Chapter 10 May 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #3
On our dates, a handful of dinners at chic restaurants engulfed in cigarette smoke, I didn’t say much.
Women were conditioned to be vases, whilst men were fountains.
Lawrence’s words flowed, and I was there to catch them, even the ones I didn’t understand.
He boasted about his work, making it seem as if he were the English ambassador to France, rather than a clerk.
When he asked if I spoke French, I said that I’d taken classes, but didn’t admit to failing them.
Lawrence proffered bouquets and perfume.
Too inexperienced to know that these were generic gifts, I treasured each.
Over the years, I’ve met many an English girl engaged to a dashing Frenchman.
I always advised living together before marriage.
In my day, courtships were short and people married far too fast and too young.
After our hasty wedding came the wedding night.
I expected him to be romantic, like he’d been on our dates, but in bed, there was no tenderness, no connection.
Soon after, at a posh dinner party with diplomats, Lawrence saw I didn’t understand French, and worse, was ignorant of the political situation.
Enraged that I’d deceived him, he considered divorce, but his mother, who abhorred scandal, threatened to disinherit him.
Thus, he and I remained tied together. We moved to Paris for his work.
Eventually, I mastered French, but he never did become a gentleman.
I’m making excuses for myself. I knew when we married that I was a selfish fraud.
I could not see past the wedding, to the marriage and the wife he would need.
From the one time we had sex, I fell pregnant.
During my pregnancy, he was quite attentive.
After a peck on the cheek, he asked how I was “getting on.” Na?vely, I hoped our relationship was improving, though he often “worked late,” while I dined alone.
Lawrence surely convinced himself that taking a mistress was a kindness to me, that he would not disturb me with his “needs.”
Even with all the museums and monuments, I didn’t know what to do with myself.
I paced the parquet of the flat, pausing at the long windows of the reception room to admire the view of the Eiffel Tower.
Once my pregnancy began to show, my confinement started, as society matrons dictated.
My gran would have snickered. She worked in the cannery nearly up until she gave birth.
But she and my mum had both passed, so there was no one to help me when Christina was born.
Lawrence did not view a daughter as an heir; he saw her as another failure on my part.
Even when she was a child, I suspected she could sense his coldness on his rare visits to the nursery.
Lawrence hired a French nanny for our daughter, but I wanted Christina to learn her mother’s tongue.
On the advice of the consulate’s wife, I went to the American Library, though I viewed books with skepticism.
I remember my first visit. Cowed by the book lovers crowing about their favorite novels, I felt like a peasant entering the palace.
I nearly walked out; then a librarian welcomed me into the fold.
I began volunteering with that aim—to ensure that everyone who entered felt at home.
Now, it’s amusing to recall that I was afraid to enter. But at the time, I was timid and felt out of place. Soon, thanks to my new friend Odile, the ALP was the one place I felt at ease. Isn’t it odd that I didn’t feel at home in my flat?
And then the war. The American ambassador urged foreigners to leave, yet the librarians remained. Christina and I should have left like Lawrence did, but I did not want to leave Odile.
Odile? Had I stumbled onto her long-lost friend Margaret Saint James? I flipped to the title page. Margaret Bauer. Was that her married name? And now I find a trace of her here? Would Bauer be in the phone book? Had I finally found a lead? I continued to read, hoping for more clues.
During the Occupation, the Nazis tightened the noose.
More and more barricades were built each day.
People were arrested for no reason. As an Englishwoman, I was considered an enemy alien.
Young and na?ve, I was convinced that I could evade the German soldiers.
Of course, I was wrong. Still, I helped Odile and her family as much as I could by bartering my jewels and clothing for food.
Eventually, I was jailed and slated to be sent to an internment camp for women in eastern France.
Of course, I’d heard from others what happened there.
From behind the bars, I convinced the German guard to release me and the other ladies from our cell. He agreed on one condition.
The first time he and I met, at the bus stop near the Panthéon, I could see that he’d been beaten. I touched his swollen cheek, the gash above his brow.
“Because of me?”
“Just read,” he responded.
We continued each week, in his off-duty hours, two strangers sitting at a bus stop.
I read; Felix listened. His neck was long and slim; he resembled a man in a Modigliani portrait.
Instead of his uniform, he wore a white dress shirt and gray flannel trousers.
He no longer resembled “one of them.” Eventually, we exchanged a few words.
“I was an English teacher, before,” he said.
I told him, “My daughter’s name is Christina.
” Eventually, there was a spark of electricity when his arm brushed mine.
Eventually, we fell in love. Which made us both traitors.
After a year, he proposed a trip to Deauville.
I mulled over what I knew of him. He’d been aware that his superior would beat him for releasing us ladies, and he freed us anyway.
I admired his courage and his acceptance of consequences—characteristics that Lawrence lacked.
I accepted Felix’s invitation. In the hotel room, though I desired him, I was stiff with apprehension.
I didn’t know where to put my hands, didn’t know what to say.
I would disappoint him, just as I’d disappointed my husband.
After what Lawrence had put me through, I just couldn’t.
At night, in the bed, Felix and I stayed fully dressed.
He held me until I fell asleep in his arms.
During the days of August 1944, rebellion was in the air.
News was not printed in the papers, only propaganda.
Rumors swirled—the Allies were on the way; they were retreating; no, it was the Germans who were retreating.
In the tug-of-war, I knew that I needed to rope Felix in.
On the top floor of my building, each grand flat possessed servants’ quarters.
My maids had returned to England, so their small bedroom was empty.
Inside, I filled a cupboard with enough food and water to last a week.
On a rainy afternoon, with the pretext of an indoor picnic, I lured Felix up the servants’ stairs to the chambre de bonne.
After lunch, he stood to leave; I unbuttoned my blouse.
He swallowed. I swallowed. He asked if I was certain.
I wasn’t, but I nodded. My fingers gripped his upper arms as he gently grazed my neck with his lips.
My heart heaved in my chest. With each minute, I expected him to throw me down and use me.
But he held me gently, kissing my cheeks, the hollow of my clavicle, my throat.
I tilted back my head, and surprised myself by letting out a contented groan.
We undressed each other and moved to the bed.
Together, our legs and arms enlaced and entwined.
Together, we tickled each other and giggled, we whispered and writhed.
I pulled him on top of me with sure hands, but still he met my gaze and asked again if I was certain.
“Yes.” The word was a sigh. We rocked together, my hands on his shoulders, his back, his bum. Was I doing it right? Could I make him feel as cherished as he made me feel? And then I couldn’t think any longer. All I could do was let go and let sensations pour over me.
I’d never felt so marvelous. And yet, I knew he had to leave. While Felix dozed, I locked him in. I would not lose him. He’d freed me, but I imprisoned him.
Over the next week, Paris fought, and in the battle to free herself, civilians as well as Allied and German soldiers were killed.
But Felix was safe. I worried he would be punished again on my behalf, this time for desertion; however, the German army was in such chaos that I doubt his superiors were able to perform roll call.
Then, the city went silent, except for the joyous peal of church bells.
Paris was Liberated. I could release Felix, but hesitated, afraid of his reaction.
If I’d dared lock Lawrence up, he’d have slapped me across the face.
My hand trembled as I stuck the skeleton key in the lock. “Please don’t be mad,” I pleaded.
Felix opened the door and pulled me into his arms. “Thank God you’re safe.”
He was trembling, too. He said he’d heard the staccato of machine-gun fire, the rumble of explosions. He wasn’t angry, only relieved that I was unharmed. Together, we decided he should stay hidden away until the situation was more stable.
All over France, the Allies were making progress.
Foolishly, I thought that life would soon return to normal, to happy times, like before the war, when the library’s biggest problem was where to find more shelf space for the weighty translations of Dostoevsky.
Odile seemed tense in those days, but so did everyone. I never expected her to just disappear.