. The choices I made in translating each phrase, each nuance, could mean safety or danger for someone thousands of miles away.
“I can see you’re nervous. Don’t be. All we expect is for you to use your skills for the greater good. Perfection is strived for but isn’t realistic. We expect diligence, and that is all.”
“Thank you. I don’t want to mess up and let anyone down.”
Her expression relaxed, and for a moment, I could see what she must be like outside of this room—softer and matronly—probably a mother and grandmother. Committed to the fight for them. “We’re all doing our part, Mrs. Winchester, and that’s something to be proud of. No one here is willing to sit back and let the free world be taken over by a dictator without giving it everything we have. The fact that you walked in here today despite feeling intimidated tells me a lot about your character. You’re going to be a great asset.”
Someone called to her from a few desks over, so she excused herself. I glanced at the first document on the stack. Handwritten in a looping, elegant French script, water stains blurred parts of the page. My eyes skimmed the words: “Chère Marie,” it began. A personal letter, seemingly mundane, yet the bold Geprüft durch Zensur stamp stood out in the corner of the letter, a reminder of the path it had taken to reach my desk. Somewhere in Bordeaux, a German censor had held this same piece of paper, scanning its looping script for hidden meanings or subversive phrases. If it had reached my desk, they clearly had decided it was harmless, stamping it and sending it on its way. However, it had been intercepted before it reached its recipient here in the States because someone had thought it needed further examination.
What the Germans had missed—or ignored—could be crucial to us. It was my job to see what they couldn’t, to sift through even the most innocuous words for hidden truths that might matter a great deal to the war effort.
Again, I wondered what I’d gotten myself into. This work was too important. I was a nobody. A girl. Why would anyone trust me to do such an important task?
Get on with it. If they think you can do it, then simply continue.
The opening lines were nothing remarkable, a husband writing to his wife in the States about his life in Lyon. He spoke of the weather and the scarcity of food. Details about the Germans’ treatment of his friends and neighbors had been redacted. But further down, a phrase stood out to me, given the content of the rest of the letter. “Le colis est arrivé dans la nuit, au lieu habituel.” The package arrived in the night, at the usual place. The language seemed innocuous, but on the other hand, it seemed a strange thing to mention with such vagueness. Why would he refer to it as a package instead of what was in the package?
I carefully translated each line, pausing to note possible double meanings. Did “le colis” refer to a literal package, or was it a coded reference to supplies or even weapons for the Resistance? The phrase “au lieu habituel”—the usual place—seemed deliberately nebulous. I wrote it out as plainly as I could in English, jotting a note in the leather-bound notebook:
Possible reference to a supply drop. Check for corroborating documents.
The next document was a typewritten page, torn and smudged at the edges. It appeared to be a report intercepted from German-occupied territory. Half the text was missing, but phrases like “mouvement suspect” (suspicious movement) and “près de la forêt” (near the forest) jumped out at me.
The official tone was clear, but the context was not. I reconstructed what I could:
Suspicious movement observed near the forest.
Request reinforcement before executing any action.
I cross-referenced names and locations with a map pinned to the wall near my desk. La forêt could refer to any number of wooded areas in southern France, thus I marked it as inconclusive and filed it in the “Requires Further Analysis” folder.
The last document in the stack was a telegram.
Demi-lune réussie. Attente pour nouvelle directive.
The words were simple, but the meaning was unclear.
Demi-lune réussie translated meant: half-moon succeeded.
My palms dampened as I thought through what it could mean. Was I looking at a code phrase? It had to be. Still, I had no idea what it meant. A mission? A delivery? Something more ominous?
Again, the enormity of what I had been tasked to do made me feel lightheaded. Some might like the responsibility of such important work. I, however, felt inadequate and unsure.
Regardless, I flagged it for review and wrote a note for Mrs. Wakefield:
Demi-lune may refer to a successful operation. Awaiting related messages for context.
I looked up to see Mrs. Wakefield standing over me, her expression unreadable. She held a folder stamped “Confidential” and placed it on my desk. “A high-priority task. It requires immediate attention.”
I opened the folder and scanned the contents. It was a list of intercepted names and locations, partially redacted, with instructions to confirm which were active members of the Resistance and which were civilians. My stomach churned. These were real people. French men and women risking their lives for the Resistance.
I returned to my typewriter, my fingers trembling slightly as I tapped the keys.
By noon, my head ached from the effort of parsing incomplete phrases and ambiguous language. Embarrassingly enough, my stomach growled with hunger so loudly I wouldn’t have been surprised if my coworkers had heard the rumble. Thank goodness for my sack lunch. I must remember to thank Mrs. Burns when I returned home. Since the boys had shipped out, the Westbrooks and their staff had treated me with even more kindness that usual. Thinking of the small but meaningful acts of service they all did for me daily made my eyes sting with unshed tears.
I sat back for a moment, rubbing my temples. This work was tedious and meticulous and definitely nuanced. I stood, stretching my legs and reached into my handbag for my lunch.
Was I to eat at my desk? I glanced around the room, noticing that many of the desks were now empty.
“There’s a break room.” This came from a woman with a thick German accent sitting two desks down. She pointed to a door at the other end of the room. “You can eat in there.”
I thanked her, grateful to have a break from my desk. I’d gotten through my first morning. As tired as I felt, it seemed as if I’d been at my desk for a week instead of four hours. But it had kept my mind from worrying about George and Peter. For that, I was thankful.