Over and over, she donned the mask.
She spent one afternoon in Épernay, the second largest city in Champagne and home to the famous champagne houses of Moët & Chandon, Perrier-Jouët, and Pol Roger. But she preferred the small villages, most boasting at least one or two small producers of champagne. She stopped at informal tasting rooms, chatted with winemakers, and was taken out to lunch by aspiring vendors, and when she limped back to theChambre Chardonnayat night, grateful to be done for the day, she reminded herself—for the thousandth time—how many people would have loved to have her job.
Hugh had offered Rosalyn the position out of friendship, and probably to the surprise of both of them, she wasn’t bad at it. But she wasn’t a great wine rep, either, and she never would be because she wasn’t by nature a salesperson. Emma was right. It leached something out of her soul.
But if I didn’t work for Hugh,she thought to herself, a slight panic fluttering deep in her belly,what would I do?
She couldn’tnotwork. More than two years after Dash died, shewas still paying down their debts, slowly and painstakingly digging herself out of the pit of financial obligations and bad credit that Dash had left her in. Rosalyn had long since reconciled herself to the fact that she would have to work at any decent-paying job she could get, not to mention she would never have the lavish art show Dash used to talk about. She never painted anymore, anyway.
Her fairy tale had had a far too real ending.
The only thing she really wanted to do right now was to dive back into Émile’s letters. She sat at the table in her room at thegîte, heedless of the passing hours as she deciphered words and phrases, checking their meanings with translation sites online, as well as lists of French slang and idiomatic expressions, striving to capture not just the definitions of the words and phrases but their true meanings, and the nuances of expression.
The dates were out of order, but she didn’t care.
January 14, 1915
My dearmarraine, Mrs. Whittaker,
We are now situated in xxx, not far from xxx. When last I wrote I promised next to tell you of how it all started. The beginning, as weRémoisexperienced it.
The euphoria over the victory of the Marne ceded to the somber fear of the approach of the invaders. At first there was a great exodus from the city, as those with means—and many of those with very little—slept at the train station with hopes of finding a space to ferry them south, away from the threatened onslaught.
I remember marching off to war, the citizens thronging the bridge of Laon to toss flowers to the convoys of uspoilusheading to the front, smiling and singing as we went.
WeRémoiswere confident we would defeat theBochesand return in time for Christmas. What made us think this, I still don’t know, except that it seemed so absurd that anyone should try to take our country from us. We were full of a brash confidence that now feels like arrogance, or ignorance, or a pathetic mixture of both.
Christmas has passed and we are in a New Year, but wepoiluscelebrate the holiday as we celebrate every day, hunkered down in our trenches of mud, leaning against sandbags and even our fallen comrades, as we have neither the time nor the ability to remove the poor broken remnants of men, sons, friends, fathers. I hesitate to tell you these things, my dearmarraine, but you repeatedly assure me I should tell you all the truth, as I see it. It is a horror, and surely not appropriate for a lady.
I hope you will not think badly of me when I tell you that despite the dreadfulness that fills my daily existence, there are moments of strange and glorious beauty. I seize upon them eagerly: a startlingly clear night, the stars twinkling and beckoning with their immaculate shine, untouched by the terror of bullets and shells, safe even from the poison gases.
A violent bombardment that leaves everyone shaken, yet somehow, miraculously, alive.
Or the Christmas Eve miracle—have you heard of it?
Truthfully, I don’t know whether or not to believe it actually happened, but I choose to. It is too wonderful a story not to. It was told to us by a medic who claimed he witnessed it firsthand.
This is the way he told the story:
Those of us who live in the trenches are at times only a few meters—or less—from the enemy ensconced in their own pits. When it is quiet, we sometimes speak to one another, or evenbarter for small items such as cigarettes. We are young men trying to stay alive, and when the enemy shows his human face, we are reminded that we used to be neighbors, relatives, fellow farmers, and merchants.
So, on Christmas Eve, while in his trench, a British soldier began to sing “Silent Night,” his sonorous voice filling the quiet void. You may know, my dearmarraine, that this is a song originally written in German. Other soldiers joined in, and when they finished, the Germans answered in kind, singing“Stille Nacht”in the original German. From then on the singing continued, and as darkness fell, candles were lit along the line. Some say there were even some gifts exchanged, and an informal cease-fire allowed each side to collect their dead from No Man’s Land in peace.
So, there you have it. A brief break in the fighting, in recognition of our shared humanity. I imagine the officers in charge wouldn’t like the idea of us seeing such humanity in our foes.
And when the night was over, the slaughter recommenced.
Your friend,
Émile Legrand
June 1, 1915
My dearmarraine,
I asked Lucie why she did not flee the city when she had the chance, and she told me a very long story. It was as though she needed to tell it, for someone to hear, to understand.
It was in August of 1914 that the refugees from the north began to arrive, a flood of Belgians, and those from Mézières and Rethel and Givet. They came by ox-drawn wagon andwheelbarrow, in carts loaded with a mishmash of furniture and other household objects, farm tools and children’s dolls.
