On the steps of the mairie, the other members of the Motor Committee were merrily eating peaches and basking in the sunshine. Kate looked back at Mrs. Rutherford. “What if we make a mess of it? What if we leave them worse off than they were before?”
“I’m not sure that’s possible,” said Mrs. Rutherford. “Most of them are living in roofless cellars—and those are the lucky ones. But I tell you, to know you are there among them, living with them, bringing aid from a world they thought forgot them—that means almost as much as the physical goods we bring them. You don’t need to do anything or even say anything. You just need to be there.”
“But we are going to do something.”
“Well, of course,” said Mrs. Rutherford. She chomped down on a peach with obvious relish. “It would be madness to come all this way and just stand there.”
Kate, contrary to instructions, just stood there.
She hadn’t been entirely honest with Emmie back in Paris. Maud had tried to recruit her for the coup, not on her own behalf, but on Emmie’s. “If you could use your influence with your friend . . .” had been the phrase used. Kate had disclaimed any influence and generally avoided committing herself.
Don’t get involved, keep your head down. Those were the rules she had learned over the years.
The truth was, she hadn’t been sure Maud was wrong. Now . . . she wondered if Emmie was right, if they ought to tell Mrs. Rutherford.
But what would be the point? They had their trucks. All their plans were in hand. It would only be making trouble. It was probably all a tempest in a teapot. For all she knew, Maud had never even written those letters.
It is good, the old woman had told her. You are a good girl.
Mrs. Rutherford thrust a chicken leg into her hand.
“Here. Keep your strength up. Eat your chicken and let’s get back on the road. If we make Paris tonight, we can collect the others, pack up our parcels, and be on our way to Grécourt by Monday.”
Chapter Eight
We made our long-overdue start for the country on Tuesday, September 11. . . . The lateness of our start made lunch an immediate concern, but Miss Englund, who was driving the Ford truck, insisted on a downgrade as a stopping place. Apparently, the roads in France run remarkably level. Cannibalism was staved off solely by the discovery that someone had remembered to pack a hamper with bread and cheese, which prevented Miss Shaw from gnawing on the nearest available arm, which, I fear, was mine.
If our women refrain from killing each other, I believe we shall deal reasonably well together （note the caveat）。 Betsy, as always, remains entirely oblivious and is primarily concerned about the conveyance of our cows.
—Dr. Ava Stringfellow, ’96, to her husband, Dr. Lawrence Stringfellow
September 11, 1917
Paris, France
They left for Grécourt on Tuesday.
They’d meant to leave by ten, but noon saw the three trucks belonging to the Smith College Relief Unit still sitting stranded outside the hotel on the Quai Voltaire, occasioning a great deal of comment from passersby. It turned out that even when limited to one suitcase and one duffel bag apiece, there was a remarkable amount of luggage, particularly when one added in such sundries as rakes, hoes, crockery, portable stoves, eighteen cots, blankets, and all relevant bedding. Not to mention six loaves of war bread and one very precious tub of jam.
“Maybe if you put the confiture there . . .” suggested Alice, fluttering around, trying to rearrange packages and generally confusing matters.
“Where, on my head?” demanded Julia, who was wedged in between a spare tire and half a dozen folded cots. There were four of them in the White truck, crowded in among miscellaneous crates and packages, rakes sticking out the sides like pikes at the Battle of Agincourt, only with fewer men in doublets.
“It has to go somewhere,” said Kate.
“I’ll hold the jam,” said Emmie, wondering if it was too late to suggest that Kate and Julia go in separate cars. She juggled the bucket of jam from one knee to the other, trying to find a comfortable spot. “Doesn’t confiture sound much tastier than jam? Just like framboise sounds a million times more elegant than plain old raspberry.”
“They’re French raspberries; naturally, they’re more elegant,” said Kate, grinning back at her, and Emmie felt like old times, like setting off for a picnic on a borrowed sledge. “Can you grab the oil can, Alice?”
Alice Patton obediently clamped the oil can between her feet and Emmie shifted sideways to give her more room, eliciting a sharp cry of distress from Julia, who plunged forward to protect her medical bag, at the expense of her own kidneys, if necessary.