Lafayette.
The name we shared.
A name that would, henceforth, speak for itself.
TWENTY-SIX
BEATRICE
Paris
July 1915
It was time for the annual Independence Day pilgrimage to Lafayette’s grave, and my nephew was coming to Paris.
I may have had some small part in convincing the ambassador to convince the French government to give all Americans fighting with the French leave for the holiday. And now Emily and I were decorating the embassy tables with red poppy centerpieces to make things cheerful for Victor’s arrival.
Having returned from Switzerland, the Chapmans were overjoyed at the prospect of seeing their boy again. But neither was keen to talk to me about their visit with Willie, during which he must have revealed my desire for a divorce. Ever observant, Emily noticed. “I don’t believe Mrs. Chapman has said more than ten words to you. Has there been a spat?”
“Of course not.” My sister-in-law was far too well-bred for that. But if she was distraught about the state of my marriage, she should take it up with her brother, who apparently had nothing better to do than soak in a Swiss spa. Since I’d decided to get on with my life with or without my husband’s consent, my anger had cooled, but resentment remained. Such that I didn’t even bother to ask whether or not the specialist in Switzerland had got Willie back in fighting trim.
It was good practice to consider it none of my affair, and to focus on what I came to France to do. Not that the Woman’s Peace Party was making it any easier. They’d come to Paris, fresh off their failed conference at The Hague. It had gone the way I predicted, and Clara Simon was complaining about it, which validated my good opinion of her. “What self-respecting Frenchwoman would attend a peace conference when it conveys weakness at the very time our men are fighting for their lives in the trenches? We feminists are to what—tell them to throw down their guns, let the Germans take us, our homes, our livelihood, and all our rights?”
Her tone dripped with scorn, and I didn’t blame her. Anything short of humiliating defeat would still profit the kaiser. Marie-Louise LeVerrier added, “It pains me to think otherwise intelligent suffragettes have soiled their reputations with this foolishness.”
It pained me too, because it played into the caricature of women being too sentimental to understand politics—or their audience. I thought politics was rather like an art, the realities of which could be studied, the expression of which could be perfected in the right setting. And Independence Day was just the right backdrop for my performance. For I was on hand to ensure that, for the first time in history, the French government would take part in the annual pilgrimage to Lafayette’s grave—which would serve as a reminder of the alliance between our two nations.
An alliance President Wilson had thus far seen fit to ignore.
This would make another statement; one loud enough, I hoped, to be heard in Washington, DC.
“Aunt Bea!” Victor dropped his bag to lift me off the ground.
I fended him off with an outstretched hand. “Careful of my hat!” It was, after all, a dainty white straw bonnet with a ribbon of blue stars and scarlet stripes that delighted his fellow legionnaires—American volunteers all, including three black men.
Victor introduced them all with easy camaraderie. Fighting together, it seemed, made them a sort of family, without distinction to race, religion, or class—as democratic as anyone could hope. “We’ve quite a feast for you gentlemen,” I promised. “But first, just a little more standing on ceremony.”
Thereupon, I had the honor of introducing my nephew to Madame Kohn, the French wife of Corporal Kohn, a brilliant Polish mathematician, Victor’s dearly departed brother-at-arms.
She had with her now their fatherless son, a boy named Uriah—a sight that rendered poor Victor nearly mute with emotion. “Your husband was my very good friend,” my nephew finally managed to say to Madame Kohn, his voice unsteady. “A genius too. He proved to me that a lovable softy can also be a very brave soldier . . .”
Little Uriah stared up at Victor, mesmerized. “Papa was brave?”
Victor stooped down to meet the boy’s eyes. “The bravest.”
“As brave as pilots that go up in the sky?”
“Braver, because he spent his time down in the trenches with bullets whizzing by his nose, and he couldn’t fly away.” My nephew’s throat bobbed. “Here, there’s something I want to give you. Something he’d want you to have so you can be as brave as he was.”