Please send DeWitt’s crackers and Bailey’s candy.
—Miss Liza Shaw, ’09, to Mr. and Mrs. Robert F. Shaw Jr.
August 1917
Paris, France
“There’s been a delay,” said Mrs. Rutherford.
“What sort of delay?” asked Emmie, trying hard not to yawn. She wondered if one became used to air raids with practice, or if one simply learned to use earplugs.
Unlike the rest of the bleary-eyed crew, Mrs. Rutherford was fizzing with energy. “Our trucks seem to have been mislaid. But never fear! We shan’t let this discommode us. We shall simply bend like the reed, rather than breaking like the oak. Please pass the bread basket.”
The bread basket was marooned in front of Maud, who was staring at it with horror. “Good heavens, what is this?”
“War bread, I think,” said Emmie. She took an investigative bite. “It’s not bad, really. Just a bit . . . grainy.”
There was even butter, which Emmie hadn’t expected. She could see Liza eyeing the butter dish and pushed it over to her with a smile.
Maud grimaced. “Is it meant to stiffen our spirits or our intestines?”
“Try it and see,” suggested Julia. Sleeplessness emphasized her excellent cheekbones but did little for her mood. “In the interest of science.”
Mrs. Rutherford, meanwhile, was eating her war bread with apparent relish with one hand and reading her correspondence with the other. “Exciting news! Le Petit Journal, Le Petit Parisien, and Le Soir all wish to send reporters to speak to us. Mr. Dewey of the Saturday Evening Post tells me that we are quite the best story of the war.”
“Really? Us?” asked Emmie, feeling an entirely unworthy flare of excitement. Others adhered to the mantra that a woman ought only to appear in the papers three times: when she was born, when she married, and when she died, but her mother had made a practice of headlines. It wasn’t self-aggrandizement if it was for a cause.
She wondered if her mother would see, if one of her many friends in France would send Le Soir back to her, with a picture of Emmie in it. A picture of all the Unit, of course. But it was hard not to daydream of being singled out for some striking stroke of heroism.
“But why?” asked Miss Englund practically. “There are other women in the war, surely?”
“Not like us,” said Mrs. Rutherford. “We are not adding our efforts to someone else’s work, to a man’s work. We are, ourselves, complete and entire. Les Collégiennes Américaines.”
“Les what?” asked Liza, who hadn’t benefited quite as much as she could from Kate’s lessons on the boat, although she had certainly tried.
“The American College Women,” translated Kate, without looking up from her bread. Kate was looking particularly white and pinched; Emmie wondered how long she had stayed out there on the balcony last night.
“A French title easily pronounced is absolutely necessary,” said Mrs. Rutherford. “When I gave the list of all our names to the police, I wrote that above it. So as not to have any confusion about who and what we are.”
“It sounds rather unpleasant, doesn’t it?” said Miss Patton nervously, fiddling with the edge of the lace jabot she had added to her uniform shirtwaist. “Being registered with the police. As though we were felons.”
“Or German spies,” put in Maud. “I hear they’re everywhere.”
This all seemed to be taking a rather dark tone, so Emmie decided it was time to intervene. “Would anyone else like some butter? I do think it’s wonderful that we still have butter.”
“Yes, just meatless Mondays and Tuesdays,” said Maud, “and no hot water except on Saturday or Sunday. Do you think that really is the rule, or is Madame just trying to scare us away so she can have her boxroom back?”
“Madame is delighted to have us,” said Mrs. Rutherford absently. “Do listen to this! Our agent has been busy on our behalf at Grécourt. La Baronne de Robecourt has agreed to let us stay in the chateau—such as it is. The army has inspected and cleaned the wells for us, and . . . the Ministry of the Interior has provided us with three barracks to house us!”
“Barracks? But . . . aren’t we staying at the chateau?” Miss Patton glanced to Maud for support. “I thought you’d said there was a chateau.”
“The chateau is not exactly habitable. Those days, I fear, are gone. But wait! There’s more. They’ve got plumbing for us! They’ve put in a small motor engine to pump water. It shows just how much they value our efforts. This region had the richest farmland in France—until the Germans came through. It is now in a state of almost total destruction. They are looking to us, ladies. To us.”