May 1918, Calais, France
The dairy outside Calais had changed during the war. With Julian’s mother gone, the place felt empty, older, less cheerful, but Julian did what he could to repair the roof, the barn, and the stairs from the kitchen to the garden. His father seemed to have aged in decades rather than years since the war began. He had kept the cows alive and fed, had planted the garden and the fields, and was still making cheese. But there was too much for one sixty-year-old man to do by himself. Like most children, Julian had grown up thinking his father was old, but it wasn’t until now that his papa seemed elderly.
As the end of his convalescence approached, Julian looked around the familiar home and wished he could have done more. He still had trouble breathing when he exerted himself and still felt weak when it came time to draw water or rid a field of weeds. His father caught him staring out the window at the grass invading the garden. “I’ll get it out before I go,” Julian promised. He still had three days of leave.
“I can do it eventually. You’re supposed to be resting, remember?”
“I’ve been resting all spring.”
His father chuckled. “If you call fixing the roof and milking the cows resting.” Then he sighed. “I wanted to leave you a nice dairy, not a rundown wreck.”
“We’ll make it good again when the war ends.”
“Did the doctors say if you’ll recover any more?”
Julian shrugged. “They aren’t sure.”
“So many gas cases. You would think they’d have a better idea.”
Julian hadn’t told his father where he’d been, what he’d been doing, and he couldn’t tell him that he still wasn’t sure which gas or gases he’d been exposed to. He tried to change the subject. “Do you think they’ll stop the German advance?” Julian believed Sauer’s genuine worry that German manpower was at its end, but waiting for the tide to turn took patience.
“Eventually. Then maybe they’ll come to a settlement, and when the army releases you, the two of us can muddle through, get this dairy up and running again so you’ll have something worthwhile to offer a pretty girl.”
Julian frowned.
“What’s that look for?” his father asked.
“I’m not sure I have much to offer a woman. The dairy will improve, but I might not.”
His father huffed. “You still have both arms, both legs. So you can’t run a marathon—”
“I can’t even run a kilometer.”
“I’ve seen the casualty estimates, Julian. When this war is finally done, a smart woman will know she’s lucky to get a man at all, extremely fortunate to get one with land and a willingness to work hard.”
“A willingness, but not the ability.”
“Give it some time.” His father patted him on the back. “Whatever happened to that girl you wrote to me about, the one you met when you went to Maximo’s village on your last leave?”
He thought of the delicate woman with brown hair, green eyes, and a hidden fear. “I never learned her name. And that was three years ago.”
“But you know where she lives.”
“She’s not there anymore. She was going to Paris.”
“Perfect. The Scotsman found an assignment for you in Paris. If her family is still in the village, you can stop by and get her address.”
Julian was glad the war hadn’t crushed his father’s optimism, but he shook his head. “That’s a long way to travel on a maybe. Besides, I don’t think the war will be over before harvest. I planned to use my money to hire help for you.”
“A train ticket isn’t that expensive, and I can manage harvest without help. I think you should go.”
* * *
Julian’s father talked him into it. If the woman was married, he would turn around and head right back for the train station. But if not, maybe it was worth pursuing a memory that still affected him three years later.
He doubted she was at her half brother’s house, doubted she even wrote to him. But he easily found the home he had helped move the mother’s things to. Everyone wrote to their mother, didn’t they?
The woman who answered vaguely resembled the woman of his memory but had brown eyes instead of green and skin lined with wrinkles rather than the smooth complexion he remembered. The sister, he assumed. Her eyes widened when she noticed his uniform. “Oh no. It’s Phillipe, isn’t it?” Her hands shot to her mouth. Behind the fingers, Julian could see her lips tremble.
“Who’s Phillipe?”
“My husband. Did you serve with him? Is he all right? I haven’t heard from him in three weeks.”
“I don’t know your husband.”
“Oh.” He watched her shoulders relax. A child came to the doorway, and she shooed her away.
“I was actually trying to find your sister. I met her briefly when she moved your mother here.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “So now the army’s looking for her? You leave Evette alone. I don’t care what Gaspard says. If she threw hot soup on him, it’s because he was threatening her. I don’t know why you and the gendarmes and the mayor can’t let it go—it was three years ago. Gaspard’s face barely scarred.”
“Your sister threw hot soup at your half brother?”
The woman didn’t answer. Her glare continued.
“I’m not trying to punish your sister. I’m glad she got away. I just . . . I just wanted to see her again. I don’t wish her any ill.”
The woman’s face softened slightly. “Even if you don’t mean her harm, I don’t know where she is.”
“She doesn’t write to you?”
“No. She was afraid Gaspard would come searching for her, and he knows everyone at the post office. She wrote to our brother, but he died last year, and I’ve not heard any news of her since. She sent a package for the children at Christmastime, from somewhere in Paris, but there was no street address.”
Knowing the meek woman had fought back against Gaspard only increased Julian’s admiration for her. That was the type of spunk she’d need to thrive in Paris. But Paris was a very large place. “Do you know which factory she works for?”
“No, monsieur. If you mean her well, good luck. I hope you find her. If you mean her harm, I hope the zeppelins get you.” One of the children came to the door again. “Excuse me, monsieur.”
“Wait.” Julian had to ask one final question. “Is she married?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
He walked slowly back to the train station. He had a long wait to think about the woman, Evette. He pictured meeting her again, planned what he would say. Paris was enormous, but Julian knew how to be persistent.
She stayed in his mind the entire train ride to Paris. During his first days in the capital, he made lists of factories to check. When he wasn’t working, he was searching. He settled into the job McDougall had found for him, sifting through German newspapers and intercepting transmissions for French Intelligence. It was a safe, clean job, the type of easy duty he’d envied while in the trenches. He quickly grew proficient with his assignments, but Evette proved elusive. He spent hours seeking her, walking through crowds of shoppers until his lungs burned, then sitting on benches to watch factory workers arrive for their shift. Months went by, and he didn’t stop, but finding one woman in Paris without knowing where she lived or worked was like combing Flanders in search of a misplaced helmet.