Crossings (40 page)

“You're not supposed to give me presents!” He looked embarrassed as he opened his gift, and seemed very pleased as he took out the dark blue and wine-colored silk dressing gown. And she had bought him navy blue suede slippers to go with it. She had teased him about the raggedy bathrobe he wore, and he always said that he'd had it for forty years and liked it. The girls gave him a new pocket watch, and they were as excited about it as he was. Liane had helped them pick it out at Shreve's, and they had also made him little gifts at school, ashtrays, and decorations for the tree, and pictures, and Elisabeth had made him an impression of her hand in clay. It was a Christmas that brought tears to his eyes, and Liane was pleased. He did so much for them that it was a good feeling to do something for him for a change.

They had Christmas dinner at home that afternoon, and then they all went for a drive to see the decorations around the city. But as they sat in the car, Liane found herself worrying about Armand and what kind of Christmas he was having in Paris. She suspected that it was grim, and knew how much he must have missed her and the girls. It was the first Christmas in eleven years that they had been apart, and she felt a dull ache in her chest to be without him.

Uncle George saw the look in her eyes as they got out at the St. Francis to have tea, and he was sorry too. He wanted her to forget him and meet someone else, but he knew that on Christmas it was inevitable that she think about her husband.

“Uncle George, look!” The girls distracted them both. They had discovered the enormous gingerbread house set up in the lobby. It was so large that the girls could have walked inside, and it was covered with thousands of tiny candies and tons of spun sugar. “Look at that!” Liane stood beside them with a smile, but her thoughts were far, far away. For days now, she had had a desperately worried feeling about Armand.

“Monsieur de Villiers?” He looked up from his desk. It was Christmas night, but there was no reason for him not to be working, and a few others had also come to the office. There had been an aura of tension in the office for weeks. The Resistance had stepped up their efforts so enormously in the past month that it was a struggle for Pétain's people to keep one step ahead of them. And the Germans did not find it amusing. In order to make their point, they had held their first public execution only two days before. Jacques Bonsergent had been shot for “an act of violence against an officer of the German Army,” and a pall of depression had fallen over Paris. Even the softening of the midnight curfew after that, for one day on Christmas, had had no effect. The cafés were allowed to stay open until 2:30 A.M. that night, and all traffic had to cease by three. But after the shooting of Bonsergent, no one wanted to be out anyway, except the Germans.

It was bitter cold in Paris that year, and it suited Armand's mood. His hands were almost numb as he sat at his desk, thinking of Liane and his daughters.

“Monsieur, have you seen this?” His zealous young assistant handed him a sheet of paper with disdain. It was entitled “La Résistance” and dated December 15, 1940, and it claimed to be the first edition of the only bulletin of its kind, published by the National Committee of Public Safety, giving news “as it really was,” as opposed to the propaganda being spread by the Occupied Forces. It spoke of the student demonstrations that had taken place in November, and the Faculté being shut down after that on November 12, and it reported the increased strength of the underground now. The little bulletin said that as of December, the Resistance had never been stronger.
“Soyez courageux, nos amis, nous vainquerons les salauds et les Bosches. La France survivra malgré tout… Vive de Gaulle!”
… Be brave, our friends, we will best the bastards and the Germans. France will survive in spite of it all… Long live De Gaulle! … Armand read it and was instantly sorry that he couldn't show it to Liane, and he didn't dare send it out in one of his letters, lest in some way it be traced back to him, and he couldn't afford to keep it on him. He handed it back to the young man, and wondered how Jacques Perrier had fared. He had gone to Mers-el-Kebir, in Algeria, the summer before, to be with De Gaulle. It was there that the French fleet had been seriously damaged, with the loss of more than a thousand lives. But Armand had heard several months earlier that Perrier was still alive, and he hoped he'd survive the war. But now his new assistant was looking down at him, expecting a reaction.

“Ça ne vaut pas grand-chose.”
It isn't worth much. “Don't worry about it.”

“The little pigs. They call themselves the true press.” Thank God for that, Armand thought silently, wondering why this young man was so fond of the Germans. He was ecstatic working for Armand, who was the official liaison now between Pétain's men and the German occupying forces in Paris. They were expected to report the collection of artifacts to be handed over to the Germans, the rounding up of Jews, and the discovery of any possible Resistance agents. It was a draining job and Armand looked ten years older than he had when Liane had left. But it was an ideal situation for him, giving him ample opportunity for reporting falsified facts, hiding the treasures he had spoken of to Liane, and assisting others in getting to the South of France, most often by shuffling and falsifying reports and papers. The young man who had handed him the newspaper was his greatest obstacle. He was much too interested in his job, like now, when he could have been home on Christmas with his family or his girl friend, but he was too busy trying to impress Armand.

“Don't you want to go home now, Marchand? It's getting late.”

“I'll leave with you, monsieur.” He smiled. He liked Armand. He was a great man for France, not like the other traitors who had gone to North Africa with De Gaulle. If he could have read Armand's mind at that moment and discovered the hatred there, he would have shuddered. But the years in the diplomatic service had served Armand well. He was ever charming and calm and efficient, and at times nothing less than brilliant. It was why Pétain had wanted him so much, and why the German High Command liked him, although they weren't always sure that they trusted him absolutely. In time, but not quite yet. The Pétain government was still too new, and they were only French, after all. But there was no doubt, Armand had been very useful to them.

“I may not leave for hours, André.”

“It's all right, sir.”

“Don't you want to spend at least some of Christmas at home?” They had been there all day, and the young man was driving him crazy.

“Christmas is much less important than this.” And what had they done? Gone over endless lists of names of possible Jews, some only quarter Jewish, or half, and some allegedly being hidden in the suburbs. It was work that made Armand sick, but the younger man loved it. And Armand had skimmed over entire groups of names whenever he could, burning the lists quietly in the fireplace in his office.

At last, in desperation, Armand decided to go home. There was nothing left to do here, and he couldn't hide any longer from the fact that his house was silent and empty. He dropped André Marchand at his home in the Septième, and went on to the Place du Palais-Bourbon, aching, as he always did. for Liane and his daughters.

“Good night, girls.” Liane kissed them in their beds in the house on Broadway. “Merry Christmas.”

“Mommy?” Marie-Ange picked up her head after the light was out, and Liane stopped in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“How long has it been since you heard from Papa?” She felt the familiar mixture of worry and longing slice through her.

“A little while.”

“Is he all right?”

“He's fine. And he misses you very much.”

“Can I see his letters sometime?”

Liane hesitated and then nodded. There was much in them that she didn't want to share, but the child had a right to some contact with her father. And he had precious little time and paper to write very often to the girls, he saved most of his energy and thoughts for Liane. “All right.”

“What does he say?”

“That he loves us, and he talks about the war, and things he sees.”

Marie-Ange nodded and, in the light from the hallway, looked relieved. “No one at school here says that he's a Nazi.”

“He's not.” Liane sounded desperately sad.

“I know.” And then after a pause, “Good night, Mommy. Merry Christmas.” And with that Liane walked back across the room to kiss her again. She was almost eleven now and growing up very quickly.

“I love you very much.” She swallowed to hold back tears. “And so does your papa.”

Liane saw that her daughter's eyes were damp. “I hope the war is over soon. I miss him so much.” She began to sob. “And I hated it—when—they called him—a Nazi—”

“Shh … darling … shh … we know the truth. That's all that matters.”

Marie-Ange nodded and held her mother close and then she lay back on her pillow with a sigh. “I want him to come home.”

“He will. We just have to pray that we can all be together again quickly. Now, go to sleep.”

“Good night, Mommy.”

“Good night, love.” She closed the door softly and went to her own room. It was eight o'clock at night, already five o'clock in the morning in Paris. And Armand lay in his bed in the Place du Palais-Bourbon, in a deep, exhausted sleep, dreaming of his wife and daughters.

n December Roosevelt took a two-week vacation and went fishing in the Caribbean, and when he returned, it was with a revolutionary new idea, the Lend-Lease program for England. It was a system by which America could supply Britain with a large stream of munitions, free of charge, in exchange for which the United States got leases on naval bases from Newfoundland to South America, and the program allowed the United States to maintain neutrality and at the same time help the English. On the whole, America had changed her tune by the end of 1940. Everyone acknowledged at last that Hitler was a deadly threat to the survival of Europe, and admiration for the British had reached its height. They were a brave, noble people fighting for their lives. And Churchill's pleas from London did not fall on deaf ears: “Give us the tools and we will finish the job. …” And on January 6, Roosevelt spoke before Congress. With his Lend-Lease program he wanted to give the British the “tools,” and a savage debate began that raged for two months. It was still raging when Hillary Burnham returned from Reno on February 8, a free woman.

She and Philip Markham had stayed at the Riverside Hotel for a little over six weeks, and like all the others, when she got her divorce, she threw the narrow gold wedding band Nick had given her into the Truckee River. The diamond ring he had given her along with it, she saved to sell when she got back to New York. But there were other things on her agenda first. She tried to see Johnny outside his school, but the bodyguard on duty wouldn't let her near him. Instead, she turned up at Nick's office without an appointment and forced her way in, despite his secretary's futile attempts to keep her out. She stood in the doorway in a new sable coat, wearing a new large pear-shaped diamond ring, which did not escape his notice.

“So, the great man is in. It's like trying to get in to see God.” She looked very confident, and very vicious, and terribly pretty. But he was immune to her now. He looked up from his desk as though he were in no way surprised to see her.

“Hello, Hillary. What do you want?”

“In a word, my son.”

“Try for something else. You'll have better luck.”

“So I notice. Who's the goon who stands over him like a mother hen?”

Nick's eyes glittered unpleasantly. “I gather you tried to see him.”

“That's right. He's my child too.”

“Not anymore. You should have thought of that a long time ago.”

“You can't wish me away, Nick, no matter how much you'd like to. I'm still Johnny's mother.” But there was something very ruthless in his face as he got up and crossed the room.

“You don't give a damn about that child.” But he was wrong. She did. She was getting married on the twelfth of March, and Mrs. Markham was already making comments about the scandalous legal proceedings between Hillary and Nick. She wanted Hillary to have custody so there would be no scandal. Philip and Hillary were creating enough of one by living together.