TWENTY-SIX
BEATRICE
Paris
July 1915
It was time for the annual Independence Day pilgrimage to Lafayette’s grave, and my nephew was coming to Paris.
I may have had some small part in convincing the ambassador to convince the French government to give all Americans fighting with the French leave for the holiday. And now Emily and I were decorating the embassy tables with red poppy centerpieces to make things cheerful for Victor’s arrival.
Having returned from Switzerland, the Chapmans were overjoyed at the prospect of seeing their boy again. But neither was keen to talk to me about their visit with Willie, during which he must have revealed my desire for a divorce. Ever observant, Emily noticed. “I don’t believe Mrs. Chapman has said more than ten words to you. Has there been a spat?”
“Of course not.” My sister-in-law was far too well-bred for that. But if she was distraught about the state of my marriage, she should take it up with her brother, who apparently had nothing better to do than soak in a Swiss spa. Since I’d decided to get on with my life with or without my husband’s consent, my anger had cooled, but resentment remained. Such that I didn’t even bother to ask whether or not the specialist in Switzerland had got Willie back in fighting trim.
It was good practice to consider it none of my affair, and to focus on what I came to France to do. Not that the Woman’s Peace Party was making it any easier. They’d come to Paris, fresh off their failed conference at The Hague. It had gone the way I predicted, and Clara Simon was complaining about it, which validated my good opinion of her. “What self-respecting Frenchwoman would attend a peace conference when it conveys weakness at the very time our men are fighting for their lives in the trenches? We feminists are to what—tell them to throw down their guns, let the Germans take us, our homes, our livelihood, and all our rights?”
Her tone dripped with scorn, and I didn’t blame her. Anything short of humiliating defeat would still profit the kaiser. Marie-Louise LeVerrier added, “It pains me to think otherwise intelligent suffragettes have soiled their reputations with this foolishness.”
It pained me too, because it played into the caricature of women being too sentimental to understand politics—or their audience. I thought politics was rather like an art, the realities of which could be studied, the expression of which could be perfected in the right setting. And Independence Day was just the right backdrop for my performance. For I was on hand to ensure that, for the first time in history, the French government would take part in the annual pilgrimage to Lafayette’s grave—which would serve as a reminder of the alliance between our two nations.
An alliance President Wilson had thus far seen fit to ignore.
This would make another statement; one loud enough, I hoped, to be heard in Washington, DC.
“Aunt Bea!” Victor dropped his bag to lift me off the ground.
I fended him off with an outstretched hand. “Careful of my hat!” It was, after all, a dainty white straw bonnet with a ribbon of blue stars and scarlet stripes that delighted his fellow legionnaires—American volunteers all, including three black men.
Victor introduced them all with easy camaraderie. Fighting together, it seemed, made them a sort of family, without distinction to race, religion, or class—as democratic as anyone could hope. “We’ve quite a feast for you gentlemen,” I promised. “But first, just a little more standing on ceremony.”
Thereupon, I had the honor of introducing my nephew to Madame Kohn, the French wife of Corporal Kohn, a brilliant Polish mathematician, Victor’s dearly departed brother-at-arms.
She had with her now their fatherless son, a boy named Uriah—a sight that rendered poor Victor nearly mute with emotion. “Your husband was my very good friend,” my nephew finally managed to say to Madame Kohn, his voice unsteady. “A genius too. He proved to me that a lovable softy can also be a very brave soldier . . .”
Little Uriah stared up at Victor, mesmerized. “Papa was brave?”
Victor stooped down to meet the boy’s eyes. “The bravest.”
“As brave as pilots that go up in the sky?”
“Braver, because he spent his time down in the trenches with bullets whizzing by his nose, and he couldn’t fly away.” My nephew’s throat bobbed. “Here, there’s something I want to give you. Something he’d want you to have so you can be as brave as he was.”
The lights popped nearby as a photographer captured Victor removing his tricolor pin off his jacket and putting it into the boy’s hand. “If you’re ever feeling scared without your father, you just hold this tight and know he’ll be watching over you. And I’ll watch over you too, if I can.”
My nephew was quiet on the way to Picpus Cemetery—a strangely hallowed place—a private burial ground far from the ordinary bustle of Paris. Three hundred of us passed through the plain wooden door, passed a small chapel, and walked a tree-lined path to place flower wreaths and drape an American flag where Lafayette was buried beside his wife.
The engraved stone slabs that marked the site were mantled in metal wreaths, weathered to a patina of verdigris. This was, I thought, a remarkably humble resting place for General Lafayette and his wife. Something the ambassador made note of in his speech. “No tall shafts rise toward the clouds to perpetuate their memories. Their monuments are in the loving, grateful hearts of their fellow men. In fact, I see all around me figures patterned on his model—a thousand Lafayettes.”
I felt buoyed by the applause. Strengthened and cheered. Then a speaker said, “As we honor Lafayette today, let us not forget his wife, whose steadfast devotion during the American Revolution made this day possible. All her life, she dedicated herself to the cause of liberty—running great risks and making great sacrifices. Women here with us today continue her glorious tradition.”
The speaker motioned to me, where I was standing with my lady friends. Emily made a little hiccup of surprise, while Marie-Louise and Clara squeezed hands. These things we did, small symbolic gestures . . . perhaps they mattered as much as I hoped they did.
Later, at the embassy, after Victor and his fellows demolished a five-course meal, they smoked the cigars Mr. Chapman gave them and readied for a night out. My nephew hung back, wrapping leftovers in newsprint.
“I can get you another portion of steak if you’re still hungry,” I said.
“I just want the bone for a puppy back at the front,” Victor said. “A true war dog. Born in the trenches. He’s not big enough yet to keep the rats away, but he sleeps near me at night. Hate to think of something happening to him without me.”
His voice broke and he was nearly in tears over a puppy . . . I realized it was more than that. “You’re thinking about leaving the legion.”
“I promised you I would,” he said, hanging his head. “After meeting Kohn’s boy, I think maybe it might mean something for me to join the aviators. I can die in the sky for the cause as easy as I can in a hole, but be more visible when I do. A thousand Lafayettes and all that . . .”
“Victor, I don’t want to hear any talk about dying for your cause. Better, as the saying goes, that you make a few of those German blighters die for theirs!”
He chuckled. “I’ll try to make you proud.”
I ruffled his hair. “I’m already bursting with pride in you, silly boy!”
“I guess I’d better tell my folks to pull strings.”
Spying the Chapmans across the banquet hall, I said, “Well, I’ll let you get on with it, since I don’t seem to be their favorite person at present.”
Victor gulped in the way he used to as a young boy, trying to cover up for the mischief of his siblings. “They just don’t want to tell you about Uncle Willie’s plans.”
In exasperation, I played a guessing game. I supposed my husband was going to join the French Foreign Legion. Then again, he didn’t like anyone in authority over him. More likely he was going to gin up a gun-running scheme or start a spy ring, as he’d done in times of old. Whatever Willie has planned, it’s no longer your concern, I told myself. I’d moved on to omelettes with a man who kissed me like he worshipped me. “Your uncle is free to live his life as he sees fit, and I intend to do the same.”
“He’s going to have his leg lopped off,” my nephew said.
The air around me seemed to bend, and I couldn’t catch a breath. “Pardon?”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Bea. Uncle Willie’s leg has been paralyzed since the surgery . . .”
How was that possible? I’d just seen Willie a few months ago. He’d looked better. Much recovered. Then I remembered that he hadn’t stood to greet me when I came to the table. Nor had he chased me when I stormed away. Realizing he couldn’t stand up, my temples began to throb, and I felt a wave of sickness.
“He didn’t want you to know,” Victor explained. “Not until he was sure the leg couldn’t be saved. That’s why he was in such a hurry to get to Switzerland. He hoped the specialist at the clinic would have better news. Unfortunately, the medical consensus is that the leg has to go.”
My hands went to my face in shock. The loss of a leg would be a terrible thing for any person, but for someone like Willie, someone who loved athletics and feats of daring—
I sank down into a chair, bereft. So obvious was my distress that Victor had to get me a drink. Meanwhile the Chapmans rushed to my side, guessing their son had broken the news. “Oh, Beatrice, darling, we had no idea until we saw him.”
Victor was abashed. “Uncle Willie made me keep it from everyone.”
Jack Chapman, who had himself undergone an amputation, patted his boy’s shoulder with his remaining hand. “Water under the bridge now. We mustn’t worry overmuch. The operation is serious, but your uncle Willie is filled with courage. He scheduled the amputation for this week.”
I all but screeched with panic. “This week? I need to go to the train station. I—I need to be with him. I’ll send for my bags.”
“Beatrice,” Jack said gently. “He doesn’t want you there.”
Smote to the heart, I was no longer willing to take that as an answer.
“How the devil did you get a connection through?”
Just hearing Willie’s voice on the other end of the telephone line made my hand shake. “You’re not the only one who can call in favors, and the ambassador couldn’t bear to see me cry.”
Willie didn’t reply. He was probably trying to guess what I knew. The jig was up, and all I could do was replay our last horrible fight in my mind. My husband had somehow got himself to a luncheon on a paralyzed leg, and before he could tell me about the possibility of an amputation, I’d asked him for a divorce.
What a cruel harpy I must have seemed!
And what was it he’d said?
I’m afraid it simply would not be in your best interests to divorce me at this time. Perhaps, in a short time, you’ll find that things have changed.
He’d been thinking he might die. That I’d be better off as a wealthy widow instead of a divorcée. Realizing this, I wanted to heave up the lavish embassy meal into the wastebin. “Why didn’t you tell me about your leg?”
“Because I can’t bear to see you cry either.”
I smeared my tears with the back of my hand. “If you’d told me, I’d have gone with you to Switzerland. I’d have tended you until—”
“Exactly what I feared you’d do.”
So he’d quarreled with me instead. Now, since I couldn’t reach for him through the line, my fingers gripped the oak base of the telephone with its engraved eagle. “This is why you sent me and the boys away last autumn . . . you knew you might have to have your leg amputated.”
“There was also a war going on. Regardless, the last thing I wanted was my boys to see me as an invalid. I hoped I’d heal. I didn’t. Now I’ve just got to have the leg off and be done with it.”
My heart ached for him in this hour of anguish. Trying to steady myself, I blew out a breath. I’d expected to sail home soon with Emily, but I couldn’t abandon him now. “I’ll take the first train to Switzerland.”
“Beatrice, if I’m to bear this with courage, I can’t have any of you here. That’s why I sent Jack and Elizabeth away.”
At least the Chapmans could say they’d visited my husband’s sickbed, whereas I’d been kissing a handsome French officer, and now I hated myself for it. “Just what do you expect me to do, Willie? I ought to at least be there when you wake up, to hold your hand and—”
“Hold my hand after I’m up and walking again, home with the boys.”
I swallowed in surprise. “You’re coming home to New York after the surgery?”
“It’s about time, don’t you think? With Freddy Vanderbilt’s death, there’s the hotel to think about. And I imagine you’ll still want your divorce . . .”
My eyes squeezed shut. He must have thought I was the worst kind of ingrate! After all he’d done for me . . . and he didn’t even know I was a jezebel. Emotions ajumble, I was certain of only one thing. “Even when I was so angry at you I could spit, I told you I’d do anything for you. That’s still true, Willie. Please tell me what I can do.”
The pause on the other end of the line went on so long I feared we’d lost our connection. Finally, he said, “Give me a reason to get well. When this is all over, promise me I’ll have a wife waiting for me at home.”
I forgot the war, I forgot Max Furlaud, I forgot everything but Willie. “Of course you will. That’s a promise!”