Based on the list, Kate wasn’t responsible for much. She had been put down to serve on two committees: Motor and House. That was good, she told herself. She wouldn’t know how to do any of the rest of it. She supposed she should count herself lucky there wasn’t a separate category for instruction in the French language.
There also wasn’t a category for farm labor. She thought of Emmie’s earnest study of chickens. “But what about the farm animals? There’s no category for agricultural endeavor.”
“That comes under Supplies and Stores,” said Mrs. Rutherford. “You didn’t think we’d be caring for the animals ourselves, did you?”
“I’m not sure what we’re meant to be doing,” said Kate honestly. She wouldn’t ordinarily have admitted as much, but she was so tired, and the little circle of lamplight felt like an island in the middle of stormy seas, a space out of time.
Mrs. Rutherford looked up from her work, surprised. “I’d thought I’d explained. It’s really very simple. What we’re trying to do for them is give them the means to rebuild for themselves. We don’t want to beggar them or make them feel the objects of charity. What we do is give them the materials to work: rags for braiding, yarn for knitting, straw for weaving. We’ll run a store with food and supplies below cost—but not for free. Pride can be as important as bread. They’ve lost so much, these villagers. Many of them were once prosperous farmers, storekeepers, innkeepers, and now they’re living in holes in the ground, sharing one sheet. We need to leave them their pride.”
Pride. Kate remembered being six, and the well-meaning social worker who had singled her out at school. That had been during the lean years, when her mother had done her best, but that best hadn’t extended to new coats or shoes. And Kate had grown so terribly fast.
“That poor child,” the woman had said. “Doesn’t her family care?”
She’d worn those new shoes, but she could feel them burning on her feet still. She would rather have gone bare.
It was odd to be on the other end of it. Playing Lady Bountiful, her mother called it. Good enough for some. “Won’t they mind that we’re selling below cost, then?”
Mrs. Rutherford smiled up at her. “No. They’ll just feel glad they got a bargain. It’s no shame to put one over on the Americans—they’ll think we don’t understand their money yet and enjoy shaking their heads over our naivete. Good night, Miss Moran.”
“Good night,” said Kate, and went slowly upstairs, feeling like Mrs. Rutherford’s plans might be somewhat less mad than she had previously supposed.
The rain continued to persecute them. Margaret was right; they did get better at changing punctures, although it didn’t get any more pleasant with practice. Whether it was the Germans or just French cart horses with loose shoes, the roads from Nantes to Paris appeared to be positively strewn with nails, all of which aimed straight at their tires. They ate their lunch as they went to save time, shoving down cheese and crackers and gulping coffee from a thermos, taking turns driving. Kate began to accept being wet through as an inevitable law of nature.
And then, just north of Chartres, the sun came out.
“What is that great yellow ball in the sky?” asked Fran.
“That’s the sun,” explained Liza helpfully.
Kate squinted up at the sky. “Unless we’re hallucinating and it’s just a mirage. It might be a mirage.”
Fran put her hand up, palm out. “My hand is dry. It’s real.”
It was amazing what a difference a bit of sunshine made. They didn’t even mind when they drove into Versailles, the home of kings, and promptly blew a tire right in front of the mayor’s house, which looked like a miniature palace itself, and very French.
This time, they collected a crowd of interested citizens, all wanting to know who these shabby American women were and what they were doing charging about on three trucks loaded with building materials and the remains of fifteen strings of onions, now rather soggy.
While a few helpful soldiers debated the best way to jack the Ford （which apparently involved getting a petit blanc from the nearest café and discussing the meaning of life）， an elderly woman in deep mourning, holding a little girl by the hand, approached Kate, wanting to know who they were and what they were doing.
“We’re members of the Smith College Relief Unit—er, Collégiennes Américaines.” Kate’s brain felt addled by days of driving. “We’re here to offer aid to the former occupied zones near a town called Grécourt. Those are bits of houses we’re bringing to build—for a mairie and a schoolhouse and whatever else is needed.”