Paris
NIKI’S HEART WAS THRUMMING as the taxi stopped with a jerk in front of the gray, stone building behind tall, black iron gates. On a metal plaque was engraved Les Soeurs de Merci. Niki thrust several franc notes into the driver’s grubby hand and got out. For a few minutes she stood staring through the rungs of the gate. Years ago another young woman—perhaps her mother—had stood in the same place, a baby in her arms, the child she was going to give up. What emotions had run through her heart, mind? Niki’s knees felt wobbly as she approached the large brass bell with its leather pull that hung to one side. With a shaky hand she gave it a tug. The gong seemed to echo in the quiet summer afternoon. It seemed a long time before she saw a figure wearing a brown cape, lowered head veiled in black, approach.
“Gomment?” a low voice asked.
“Bon jour,” Niki said in a voice that sounded husky in her tight throat. “S’il vous plait, I wish to speak to someone in charge—the Reverend Mother?” Her mixture of English and French sounded garbled to her own ears.
“Seour Bernadine? Queue a vous?”
“Nicole”—she hesitated—“Montrose. J’ais Américaine”She wasn’t sure why she had added that, except maybe someone here remembered Tante. Too late Niki remembered that back then Tante’s name was Brandt. A war widow, she had been married to a young army chaplain, Owen Brandt.
“Une moment,” the nun replied. She lifted the latch, opening the gate for Niki to enter. They crossed a sun-warmed cobblestone courtyard bordered with flowers, through a massive oak double door, and into a cool, dim interior. “Assez vous.” The nun gestured to a carved wooden bench, then glided down the paved stone corridor and disappeared.
A few minutes later she returned, accompanied by the small, bent figure of another nun. As they approached, Niki saw a brown, wrinkled face peering from under the white wimple and flowing black veil. Tiny and stooped with age as she was, the woman exuded dignified authority that commanded respect. Immediately Niki stood up.
“Bon jour. I am Souer Bernadine, the Reverend Mother here. What can I do for you, ma cher enfant? Have you come to inquire about our novitiate?”
“Non, Soeur Bernadine,” Niki replied quickly. “I was an orphan here, and I have come seeking some information about my real parents.”
The nun’s face underwent a change of expression. A look of deep compassion, the eyes full of sympathy.
“Ah, I do not know whether we can help you or not, ma cher. You must understand that, after the war, things were in such confusion. Records, birth certificates, that kind of thing, were often lost, or nobody had registered a baby. People fled to the country, and there no one was in charge. Everyone was so busy just trying to get their lives back together. There was so much to do. The children just had to be taken care of, housed, fed—” She saw Niki’s look of disappointment and put out a small, thin hand to her. “If you have a birth date, perhaps. We shall try. Come with me.”
Niki followed the small figure down the hallways, then into a small room. The windows looked out onto the convent garden, where several nuns were walking in a slow circle, holding small black prayer books as they moved. She looked around what she assumed was Souer Bernadine’s spartanly furnished office. A large crucifix hung on the wall, with a wooden predieu before it. A large armoire took up most of the remaining wall space, and it was to this that Souer Bernadine went. She opened the doors to shelves of books, ledgers. Murmuring to herself, she examined the numbers on the spine of a few of them. Niki could see they were marked by years.
“You say vous avais dix-oite ans, Cherie?” the nun asked, turning to her.
“Yes, oui, at least I believe so, Souer,” Niki replied.
Souer Bernadine pulled a large book labeled 1920 from under a stack and brought it over to her desk. She opened the heavy cover and started searching the pages, running one of her index fingers, gnarled as with arthritis, down the page.
“We had beaucoup des enfants brought in that year!” she said shaking her head and clucking her tongue. “Some were left just outside the gates, others brought in by who knows? Neighbors? A relative? Sometimes the mother herself. All with such sad stories.” Souer Bernadine began to read the names: “Robert, Gillaume, François, Madeline … ah, here we have Nicole.” The finger stopped and Niki leaned forward eagerly. “Nicole. Mais, there are several Nicoles—Dubois, St. Claire, Beauchampe, Gilbreaux …” The nun raised her head and fixed her shiny black eyes upon Niki. “We cannot be sure any of these names are your name, Cherie. Like so many of our orphans, it may be that someone—perhaps this person Gilbreaux—found you abandoned, or perhaps you were left with her by a parent who said she would be back, then never returned. These notations are never positive identification.”
Gilbreaux. Niki repeated it to herself. Nicole Gilbreaux. For years in Mayfield she had been known as Niki Montrose. It would take some getting used to.
She thanked Soeur Bernadine for her time and trouble, then left. She walked for a long time without direction, her mind completely occupied with that day long ago when this mysterious person had carried the tiny, frail baby and left her at the orphanage among the other war orphans, to be cared for by generous sisters and volunteers. Volunteers like Tante. How strange it was that of all the babies in the orphanage nursery, Tante had taken her. How different her life would have been if—it was foolish to even consider what might have happened to her. As Souer Bernadine had said, so many babies, so many sad stories.
Ma chere Tante,
I cannot believe my time in Paris is almost up. I leave at the end of the week for England, where Luc will meet me the second week in September. Aunt Garnet wrote that she is sending her car and chauffeur to pick me up in London! What luxury after all these weeks of walking the streets and taking the Metro. Will write from Birch fields.
Avec amour toujours,
Nicole
Sitting at the little desk in her pension room, Niki folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, set it aside to mail later. Feeling suddenly despondent, she opened her journal to the page where, after visiting the orphanage, she had listed the names, one after the other: Nicole Dubois, Nicole St. Claire, Nicole Beauchampe, Nicole Gilbreaux—which was she? Who brought her to the orphanage? Her real mother? A friend? A relative? Who? She felt a sweeping despair. She had tried to learn more, checking any source she could think of for more information about her identity, but she had been continually frustrated. She would have to accept the fact that she might never know. But not yet. She would go on looking. There might not be any time left this summer, but Niki determined to come back next summer … and the summer after that … however long it took….