CHARLOTTE
“Charlotte!”
I looked over the table at Mathilde, trying to focus on what she’d just said, but her words had washed right over my head. Instead of listening to her, I’d been thinking about Jean-Luc.
“So what do you think? Should I speak to him?”
I dragged my attention back to Mathilde. Who? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t dare.
“You haven’t been listening to a word, have you?”
I looked around the worn-out café, at the old posters of Edith Piaf and Yves Montand hanging off the peeling walls. “I’m sorry. I was miles away.”
“Obviously! What’s going on? Who are you daydreaming about?”
I felt myself blush. “No one.”
“No one who?” She smiled.
I couldn’t help smiling back. “Just someone I met at the hospital.”
“What? Hôpital Beaujon? A doctor?”
“No.”
She lowered her voice. “Please don’t tell me you’ve fallen for a Boche.”
“A collabo then?”
“No!” I took a gulp of water from my glass. I was sure he wasn’t a collaborator; it wasn’t his fault he was working on the lines that the Boches now controlled.
“Why was he in a German hospital then?”
“You could ask the same thing of me.” I stared down at the wine and coffee stains on the old wooden table.
“I could, but I know you. I don’t know him.”
I looked up at her. Concern shone through in her eyes. “He works on the railways. He had an accident; he got hit in the face by some track.”
“He’s a railroad worker?” Her tone betrayed her disappointment.
“Yes.” I paused. “I’m not sure he really likes me, though.”
“Charlotte, I wouldn’t worry about it. I can’t see any long-term relationship between you and a railroad worker.”
“Don’t be such a snob!” I kicked her under the table.
“Okay, okay. What does he look like?”
“You are so shallow!” I grinned. “He’s got thick dark hair, parted on the left side.”
“The left side? You are one for details, aren’t you?”
“And he’s got brown eyes… well, not plain brown like mine. There are tiny yellow dots and green darts in them, but from a distance they look brown.”
“You must have got close!”
“Well, I have to take his temperature every day.”
“Does it go up when you’re near him then?” Mathilde giggled.
“Don’t be silly. I just wish I knew if he liked me. He’s probably bored lying there in bed all day. That’s why he talks to me.”
“But Charlotte, why wouldn’t he like you? You’re pretty, intelligent—”
“No, I’m not. I’m skinny and plain.”
“For goodness’ sake, Charlotte. All you need is a bit of makeup, and maybe you could wash your hair.”
“I know. It’s flat and disgusting. Maman only lets me wash it on Sunday evenings. There’s not enough soap.”
“I don’t get your mother. You have a Picasso hanging in your apartment, but you have no soap!”
“Picassos aren’t rationed. Soap is.”
“Your mother won’t use the black market, but she has a forbidden artist’s painting hanging on her wall. Where’s the logic in that?”
“I know, I know. But she has her principles.” I paused. “Solidarity. She thinks we should stick together, and if rations are imposed, they should be the same for the rich as for the poor.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. My mother could be harsh, but she was no harder on me than she was on herself.
“I can get you some soap.” Mathilde paused. “If you want.”
“No, don’t worry.”
“Anyway.” She stretched her legs out under the table. “I’m not sure he’s worth it. He doesn’t sound right for you.”
“He’s really interesting and he asks me lots of questions about myself.”
“He’s just trying to flatter you. Does he talk to the other nurses too?”
“Yes.” My excitement faded. It was true—he did talk to all the nurses. I’d seen him.
Mathilde raised an eyebrow. “There you go.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. I shouldn’t think too much of it.”
“It’s because there are so few men around, Charlotte. It’s not normal, and so when one gives you some attention, you just soak it up.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’ll forget about him.”
“Good.” She leaned over the table, whispering, “The war will be over soon. I can feel it. You’ll meet someone better.”
The waitress stopped at our table. “More ersatz, girls?”
“Non, merci, just some water, please.”
Mathilde glanced up at the poster to my side. “Edith Piaf is playing this weekend. We said we’d go.”
“I know, but I haven’t asked my parents yet. Maman’s been in such a bad mood all week.”
“We can go to the afternoon show. Don’t ask—just tell them you’re going.”
“Okay, okay. I will.”
“And forget about him, all right?”
She didn’t understand that I didn’t want to forget about him, or meet someone else. I hadn’t been able to tell her how easy it was to talk to him, that he was who he was, and I felt I could become more of myself with him. It wasn’t even that he said that much, but he left gaps for me to fill. And he watched me so intently when I talked, as though he wanted to soak up every last little detail about me. I loved his questions; they made me feel like I was discovering myself as much as him. No one before had really bothered to find out my views about anything, and my thoughts came out raw, half formed, but he guided me patiently, taking in every word I uttered. I didn’t care that he was a railroad worker and hadn’t taken any damned exams. I bet he could have passed them if he’d wanted to, but he preferred doing something more practical, more useful.
He felt the same way about the occupation as I did. He didn’t want to be working for the Boches either. We were both trapped in a system, and we needed to find a way out. I was dying to do more for my country, and I knew he was too. I tried to think of things I could do in my own way, things that would be little signs of resistance. I could build them up, step by step, until I found the courage to do something more daring, more dangerous. I could start by folding my Métro ticket into a V shape, then dropping it on the ground, as some people did. So far, I hadn’t risked even that, not since I’d seen a woman get hit over the head for doing it. They’d made her get down on her hands and knees to pick the ticket up and straighten it out again. I’d cringed in embarrassment for her, but now I wished I’d spoken up instead, told her how brave I thought she was.