He scowled. “Beatrice—”
“If the toy shop doesn’t interest you, I’m also planning a costume ball at Madison Square Garden in honor of the ten allied nations . . . do you think you could get me an elephant to represent India?”
My husband was, in fact, the only man I knew who could produce an elephant on short notice, and I could see that he was tempted to prove it—or to lecture me on why the floor at Madison Square Garden would never hold up said elephant. I’d have welcomed either discussion, but he seemed to guess exactly what I was about. “Don’t be one of those silly, mollycoddled women who think that do-gooding is the same as stopping poison gas.”
“My do-gooding has sent over plenty of gas masks to soldiers in the trenches, thank you very much.”
“And that’s more than I’ve managed to do—is that what you’re saying?”
“Not at all. I just thought that we could do something together to take your mind off—”
“I’m not one of your damned charity projects!”
As his shout carried on the sea spray, I stood up. I retrieved my towel and a pair of aviator sunglasses I’d been gifted in Paris by a grateful soldier. “Have it your way, then . . .”
A little rueful now, he called after me as I walked away, “Where are you going, my darling hellcat?”
“This boat isn’t big enough for me, you, and your temper, so I’m going to tell your hired captain to take us back to shore.”
Willie took a long drink from the bottle. “The devil you are. This is my yacht.”
My hands went to my hips. “I see. This is your yacht, and I’m your wife, and those are your children belowdecks . . .”
“Exactly,” he said, sinking smugly back into his sun-drenched chair.
I stood there a moment, taking in the scene. “This tackle box is also yours, isn’t it?”
Without waiting for an answer, I heaved it over the side.
The entire box splashed, and the blue sea swallowed it up.
“Beatrice!” my husband roared in impotent rage.
“That was childish, I know, but I’m making a point. Anything that’s yours, Willie, is something you can lose, including me. So take me home before I find something else to throw overboard.”
He took me home.
We were silent as the boat docked. We were silent as Willie drunkenly teetered on his crutches on the gangplank. Even the boys didn’t say a word. I wanted to tell my husband not to get behind the wheel, but his mood was so dark now, I didn’t dare.
While the motorcar jerked and lurched around every curve, I started to regret my behavior. What had Willie done, after all, but snap at me? He was in pain, he didn’t want to face his own limitations, and he’d been home only a few short weeks. I’d pined for his attention for so long—and now that I had it, why was I threatening to ruin it all? Willie could’ve died on that operating table and left me a widow. I needed to appreciate how lucky I was.
That was, in fact, my very last thought before the car crashed.
THIRTY-THREE
MARTHE
Chavaniac-Lafayette
August 1942
“These roundups represent a contempt for human dignity,” the curé says on Sunday to a packed church, everyone in the village squeezed into the pews. He’s quoting the archbishop of Toulouse and the bishop of Montauban, who’ve written letters of protest against the dawn raids that are now spreading terror in both the Occupied and Free Zones. Jews, communists, Freemasons, and people who help them are being deported en masse; to where, we don’t know, but the Germans claim they are being resettled. “Remember,” the curé continues, reading from the letters of his colleagues, “that Jews and foreigners are real men and women. Everything is not permitted against them, against these fathers and mothers. They are part of the human species. Our sisters and our brothers. A Christian may not forget this.”
The church is silent as these words echo. Not a whisper, not a breath, not even a sputter of candles on the altar. The entire village seems to be remembering how, just a year ago, Catholics seemed united in wanting to get rid of the Jews. Since then, Radio Vichy has made it sound as if all Christians support the anti-Semitic policies that are tearing families and communities apart, driving the innocent to suicide. But now everything has changed. Even the curé of little Saint-Roch is no longer too afraid to say, “The idea that we must protect religious liberty is at the center of our faith. It is also at the center of our history in Chavaniac. It was here, in this church, that Madame Lafayette”—my head jerks up—“once prayed for strength to speak God’s truth when it was forbidden. She risked her life to save the persecuted. Now I ask you, what would we do, in her place?”