11. Mireille
11
MIREILLE
S omehow, we muddled through the first weeks of August despite alarming news from overseas almost every day. Betsy and I continued our daily commutes to work, making it home in time for supper and then an early bedtime. Mrs. Westbrook, Betsy, and I spent many evenings together without Mr. Westbrook, the demands of his job keeping him late at the office. The three of us often ate an informal dinner and then spent an hour or two reading, playing cards, or listening to the news reports on the radio before heading upstairs to bed.
One evening in late August, Betsy and I boarded the train, tired, hungry, and hot. I was always glad to see my best friend after the grueling, tedious day’s work at the office. Often, we talked on the way home, but neither of us seemed inclined to do so that evening. Possibly, we were too tired and disheartened to think of much to say. Instead, I rested my head on Betsy’s strong shoulder and closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep because I woke to Betsy’s gentle voice telling me that we’d come to our stop.
Betsy left her car at the station in the mornings and then drove us home to the estate in the evenings. As was our habit, upon arriving home, we immediately looked at the small table in the front hall to see if any V - mail had arrived.
There were four letters left for us by thoughtful Mrs. Burns, knowing how much we longed to hear from our boys. We squealed with delight when we saw we had a letter each from both Peter and George. We leapt on those envelopes like two starving women would a loaf of bread.
The V-mail logo was printed in bold letters on the compact envelopes. At first, I’d been surprised at the brevity and size of the letters—a single sheet of paper with faintly glossy lines where it had been reproduced from microfilm. But now I was accustomed to them. The message was printed in tiny, precise text, each word captured from the original by some photographic process I could barely comprehend.
Betsy and I rushed into the sitting room to open them. It had been a scorcher of a day; however, it was cooler inside the house, as Mrs. Burns shut all the drapes and shades during the afternoon to combat the heat. I didn’t even bother to take off my hat, ripping open George’s envelope first. Across from me, Betsy did the same with one of her letters.
My Dearest Mireille,
The day’s work is done, and I finally have a quiet moment to write to you. I wish I could tell you more about where I am, but you know how things are—everything is wrapped in secrecy and stamped with all those warnings about loose lips sinking ships. What I can tell you is that my days remain filled with numbers and logistics, tracking supplies, and ensuring convoys have everything they need to keep moving forward. It’s not glamorous, nor does it take any kind of genius mind like our friend Peter’s, but someone has to do it, right? Your lug of a husband, as it turns out, has a knack for it. Every crate of rations, every drum of fuel, every piece of mail that reaches the front lines—as mundane as it sounds—matters.
To answer your question from your last letter about how my men are holding up—everyone’s all right so far. We’re a motley bunch and scared out of our minds half the time. Still, we manage to have fun. At times. There’s a man in my unit, Lieutenant Harris, who keeps us all in stitches. He’s from Arkansas and has this slow drawl that makes him sound slow when he’s not. His quick wit and keen observations of our superiors keep us laughing even when we’re all tired and frightened. He has endless stories about growing up in Arkansas—most of which I suspect are wildly exaggerated. Either way, he’s funny as heck and I love the guy. I know you would too. Although he’d have to pull back with the vulgarities and potty mouth. Like most of the men in my unit, he would not impress you in that way. All these men together isn’t a good thing. We get ourselves into trouble without women around.
We’ve had a few close calls of late. Nothing I can tell you other than U-boats are clever devils, always lurking just out of sight. Every time we set out, I can’t help but wonder if we’ll make it back. So far, I’ve managed to keep safe. I have every intention of coming home to my beautiful wife.
Gah, I miss you. It’s like an ache that never goes away. Your letters are the best part of my week. And please, don’t apologize for your discretion about your work. I know what you’re doing has to be secret. And boy, am I proud of you too. I brag about you to all the guys. I probably bore them to death, telling them how smart and clever you are, not to mention pretty. Thinking of you bent over your desk, decoding the devil’s directives, makes me burst with pride. I bet you look adorable, too.
I’m proud of you. I love you. I miss you.
It’s the memories of you and our time together that keep me steady, even on the hardest days. I’ll never stop thanking God for bringing you into my life.
All my love,
George
Sighing, I folded the letter back into the envelope. Later, in my room, I would add it to the stack I kept beside my bed. Relief washed over me, as it did every time I got a letter. He was safe. At least he was when he wrote to me. Who knew what might have happened between penning a letter and it making its way over to me via V-mail. His mention of U-boats sent a shiver through me. Thinking of him out there on the open sea, danger lurking beneath the waves, chilled me to the bone.
However, he remained ebulliently the same, with his giant heart and sense of humor and how much he loved me. I had to hold on to that when I couldn’t sleep for worrying about him.
I opened Peter’s letter next.
Dear Mireille,
Thank you for your last letter. I enjoy hearing about your work, or at least what you can share of it. I’m in the same position, as you know, and find myself reading between the lines of your vague sentences. When this is all over and we’re home, we can compare our experiences. I often think to myself—remember this so you can tell Mireille.
Work here has been hard. Long hours, endless stacks of intercepted messages, and the constant worry that I’m going to miss something. I know it is the same for you. The conscientious are cursed, right?
You might be happy to hear that I’ve met someone special. A woman, that is. Falling in love with her or any other woman was not expected, I can tell you that. For fear of sounding immodest, she chased me a little. Not for long, mind you. I was only too happy to be caught. Her name is Diana Hawthorne. She joined the office as a secretary originally, but it took no time at all for the captain to realize how brilliant she is and promote her to intelligence. Her German is flawless, which is integral to our work here. Her family lived in Berlin during her father’s diplomatic post there, so she’s seen firsthand the Nazi regime in their infancy. Her stories are terrifying. They remind me why we’re all doing this, fighting this war against evil.
Also, she went to Oxford! I’m amazed by that. Her family encouraged her to pursue her academic interests, and she did just that. Her mother was a suffragette, so there’s a lot of talk about women’s rights. You and Betsy would love her.
Even during this dark time, my heart feels lighter when she’s around. If we get out of this alive, I’m pretty sure she’s going to be the next Mrs. Westbrook. Can you believe what a fool I am? I guess this is what falling in love feels like.
I know you’ll be happy for me, and it’s wonderful to be able to share a little piece of my life that’s happy instead of terrifying. I’ve written to Mother and Betsy with news of my romance. Unlike our work, this can be shared—Peter Westbrook’s in love.
I really do sound like an idiot, don’t I? Wouldn’t George be proud?
Write when you can. Your letters are always a welcome escape from all this madness.
Yours,
Peter
I set aside the letter, staring blankly into my lap. Peter was in love. With an English girl. An English girl who knew German well enough to be working in the intelligence offices. She must be exceptionally bright.
Good for Peter. I was happy for him.
Or was I?
Why did it bother me just a smidge that he’d fallen in love? That’s what Betsy and I always said we prayed for. No one was a finer man than Peter Westbrook. I certainly hoped she deserved him. Maybe I simply felt protective? Yes, that was it. I couldn’t expect Peter to come home and all of us pick up where we left off. He would bring a wife with him. There would be no more morning horse rides or the carefree camaraderie the four of us enjoyed. This war would change everything. It already had. Nothing would be the same.
That night, in my room, I sat at my desk to jot off quick letters to George and Peter. Outside the window, the moon hung low over the fields, its silver light stretching across the grass and casting long shadows that swayed with the breeze.
I always hesitated over my weekly letters and what to share that would be of interest. I couldn’t speak about my work, and the rest was fairly mundane. Most of the time I ended up just telling George how much I loved and missed him. It was harder with Peter. What could I say that would be interesting to him?
I reached for my pen and began to write.
To Peter, I expressed my happiness for his news, thanking him for sharing it with me. I communicated a word of caution, reminding him not to move too fast. To be sure she was who she said she was and that she was worthy of his good heart.
To George, my words came easier. I told him how proud I was and how much his letter had lifted my spirits. I didn’t tell him how much I worried—that part I kept for myself. Instead, I wrote about the estate and hot weather and cloying mugginess of the train on the trip home from the city every afternoon. I described our quiet evenings by the radio and how brave his mother was and how Betsy practically worked herself to death at the hospital.
When both letters were finished and tucked into envelopes, I turned to the window. The moonlit fields stretched into the distance, their silver glow almost otherworldly. Somewhere out there, George and Peter were under the same moon. Well, not exactly, as they were in a different time zone, but the metaphor remained. What were they doing at this moment? Under the moon that tied us together?
I rested my hand against the cool glass and said a silent prayer. Bring them home safe.
It was a hot August evening, and Betsy, Mrs. Westbrook, and I were together in the sitting room, sweating in the stubborn heat that remained far longer than was welcome and listening to the latest news report on the radio. We had the windows open, and occasionally, a soft breeze brought a slight relief. Cicadas droned in the distance, blending with the hum of the radio. Mrs. Westbrook sat in her usual chair by the window, an open book on her lap that I hadn’t seen her pick up in at least thirty minutes.
Betsy was sprawled across the chaise with a drink in one hand and her feet tucked beneath her. “Do you think it’s part of the job description to read the news in the most droning, boring way possible? Maybe I should apply for the job. At least I’d keep people awake.”
I smiled, settling on the sofa with a glass of sherry. “I can only imagine.”
“You’d be too distracting, darling,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “Acting out all the dramatic parts with your usual flair.”
“Yes, but think about how much more exciting it would be,” Betsy said, but her attention quickly shifted to the radio as the announcer’s voice deepened into a somber tone.
“Reports from the Atlantic indicate heavy losses during the latest convoy run. Allied forces successfully intercepted enemy supply ships, but casualties have been reported among both British and American forces. Exact numbers remain unclear.”
My fingers tightened around the glass, its condensation slick against my skin. George. Convoy losses. My mind churned through possibilities, each one more frightening than the last. Next to me, Betsy had gone still, her usual energy subdued as the announcer moved on to news from North Africa and the Pacific.
Mrs. Westbrook got up from her chair and headed toward the liquor cabinet. “They never say quite enough and yet too much at the same time.”
“Yes, it always feels like there’s more they aren’t telling us,” I said. “Which, of course, is true. Think of all the secrets I have to keep.”
Betsy unfolded from the chaise to pour herself another glass of wine. “One of the doctors at the hospital told me they keep information from the masses so no one panics. As if we aren’t already.”
“That seems an exceptionally unhelpful observation.” Mrs. Westbrook returned to her chair, sherry in hand.
“Isn’t it, though?” Betsy rolled her eyes. “Dr. Simon says a lot of asinine things. That is when he’s not feeling up, one of the nurses.”
“Did he do that to you?” Mrs. Westbrook asked, sounding alarmed.
“It happened once. Only once, though. He’s stayed away after I threatened to break his fingers so that he could never again hold a scalpel again, followed by slicing his balls off so that he walks lopsided for the rest of his miserable life. My promises have proven quite effective. In fact, every time I come into a room, he leaves.”
Mrs. Westbrook and I laughed.
“Darling, you didn’t truly say that, did you?” Mrs. Westbrook asked.
Betsy grinned, tugging on a lock of her blond hair. “I sure did, Mother. I may or may not have been twisting his arm behind his back when I did so.”
“Betsy, no.” Mrs. Westbrook tried to look horrified, but it was obvious she was not in the least. We’d all toughened up in this war, including our dear matriarch.
“You’re my hero,” I said.
“Aw, shucks, do go on,” Betsy said.
“I can’t believe you weren’t fired,” Mrs. Westbrook said.
“If it weren’t for this nasty war, I probably would be,” Betsy said with a laugh. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”
The radio continued to murmur in the background, moving on to domestic updates—rationing schedules, war bonds, and an upcoming presidential speech. The breeze stirred again, carrying the faint scent of grass and summer blooms into the room.
We heard the doorbell ring and Mrs. Burns’s heavy footsteps in the foyer, then muffled voices. A moment later, Mrs. Burns brought a letter into the room. “The postman came again, and he brought something for you, Mireille.” She handed me a letter.
“It’s from my mother’s friend.” I stared down at the envelope, feeling as if I might be sick. Why would Maria be writing to me? It had to be bad news. I sank onto the couch.
“Dear me,” Mrs. Westbrook said.
Betsy came to kneel beside me. “We’re here. Do you want me to read it?”
“No, I’ll do it,” I croaked. “It’ll be in French.”
With trembling hands, I opened the letter, feeling as if I might hyperventilate.
The date on the top of the page was from early June. It had taken two months to get to me.
Chère Mireille,
It pains me to write this letter, knowing the sorrow it will bring you. I am sorry to be the one to have to write to you, but your mother asked me to let you know should anything happen to her. What I have to tell you will break your heart, as it has mine.
Your mother is gone. As you know, the Germans have occupied the town and vineyard for many months now. Soldiers have lived in the chateau as if they were kings and your mother their slave. Mauve worked tirelessly for them—cooking their meals, cleaning their rooms, doing everything she could to protect what little we still had. All the while holding out hope of news from your father.
It is hard to describe the fear we’ve all lived under, afraid to make the wrong move or say the wrong thing. We’ve lived like scared little mice, having seen what they will do if one dares to speak out. There is an especially cruel soldier who enjoys hurting the innocent. He is the one who REDACTED.
Two weeks ago, a young boy stole a loaf of bread for his starving family. He was caught and REDACTED.
Mauve can’t bear any cruelty, especially to a child. She must have lost sight of the danger, replaced by her motherly instincts. She stepped forward, pleading with him to spare the boy. “He is just a child. Please, show mercy. We are all starving.”
She put herself between the soldier and the boy. They turned on her instead of the boy.
They [*Redacted]. None of us could move, none of us could speak. They made us watch. We are all filled with shame to have been unable to protect the best among us. None of us will ever forgive ourselves.
We buried her beneath the old oak tree in the churchyard next to Pierre’s mother and father. Our priest conducted a quiet, dignified burial, with all of us still alive in attendance, a small number compared to what it would have been before the war. Your mother came to our village as a young woman with a tiny baby Mireille in her arms. We weren’t sure what to think of the pretty American woman but soon grew to love her as our own. She will be deeply missed. Heaven has received an angel. I hope she is at peace there.
I do not know how to carry this grief, ma chère. She was my dearest friend. She knew me as well as my own sister. Your mother died as she lived, with courage, with compassion, and with her heart wide open. Her final thoughts, I am certain, were of you. She spoke of you constantly, sharing your stories from your letters. It may sound trite, but she was more proud of you than anything in her life.
I will do what I can to protect the vineyard, though it is no longer ours in anything but spirit. The Germans have taken nearly everything, but they will never take what Mauve gave us. Her light, her strength, her love.
I hope you will find comfort in your memories of her. She told me many times that her greatest gift had been that of motherhood. I am certain she died thankful that you are safe and living a good life in America.
With all my love and sorrow,
Maria
My mother had been gone for two months, and I hadn’t known. Just going about my daily life, praying every night she was safe and believing in my heart that she was. But now, I knew the truth. I let the letter flutter to the floor. My vision blurred, and I couldn’t see even two inches in front of me. My stomach felt hollow, and my mouth dry. A high-pitched sound hummed between my ears. It was as if all my senses were sucked away, and I was left drifting above my body, frozen in time.
Through this considerable distance from reality, I heard Betsy’s voice. “Mireille, what’s happened?”
I blinked, and Mrs. Westbrook came into focus. She’d come to kneel beside Betsy on the floor, her blue eyes sympathetic, but her face blanched of all color.
“My mother. She’s gone.” I could still speak. How was it possible?
Mrs. Westbrook moved to sit next to me on the couch and drew me close, stroking my hair. “My poor darling. I’m so sorry.”
“The letter—it says she was trying to protect a child, and the Germans did something to her. It’s redacted.” Was it worse to know or not know? This blasted war took away all our choices, all our dignity.
Betsy had lifted the letter from where it had landed on the rug. She knew some French from school and could probably pick up most of it. What they hadn’t redacted, I thought bitterly.
“She died a hero,” Betsy said.
“It would be just like her,” I said, sobbing. “She could never stand cruelty to animals or children. My God, what did they do to her?”
From the grim expressions on their faces, I had a pretty good idea they had their suspicions.
“She’s small and fragile. It would have taken nothing to…to hurt her. Why would anyone do such a thing?” I continued to weep, my whole body shaking with grief. My sweet little mother practically starving while those fat Germans sucked down our wine and gobbled up food that should have gone to the children. A fire of rage so hot I thought it might destroy me racked my body. “I wish them straight to hell.”
Betsy had come to sit on the other side of me, her hand on my knee, rocking back and forth. She had not known her, of course, but she felt my grief as her own. She was my best friend. My pain was hers.
“I should never have left her,” I said. “I should have been there to stop her.”
“That’s not what she wanted,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “And you know what they’re doing to anyone with Jewish heritage.”
I shuddered, thinking of my dear Papa. He was gone, too. I could feel it in my bones. “At least he won’t have to bear to live without her.”
“What do you mean?” Betsy asked.
“My papa isn’t coming back. They will have killed him by now.”
Neither woman argued with me.
“She was alone. With everyone watching as they beat her to death or whatever it is they did. I don’t even get to know what really happened.”
“Someday, you’ll be able to ask Maria,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “When all of this is over.”
“You can visit her grave,” Betsy said.
“They let the priest bury her,” I said, still sobbing. “At least there’s that. She would have wanted a proper Christian burial.”
“I didn’t know her, obviously, but she was astoundingly brave,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “Sacrificing to have you sent here. Dying defending a child. She lived and died with honor.”
“I wish she’d been less so,” I said. “If I’d stayed…”
But no. I didn’t finish the sentence. Mrs. Westbrook was right. I’d not have lived had I stayed. She’d given me a chance at life. And these good people had taken me in. George had married me. I was loved. And yet, my parents suffered so greatly. Why?
Why, God? Why did you let this happen?
There was no answer.