“Thank you, Sister.” Domenica exhaled. The accommodations weren’t a prison after all.
Sister Marie Bernard gave Domenica the once-over. “I’ll send up your uniforms—we provide two. Standard white jumper and apron with regulation blouse and stockings.” She looked down at Domenica’s feet. “You look to be a thirty-one?”
“Exactly.”
“Don’t ruin your nice shoes. I’ll also send your undergarments and cap. The nurses do their own laundry in the convent. The girls will show you.”
The nun left Domenica to unpack. Domenica removed her hat. She knelt on the bed and leaned out the window. She could see the ships in the harbor, their deck lights glimmering on the surface of the teal water. She inhaled the fresh ocean breeze and closed her eyes. No matter where she went in the world, the sea was her soul and salvation.
* * *
Domenica was determined not to be overwhelmed by the scope of the work at Saint Joseph’s. She had never staffed in a hospital, but she was a quick learner. Domenica wondered if she would ever learn the names of all the nuns and nurses, a daunting task in addition to the ten-hour shifts the nurses were required to work.
The Sisters were devoted to the healing power of the saints and angels with the same fervor they held for modern medical science. A statue of the Blessed Mother greeted patients as they entered the lobby. There was a chapel on the ground floor.
The design of the hospital resembled a church. The wide corridors had vaulted ceilings and polished terrazzo floors reminiscent of a Gothic cathedral. Lancet windows with amber glass bathed the hallways and rooms in golden light. Life-size plaster statues of the saints had been tucked into the alcoves like sentry guards. A crucifix hung over each hospital bed, and a holy water font hung next to every door.
However, there was little religion inside the nurses’ dormitory. The only shrine in Fatima was a paper one, to Robert Taylor, the handsome American actor known for his thick, black French eyebrows. The girls relaxed, smoked, and gossiped after their shifts as their radios blasted swing music. They plastered eight-by-ten glossy photographs of Ronald Colman, Spencer Tracy, and Clark Gable on their mirrors, and more than one of the matinee idols had a smear of lipstick on his black-and-white cheek. The nurses came to work at Saint Joseph’s from all over the world—the Philippines, Cuba, the United States, Jamaica, Ireland, Liberia, and Italy—having been recruited by the nuns through their network of schools. No matter where in the world they came from, the young nurses were devoted to American movie stars.
There were two sisterhoods in full operation at Saint Joseph’s: One group wore habits and had taken vows, while the other had sewn their own version of fashionable dresses, knew the latest dances, taught one another passable French and English, and set one another’s hair.
On Saturday night, out of their uniforms and sprung from work obligations, the nurses became carefree young women. They took off their white uniforms and replaced them with their best party dresses. Marseille pulsated with jazz music and silly chatter until the sun came up, replacing the drone of machines from the factories with laughter. The nurses lost themselves on the dance floors up and down the beach. Sailors, infantrymen, and even well-dressed men in Savile Row suits became their partners. The nurses called the Americans “Burmas,” because they smelled of cedarwood and vanilla, the scent of the American shaving cream.
Off duty, Domenica and her new friends also took long walks through the city. They sat by the rococo fountain at Palais Longchamp, rode the transport ferry to Vieux Port, and ended a day off on rue du Panier under a tent sipping ice-cold Chablis and eating delicate snails baked in garlic and butter.
“Domenica, come with us. There’s a dance on the pier. A new band.” Stephanie Arlette, an American nurse from Chicago, never missed an opportunity to have fun. “Club Mistare.”
Domenica put down the newspaper. “Sounds like fun, but I’m going to stay in tonight.”
“Again?” Stephanie dropped onto the bed next to Domenica. “You’re not going to spend your day off writing to your mother, are you?”
“I thought I’d write to Dottore Pretucci for a change.”
“Is he handsome?”
“He’s old. He’s not for you.”
“You never know.” Stephanie removed the strips of fabric from her hair where she had tied it up in sections so it would curl as it dried. She shook out her blond ringlets. “I’m marrying for money.”
“That’s as good a reason as any,” Josephine Brodeur, a lean twenty-four-year-old Jamaican, said as she filed her nails.