Blanding Court
WHEN ALAIR HAD RECEIVED the tersely worded official notification of Luc’s capture, it had given his name, rank, and prison number. She had read it over and over until at last she had absorbed the terrible truth. She kept that paper folded and with her all the time; it somehow made her feel connected with Luc.
But try as she might, she couldn’t imagine where he was, what his day was like as hers inched agonizingly by. She had been told that certain international rules governed the imprisonment of officers. Not that that meant anything now to the Nazis. Stories of the atrocities perpetrated by occupying troops in all the countries they had subjugated—Holland, Belgium, France—had been fed to the British public in every newspaper. She had no assurance that enemy prisoners, be they officers or not, would receive any kind of civilized treatment.
When the letters began to trickle in from him, few and far between as they were, censored and brief, she clung to them as if to a lifeline. She read them until their edges were ragged. He said little about his daily life.
Thinking of you, I find I can’t remember anything the world thinks important, just the times spent with you. I treasure each tiny memory. You are kept safe, locked forever in my heart. Hold on to this promise, for I intend to keep it—we will get through this and be together again.
Ever yours,
Luc
Alair held on to these words, believing that with God’s help, Luc’s promise would come true for them.
Niki had been transferred and reassigned and was now translating communiqués from the French underground to various Allied services. This fact somewhat made up for her crushing disappointment of not going with her team into occupied France. Niki felt that what she was doing now was more worthwhile than her former work as a teleprinter operator. It also kept her from the enervating depression that threatened to overwhelm her when she thought about Kip and Luc. One afternoon as she came off duty, she was told, “Gilbreaux, you have a visitor.”
Niki hurried down to the lounge, thinking it might be Fraser. Perhaps he’d received an unexpected leave. But when she got to the entryway, she saw a man in the uniform of the Free French standing with his back to the door, looking out the window. By the set of his shoulders, the shape of his head, she recognized him. It was Paul. At the sound of her footsteps he turned, and for a few seconds they simply stared at each other. Finally she gasped his name. “Paul!”
He came toward her. He looked older. His face was lean, his cheekbones prominent, his features sharpened, his eyes wary. He held out his hands and she placed hers in them. Then he leaned forward, kissed her on both cheeks in the French manner.
“Niki, Cherie,” he said. “Have you forgiven me?”
“Oh, Paul, yes, long ago,” she responded spontaneously, momentarily wondering what might have happened if he hadn’t cut her from the mission. That was all past now, in light of everything else that had happened. “You’ve heard about Luc?” she asked. From the pained expression that crossed his face, she knew that he had.
“Yes. I’ve lost many comrades, but Luc was more like a brother. It’s hard to shrug and say c’est la guerre when it comes to someone you love. But Luc will survive. If anyone can, he will. He’s strong.”
“And he has something to come home to now. His wife is expecting their baby.”
“Ah, c’est bon. I think we’re beginning to see some light, a possibility of victory in all this darkness.” He paused, then asked, “Your new assignment. You like it?”
“I’m good at it. It helps to know you’re doing something that may help end this awful war.”
“What you’re doing here is good, Niki. Not everyone could do it. It may not seem exciting or daring, but it is important. Believe me.” Paul shifted his coat sleeve and looked at his watch. “I must go, Cherie.”
“Oh, Paul, can’t you stay? We could go somewhere …”
He shook his head. “I have meetings, and—” He halted. “I came here mainly to see you. I felt bad about how we parted. I was afraid I’d made you feel somehow—”
“That I didn’t measure up? Well, yes, for a while I did.” She smiled. “But then someone I care about very much suggested that it might not have been God’s plan for my life. That made me feel better about it.”
Paul lifted his eyebrows. “Someone you care about very much?” he repeated. “Are you in love, Niki?”
“I think so. Yes.” She smiled again. “I wish you knew him. You’d like him. He’s like Luc in some ways. Actually, they’re cousins. Maybe someday we’ll all meet.”
“Someday. Let us devoutly pray so, Cherie,” Paul sighed. “No matter what happens, I shall always remember that last day in Paris. You, Luc, and I, we took a picnic, sat on the bank of the Seine. We were so young, so happy. Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Niki said, feeling the tears gather in her eyes.
“Now I really must go,” Paul said.
She walked out to the hall with him. At the door they embraced. “Au revoir, Cherie,” Paul whispered. “The French farewell is so much more optimistic than the English. And we shall see each other again.”
Don’t know where, don’t know when. The words of the song she and Fraser called their own echoed in Niki’s mind. They kissed and Paul left. As she watched Paul go down the steps, Niki hated the war more intensely than she ever had.