Crossings (25 page)

n the thirtieth of November, two days after Americans all over the United States had carved their turkeys, Soviet air and ground troops attacked Finland. As usual, Liane did not see Armand. She was starting to feel that their marriage was beginning to crumble along with Europe. For months she had felt that she could serve France by serving him, but more and more now he kept a distance from her that she had never felt before. He was distracted and silent, uninvolved with the girls; their sex life was at a total standstill. He gave all of his energies to France, and would allow her to give none of hers to him. He told her absolutely nothing now, and she no longer asked him what was new. She felt as though she were living alone with the girls, and they noticed it too, although, out of respect for Armand, she denied it to them.

“Papa is just very busy. You know that. It's the war.” But she was beginning to wonder if it was just that, or if it was something more. There were constant secret meetings at all hours of the day and night, and once or twice he went away for the weekend, but could not tell her where or with whom. She wondered briefly if he was involved with a mistress, as well as the war, but she didn't really think that.

Whatever was happening in his life, it did not include her. She might as well have gone back to the States, for the little she saw of him. And she found herself wondering now and then how Nick Burnham was holding up without his son, living in the enormous house on the Avenue Foch, all alone.

In fact, he was even more lonely than Liane. At least she had her daughters. He had no one at all. He had heard not a single word from Hillary since he'd left her on board the
Aquitania
in September. His only letters had been from Johnny, and one from his mother-in-law. All he could gather from what she told him was that Hillary was terribly busy in New York, and for some vague, undisclosed reason, Johnny was going to continue staying with her. Nick knew exactly what Hillary was up to. It was either Philip Markham, or someone else, but she didn't want to be saddled with her child, any more than she had wanted to the past summer. It turned Nick's stomach to think of the boy alone with his grandmother in Boston, but for the moment nothing could be done. He had planned to stay in Paris until after Christmas, but by the end of the week he knew that he couldn't go back yet. He had made a commitment he had to live up to, to assist the French. Now he hoped to be back in New York by April, though he didn't tell Johnny that when he wrote to him, not wanting to get the child's hopes up until he was sure. He just said soon. He cabled his office in New York to buy the boy a mountain of Christmas presents and have them delivered to Boston. It wasn't much of a replacement for a father or a mother, but it was something; it was all he could do for the moment. And it was more than
he
had in Paris on Christmas Day.

He stood alone in the paneled library, where he had once stood watching Johnny play in the garden, and now there was no one and nothing. The trees were bare, the garden was pale gray, there was no sound in the house … no Christmas tree … no carols … no shining face exploding with glee, digging through an overstuffed Christmas stocking. There was only the sound of his own footsteps as he walked up the stairs to his bedroom, carrying the last bottle of brandy he had bought before the war, and praying for a few hours of oblivion, when he wouldn't be aching for his only son. But even the brandy didn't help, and he stopped after three stiff drinks. They were just enough to take the edge off and then he sat down to write Johnny a letter, telling him how much he missed him, and how next Christmas would be much better than this. Nick Burnham was grateful when at last night fell, and he drew the curtains, turned off the light, and went to sleep.

he next four or five months were characterized by a period of limbo, a time referred to as the “phony war” in France, when nothing seemed to happen. The French stood staunchly at the Maginot Line, prepared to defend their country but not being asked to. And in Paris life went on almost as normal. After the initial shock, there were very few changes, unlike London, where rationing was acute and uncomfortable, sirens shrieked, and air raid drills were common almost every night. But in Paris, life was very different from all that.

It created a kind of subterranean tension, coupled with a false sense of security that nothing would ever change. Armand went on with his constant secret meetings, and rather than being supportive, Liane was beginning to get annoyed. At least he could tell her something about what he was doing, she reasoned. He had always trusted her before, but it was clear that he didn't now. He went on with his mysterious war work, disappearing occasionally for a few days at a time. She would get a quiet call from his office, telling her only that Monsieur had gone out of town.

The lull that appeared to overtake Paris allowed Nick to continue his work. There was the feeling in the air that this could go on for quite a while. Nick almost left in April, as he had planned, but things were so peaceful in Paris that he decided to tie everything up himself and stay for just one more month. And it was that month that was decisive. Suddenly the cancer that had spread so quietly erupted all around them. On May tenth Hitler attacked the Lowlands—Belgium, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg—and on May fourteenth the Dutch surrendered, after which the Germans moved into northern France. Suddenly everyone was frenzied and alert as they hadn't been since the previous August and September. The lull was over, and terror reigned. It was obvious now that Hitler had only been biding his time before attacking the rest of Europe. Once again the British had been right. But when Liane attempted to discuss it with her husband, he said nothing more to her. He had his hands full with his secret work.

Amiens and Arras fell on May 21, and the Belgians surrendered officially a week later, on May 28. During this time the evacuation of Dunkirk had begun, on May 24, and had continued for eleven horrendous, frenzied days. The news in Paris was appalling, the loss of life beyond anyone's worst fears. And on June 4, when the evacuation ended, Churchill spoke to the House of Commons, promising to fight in France, in Britain, or on the seas, whatever the cost would be. “… we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender!”

Six days later Italy entered the war. And on June 12, tragedy of tragedies in all eyes, Paris was declared an open city. The French had decided not to fight. On the fourteenth of June, Armand and Liane's eleventh anniversary, the Germans marched into Paris, and within hours the swastika flew from every major building in sight. From the Place du Palais-Bourbon Liane watched them, the ugly red flags flying in the breeze, as tears poured down her face. She hadn't seen Armand since the day before, and she was praying for his safety. But more than that, she was crying for France. The French had appealed for aid from her own country, but had been declined, and now Paris was in the hands of the Germans. It was enough to break anyone's heart.

Armand returned to the house for a moment that afternoon, on foot, by the back streets, to assure himself that Liane and the girls were not in danger. He told them to lower the drapes and keep the doors locked. The Germans would harm no one, but it was best not to catch their attention. He found her crying in their bedroom the moment he came in, and he took her in his arms. He was hurrying back to his office. They had destroyed truckloads of papers the day before, but there was still work to do before they turned the city over officially to the Germans, and now he told her that Premier Reynaud's cabinet would resign on the day after next. They had plans to flee south to Bordeaux, and Liane looked at him in sudden panic.

“Are you going with them?”

“Of course not. Do you think I'd leave you here alone?” His voice was tired and sharp and angry, and she didn't understand what he was saying.

“But don't you have to? Armand …”

“We'll discuss it later. Now, do as I tell you and stay indoors. Keep the girls quiet. Don't let the maids out….” He left her with a flurry of last instructions and disappeared into the silent streets. Others like them were indoors, hiding. It appeared almost like a deserted city as the German troops made their way through the town. There was not even one café open. There was nothing. No people, no open shops, no French soldiers. Those who had chosen to flee had left days before, and those who had chosen to stay were hiding. But by that night, a few ventured to their balconies, waving small German flags, and as Liane saw them she felt sick to her stomach. They were traitors, pigs. She wanted to scream as she saw them, but instead she closed the curtains quietly and waited for Armand to return. For days she had wondered what they would do next. There was no escape now. They were in the hands of the Germans. She had known when she had decided to stay in Paris with Armand after war was declared that one day this might happen. But in her heart of hearts she had never believed it. Paris could not be taken. And it wasn't. It was given.

Armand did not return to the house until almost dawn two days later. He was strangely quiet, his face pale, and he said nothing to his wife as he laid on the bed with all his clothes on. He did not sleep, he did not speak, he just lay there. After two hours he got up and bathed and changed his clothes as Liane watched. It was obvious that he was going out, but to where? He no longer had an office to go to. It belonged to the Germans.

“Where are you going?”

“This is the day of Reynaud's resignation. I must be there.”

“Do you have to leave?” He nodded. “And then what?”

He looked sadly at his wife. Finally he had to tell her something. For months now he had belonged to France and not Liane. It was like belonging to two women, and he didn't have the strength for both. It was almost as though he had betrayed Liane, with all her patience, all her trust, her love. He had to tell her. For too long now he had kept his secrets. “Reynaud leaves today for Bordeaux, Liane.” The words had an ominous ring to them, but he had told her that much two nights before. And he had said he wasn't going. “Before he leaves, there will be an official surrender.”

“And we will be ruled by the Germans.”

“Indirectly. Maréchal Philippe Pétain will become our President, with the approval of the Germans. He is supported by Jean François Darlan and Pierre Laval, two fine naval men of France.” It sounded like a party line and Liane stared at him.

“Armand, what are you saying? That Pétain will collaborate with the Germans?”

“For the benefit of France.” She couldn't believe what he was saying. And where was he in all this mess? With Reynaud and the old world, or Pétain and his collusion with the Germans? She could hardly bring herself to ask him, but she had to.

“And you?” But suddenly she realized that he had already told her. The two nights before when he had told her that Reynaud was fleeing to Bordeaux, he had told her that he was staying. She almost felt sick as she remembered, and she sat down on the edge of their bed, her eyes huge in her face. “Armand, answer me.” At first he said nothing, and then he sat down slowly beside her. Perhaps it was safe to tell her more than he had planned to. He had missed her for so long now. But it had been vital that he not involve her. “Armand?” The tears ran slowly from her eyes.