Margaret Cooper immediately found someone who had a sister who was her year at Smith. Kate was left to talk to two others and, in want of something to say, gestured to the house behind them, the one flying the American flag.
“That building—is it the American consulate?”
“It’s—er, a sort of clubhouse,” said one of the men, exchanging a look with another.
“They mean it’s a bawdy house,” said Fran Englund calmly as they went back to their abandoned trucks. She climbed back up into the Ford, sitting down on the board over the gasoline tank that served as a seat. “My brother told me. He said when our troops first landed there was a line that went down three blocks.”
“That’s dreadful. Don’t their commanders do anything about it?” demanded Liza. Her eyes looked even more like glass dolls’ eyes than usual, round as a cartoon in the Sunday papers.
“Sure they do,” said Fran. “They demand the first spots in line.”
Kate coughed to cover a snicker.
“It’s not funny,” said Liza earnestly, holding on to the side of the truck. “I’ve heard it’s all a German plot. They’re getting French loose women to seduce our troops to undermine the health of the American army.”
“I’m sure our boys would never think of visiting a French bawdy house otherwise,” said Fran, straight-faced.
Liza looked from Fran to Kate, wounded. “It’s true! I heard it from a woman at the YMCA.”
“Who I’m sure heard it from the Germans?” guessed Kate.
“Well, no—but someone reliable. Maud says it’s dreadful and it’s every American woman’s job to keep our boys on the straight and narrow.”
“Does Maud’s fiancé know that?” whispered Fran to Kate as Kate passed by on her way back to the White truck.
“Maybe he’s her own special reclamation project,” Kate whispered back, and went to join Margaret Cooper in the White.
It was like college again—college with the threat of impending destruction, that was. She felt like she was playing a theatre role: college Kate, the Kate who bantered and laughed and pretended to be just like everyone else.
The difference was, in college, she had really thought she was just like everyone else, that being secretary of the literary society and volunteering with the dramatic society washed out all the differences, made her one of them. She’d always had an ear for languages; it had been easy to snuff out any lingering traces of a Brooklyn accent, until she didn’t even have to think about it anymore, her voice had changed, just as she had changed.
It was so easy, with Fran and Alice, who didn’t know her, who knew only that she was another Smith girl and a member of the Relief Unit, to pretend to be that person again. To actually be that person again. They didn’t look at her and see a charity girl; they didn’t know she was a charity girl. She was just Kate, who had done her fair share putting together the White truck.
But they were going back to Paris. Where Emmie never meant to make her feel less, but always did.
Not to mention that Julia would be sure to put her in her place given the chance.
No, it wouldn’t do to get too comfortable. They’d only find her out eventually. Kate winced at the memory of Maud on the boat, assuming her mother was her nanny. She’d meant to tell her, she really had.
Or maybe she hadn’t.
“Watch out for the—”
“Oh, bother.” Kate bit her tongue hard as the truck hit a large pothole. “Would you like to drive for a bit, Margaret? You’re better at it than I am.”
The rain started just after lunch, hardening from a mist into a persistent drizzle, turning the roads to sucking pools of mud, soaking their hair under their hats, and dripping down the backs of their slickers.
The long Ford’s crank seized; the White got a puncture. One minute it was rolling along—well, maybe not precisely rolling. One minute it was slogging slowly but fairly steadily through the mud, and the next it was listing to one side and Kate was clinging to the doorframe to keep from falling out and Margaret was in her lap.
The extra-long Ford behind them skidded and fishtailed, but mercifully Fran was driving. She managed merely to knock down part of a fence rather than hitting them, which Kate greatly appreciated.
Ahead of them, oblivious, the Ford jitney, holding Liza and Mrs. Rutherford, grew smaller and smaller in the distance through the gusting rain.
“Bother!” said Kate, slithering down. “Bother, bother, bother. Can we patch it?”