Ethel rose from her seat and made her way down the aisle toward the lounge car for a refreshment. As she passed through the railcar, she saw the other wives. While there were no segregated cars in France, she noticed her companions had managed to separate themselves. The whites sat on the right front side of the railcar. Ethel had sat in the center, on the left side. Julia Jones, the only other Negro wife on the trip, sat behind her, though she’d been sleeping the whole way.
The scent of burning cigarettes reached Ethel at the entrance to the lounge car, which was filled mostly with French and Spanish patrons eating on white china plates and sipping from champagne and highball glasses. Two young boys wearing knickers played checkers at one of the tables while their parents cackled over a board game that Ethel did not recognize. Sitting alone on a velvet sofa was a dark-haired woman with olive skin and striking blue eyes. She was the American wife who had coordinated the trip, but Ethel couldn’t recall her name.
“How do you do?” The wife tilted her chin while taking a long drag from her cigarette.
“I’m well. You?”
“Positively exhausted of this train, that’s for sure,” she said, exhaling.
Ethel chuckled. “That’s why I came for a beverage. Ripe for a change of scenery.”
“Where are my manners? Please, have a seat.” The woman gestured to the spot next to her.
Ethel hesitated for only a second before smoothing down the back of her skirt and taking the offered seat.
“Any idea how much longer we have to go?” Ethel sat her envelope purse in her lap. The classical piano music felt good against her ears.
“I think about thirty minutes more.”
A waiter appeared in a stiff black uniform. Ethel ordered a cup of English breakfast tea and the woman a gin fizz.
“Please, tell me your name again?”
“Ethel Gathers. My husband, Albert Gathers, is the army chief warrant officer.”
“I’m Dorothy. Dorothy Hansen.” She exhaled. “I’m married to Lieutenant General Skip Hansen. I’m glad you were able to join us. I’ve run this trip for three years straight. It was designed so that the new wives who arrived on base had the blessing to be fruitful by the Virgin Mary.”
That was Ethel’s hope, but she could not tell Dorothy. Instead, she said, “I have always wanted to take a religious pilgrimage.”
Dorothy smirked. “Well, hallelujah! You are the first. Most of the women are along for the adventure and the promise of a soak in the hot thermal baths that the Pyrenees Mountains are famous for.”
“Well, that sounds delightful too.”
The waiter returned and poured their respective drinks. “How long have you been in Germany?” Dorothy said as she sipped.
“A little over three months. Still trying to get my bearings.”
“Living abroad is an adjustment, but you will get used to it. I have come to appreciate the cultural experience. Back home I was forced to be so closed-minded.” Dorothy released the swivel handle of her belly-skin handbag and pulled out a book. “I think this will help.” She turned the book over to Ethel. The cover readThe Army Wifeby Nancy Shea. “It’s been a life saver for me. Outlining all the dos and don’ts that come with this gig. You are welcome to borrow it.”
Ethel wanted to refuse the book—she had enough reading to do for the article she was writing—but she recognized the book as an olive branch and decided to accept it. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“Don’t mention it.” Dorothy waved her comment away. “On this side of the pond, we have the freedom to get to know each other. Let’s take advantage of that.” She pinned Ethel with her blue gaze until both women couldn’t help but smile.
There was something refreshing about Dorothy, and Ethel foundherself saying, “I’d like that, and I’ll be sure to return the book when I am finished.”
At Gare de Lourdes, Ethel disembarked to blaring rail announcements in French and the smell of unflushed toilets. She touched the beaded necklace at her throat, hardly able to believe they had finally arrived. Dorothy led the group down the platform, through the station’s doors, and onto the street.
Tiny cars were scattered along the curb, and Dorothy pointed to the red passenger van waiting for them to the left of the entrance. As the women giggled their way onto the van, Dorothy confirmed the party with a head count.
Julia Jones slid across the leather seat next to Ethel. Julia had a square face and small eyes that reminded Ethel of Eartha Kitt. She smelled like maple syrup, and her hair was tightly curled.
“Well, this is the most exciting thing I’ve done in a long time, I must say.” Julia whipped out a black compact stenciled in gold with hummingbirds and flower petals. She powdered her cheeks, forehead, and nose as the van came to a traffic stop. “Have you traveled much?”
“Back home a bit,” said Ethel, touching her bangs. “But this is my first time in France.”
“Mine too,” cooed Julia.
“Your compact is stunning.” Ethel pointed.
