Riding back to town, I studied the photograph of my parents—my father’s brows, the curve of my mother’s lips, the shapes of their noses, chins, and eyes—trying to find myself in their faces. Did I look like Mother, or were there traces of Father, as well? I couldn’t wait to sit quietly and read the letters, to better understand these strangers who had brought me into the world.
The driver dropped me in front of the French guesthouse. Marguerite had invited me to the club for dinner, but the tumultuous emotions of the day had drained me. I left a note at the desk, saying I would join them another night. Strolling aimlessly down the leafy sidewalks of the main street, I reached the gate to Wat Xieng Thong. Bounmy had put a star next to the temple’s name and written a long description about its architecture and art. When I entered the courtyard, I understood why it was his favorite wat. The main building, the sim, had nine tiered roofs, which swept low, ending in graceful curves that nearly touched the ground. Intricate designs carved into the gilded wood danced across the outside walls and portals.
I found a bench next to a small golden pagoda. The perfect retreat. Sheltered by the shade of an ancient bodhi fig tree, I closed my eyes, slowly breathing in and out, listening to birdsong until I felt ready. Untying the ribbon around the packet, I counted ten letters penned by my father, arranged by the date received. The first one was a slightly yellowed, single sheaf of rice paper covered on both sides in faded blue ink. I recognized the uneven scrawl from the tag attached to my doll Giselle. The letter appeared to have been folded and unfolded countless times, causing a small tear on one side. Two round stains near the bottom blurred the ink. Perhaps my mother’s tears?
Monday, April 19, 1915
My precious Laya,
I hope this finds you and the little ones well and not lacking in any material way. Tomorrow I shall wire more money. Words can hardly express how my heart aches for you, to feel your warmth and comfort next to me and the children’s sweet kisses on my cheeks. Please forgive me for answering my country’s call to duty. Leaving you was the hardest decision I’ve ever made.
I write from my house in Aix-en-Provence, having arrived in Marseille early yesterday morning. Passage on the Paul Lescat was uneventful despite the captain’s concern over the possibility of encountering German U-boats in the Mediterranean. I hope you received the two letters I posted in Port Said and Colombo. Mail service from these ports of call is notoriously unreliable.
I stopped to look through the letters again but found nothing from these towns.
The house is in good repair, thanks to the efforts of my sister Helene and her husband Bertrand. But the empty rooms echo with loss and loneliness and unbearably sad memories. Sometimes I think I hear little Mathis racing down the hallway, clutching his teddy bear and calling out for his papa. Why did God take him from us so soon?
I dined with Helene and her family at their home last night. She told me of her visit to Paulette in Marseille last month. I’m saddened to hear my former wife is still consumed by grief for Mathis and a bitter hatred of me. She has finally agreed to file a divorce petition, blaming my infidelity for the failure of our marriage, even if this has nothing to do with the truth. No judge will care that Paulette deserted me emotionally and physically almost from the beginning of our marriage. I will gladly assume culpability to be free. By the time the war is over, and I return to you, we will be able to marry.
I reread the last paragraph several times, trying to understand my father’s unhappy marriage and what had brought it to an end. He appeared to feel no remorse for his affair with my mother, only relief to be free of his earlier commitment, and I could not help but feel sympathy for this woman Paulette, who must have suffered as well. How much I had to learn of the complicated machinations of love.
Spring is unfolding with cherry and almond trees in full bloom and fields full of wildflowers. This season of renewal makes me think of our days together, when your love restored my soul. Despite the beauty, the dark clouds of war cast a long shadow across the countryside. Provence is removed from the major fighting in the north, but many young men have left to join the army’s ranks, and as I walked the streets in town today, I crossed several people wearing black arm bands of mourning. Neighbors and shopkeepers talk of nothing but the terrible battles and loss of life that consume newspaper headlines each day. Surely it cannot last much longer.
I registered at Military Command today and expect them to send orders by the end of next week. I will write as soon as I receive an assignment so you can write back and tell me how you and the twins are doing. I promise to return to you safe and healthy as soon as possible.
With all my love and kisses for you, Sakuna, and Vinya,
Your devoted Henri
My eyes welled up. The intimacy of my father’s words gave me the impression of knowing him in some small way, as if a curtain had been pulled aside to reveal a rough sketch of the man I had only imagined. His testament of devotion to my mother and his children consoled me. Here was the truth I had been seeking.
I staggered back to my lodgings, feeling close to fainting, as fatigue and heat overtook me. One of the young servants was at home and offered me a bowl of vegetables and noodles, which I gratefully accepted. A little after six, I collapsed on my quilt and slept for the next twelve hours.
Over the next few days I would wait impatiently for work to end so I might return to my quiet sanctuary at Wat Xieng Thong. I stayed until the light faded, reading Father’s letters, devouring each word and turn of phrase like a person starved of sustenance, examining the details of his thoughts and feelings, searching to comprehend the man I could not remember.
Father’s correspondence had been written over eleven months, the first notes beginning with great optimism—the war would soon be over, France would prevail. He found it extraordinary when the military made him a first lieutenant in the Second Army in charge of a platoon. His rank was based on his education and government position in Laos, since he had no military experience other than a two-month stint in a reserve unit in Provence at the age of nineteen. He barely knew how to fire a rifle. He was sent to training camp for a month, then on to a city (the name was blacked out by censors) at the heart of the fighting, which endured constant attacks from nearby German encampments.
His tone grew more somber as the reality of war crushed his spirit, yet he continued to promise to return safely to Laos. Only once did he let down his guard to describe the fighting on the front lines, parts of which had been blacked out by censors. It was as if he could no longer contain his overwhelming despair.
Here on the front line, XXX miles from Paris, we live with the constant noise and smoke of shells exploding around us and the relentless rat-a-tat-tat of German machine guns spraying bullets at XXX per minute. Our unit has been reduced from XXX to XXX men. My soldiers and I hunker down in the muddy trenches, reeking of sweat and fear, until we become too numb to care. Many suffer from dysentery and fevers. I find the quiet moments the most unnerving, when I have time to reflect on the situation. My men look to me for reassurance, but I have none to give them. This morning a young man was laughing and telling me about his fiancée when, without a sound, he slumped over dead, a bullet in his head, his surprised eyes still open. I grieve for every loss.
I have no right to burden you with these grim scenes. But I am beyond exhaustion and cannot think clearly. Do not fear for me. Know your love is always close, protecting me.
The scenes he painted horrified me. I could not bear to know his life had ended in this hell. The last few envelopes contained short cryptic sentences, hurriedly scratched with parsed words meant to convince Mother he would be one of the lucky few to survive when so many others did not. I longed for more, to hear his life story, rather than these brief accounts of war. A million what-ifs sprang to mind, as I pictured a different outcome, a father who had survived the war and returned to his family.
His last communication arrived in late March 1916, written over a month before. Father had already been dead for several weeks by the time Mother received it. These last words tore me apart.
Sunday, February 20, 1916
Laya, my heart and soul,
How blessed I have been to share our deep and perfect love, the joy of our beautiful children. Such sublime happiness is all one can ask for in this mortal world. Tomorrow we begin a major offensive, one I hope will turn this dreadful war in our favor. If I should not make it through, remember my devotion to my petite family in Luang Prabang. We shall meet again in a better place.
All my love forever,
Henri