And I’m caught there.
“Is your husband—is he—”
“A prisoner,” she says. “Papa tells me your fiancé is too.”
I nod. “Stalag VIII-A, somewhere near Poland.”
Her pretty face twists with sympathy. “I’m sorry, Marthe.”
I nod, feeling sorry for her too. What a lousy thing for us to have in common. “What brings you to these hinterlands?”
She shrugs. “I fled to Biarritz after the armistice, but Maman wants to breathe down my neck, so here I am with nothing to do.”
“Oh, there’s plenty to do here—mostly work, though.” I wonder if Anna knows how fortunate she is to have a mother to worry after her. I envy her, but I already like Anna more than I envy her, and I don’t like many people.
Besides, it’s nice to have someone my own age to talk to again.
“Don’t worry.” She grins. “I’m not expecting a vacation. I have a few tennis and swimming trophies to my name, so come summer I’ll give lessons to the kids. Meanwhile, Maman is putting me to work with Madame Simon.”
“My condolences.”
Anna looks wary. “Simon’s that bad to work for?”
I shrug. “She’s blunt—but she keeps licorices for the kids in that leather briefcase of hers, so she’s not all bad.” But her office is in the square tower where we keep all the Lafayette Memorial Foundation’s paperwork. Accounting books. Admissions applications. Discharge forms. Medical, academic, and employment records. In short, it’s the dullest place in the castle. What I tell Anna is, “It’s just chaos in the records office every fifteenth of the month; that’s the day kids are admitted to the preventorium.”
“Anything else I should know?”
A lot of boring stuff, but I want to impress her, so I say, “There are secret passages in the castle.”
Her eyes brighten. “Really? Where do they go?”
“Nowhere now; they’ve been sealed up at the exit. But as kids we were terrified of getting lost in the walls and turning to a pile of bones.”
“So there must be ghosts . . .”
“Doesn’t every castle have ghosts in the movies?”
She grins wider. “Which reminds me—do you fancy going to the cinema with me sometime? My treat!”
Blowing a ribbon of smoke, I give her an unfortunate dose of reality. “I’m told there are three cinemas in Clermont-Ferrand, but that’s hours away.”
Anna sighs, fiddling with the bow of her blouse. “We really are in the middle of nowhere. Honestly, Marthe, I was surprised to learn you stayed on as a teacher here. I didn’t figure you for the type.”
“I’m not,” I reply, waving my cigarette as evidence. “This year’s letters of instruction say teachers are to serve as a moral example, and are entrusted with the whole future of the nation. Well, if that isn’t just a bit more than I’m willing to take on . . .”
We both laugh, and it’s a real laugh.
Flicking our ashes out the cracked window onto the terra-cotta roof tiles, we fall into easy conversation about books, movies, and art. She remembers that I used to sketch and notices my old easel in the corner. “Oh, no! I’ve accidentally invaded your sanctum sanctorum, haven’t I? Don’t tell me you’re using this icebox your studio.”
“Not since the war.” In agreeing to marry Henri, I’ve given up dreams of a formal education in the fine arts, but that didn’t stop the desire to create, and now I’m fighting off a different kind of hunger. “I’m not really working on anything anymore.”
“Why not?”
I stare at my scuffed saddle shoes. “What’s the point?” We’re all too busy trying to get enough food, enough fuel, enough medicine. I can’t justify using up paper, pencils, desperately needed supplies on artwork that seems . . . somehow . . . trivial. I’d feel like a pretender anyway.
I don’t say any of this to Anna, who finds my bust of Adrienne Lafayette and gasps. “Is this yours?”
I nod, embarrassed, and stub out my cigarette. “It’s not any good. It’s all wig and eyebrows . . .”
But Anna’s interested. She stares a long time, really studying my work. I find myself holding my breath, and I don’t exhale until she says, “This piece might be brilliant, actually. It’s not the usual shiny marble. It’s rougher. You’ve given a glimpse into the woman’s humanity, warts and all . . .”
Pleased, but afraid to look at Anna, I say, “I’m not good enough to work in marble yet, but I left the soapstone unpolished, hoping the texture would give it a modern edge.”
“It really does! Where did you learn to sculpt?”
“Madame Beatrice gave me a few lessons.”
The somewhat mysterious founder and president of the Lafayette Memorial Foundation is a polymath—actress, sculptress, and author of a book about an obscure desert queen. I was always flattered by the special interest she showed me on her yearly visits to the castle to oversee the charitable venture. I was touched by her warm encouragement too. “Of course, Madame Beatrice studied and mastered the neoclassical style, whereas I’m just sketching and sculpting by instinct.”
“Then you have a natural gift, Marthe. You can’t let it go to waste just because there’s a war on!”
And with these words, I feel like she’s shaken me awake from a long slumber.
* * *
—
Anna changes everything at the castle. For one thing, the baron’s daughter is the ginchiest girl around for miles. With her movie-star good looks, bold red lipstick, and formfitting sweaters, she’s got men tripping over themselves. Never mind that she’s married; Dr. Anglade and the Latin master nearly come to fisticuffs vying to open a door for her. And fourteen-year-old boys in the preventorium are all suddenly devout Catholics, eager for Sunday Mass at the village church, jostling to get close to Anna’s pew just for a whiff of her sweet and smoky Tabu perfume.
Anna’s also brimming with ideas for the preventorium—which is a shot in the arm, because since the Fall of France we’ve all existed in a state of suspension, breathing shallowly and waiting for our prisoners to come home. France’s defeat has been especially devastating for the older, flag-waving generation, who are teary this Armistice Day, lost in bitter memories of the last war. It’s depressing even for somebody like me, and I was never cheerful to begin with, so Anna’s spiritedness is a proverbial breath of fresh air.
She hosts Wednesday-night billiard games and Sunday-night socials at which she plays piano for the staff. She teaches the older girls in the preventorium how to roll their hair and walk in heels with books balanced on their heads. She doesn’t seem to have any idea of the effect she has on people, but she’s a swell distraction. She makes it easier to forget the debacle of our continued national humiliation. At least until the autumn day when officials from Vichy show up at the castle to interrogate us. Then gossip flies up and down the square tower and in and out of the schoolrooms.