Observe a French Family’s Resilience: Meet a French family in a village that endured four years of Nazi occupation. Gain a unique perspective on the war through their centuries-old viewpoints, contrasting with the American experience.
Immerse yourself in Chapter 11, "A Toast with the French," where the emotional landscape is as complex as the war-torn world surrounding Kathy. This chapter delves into the profound internal struggles she faces, highlighting her weariness and disillusionment as she grapples with the harsh realities of life, love, and war. Through intimate conversations with Mrs. Foster and Chaplain Kirkemo, Kathy's vulnerability and quest for meaning are laid bare. As she navigates social expectations and personal despair, the reader is invited to explore the tension between external appearances and internal turmoil, making this chapter a poignant reflection on the human condition amidst chaos.
CHAPTER 11
A TOAST WITH THE FRENCH
The Duval home was a large old stone house. It was set in a yard full of flowers and vegetables, in irregular masses rather than in the measured rows of American gardens. A small boy was playing with a man in the back yard, flipping a bucket in the air off a teeter totter.
“Voila ma famille,” said Mme. Duval. “Would you like to meet them?” She led them into the back yard and made introductions.
“Bonjour.” Charles walked toward the boy. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” He stood, hands in his pockets, looking like a big little boy himself. He examined the log, the board, and the bucket, giving the boy time to size him up. Minutes later they were pals, jabbering in French and taking turns jumping and flipping the bucket. The boy took them all to the garage to show his pigs and rabbits.
M. Duval explained, in French, that Kathy could sometimes understand, that the Germans had taken their car. “N’important,” for a car was just a machine that was no good without gasoline. Machines and electricity did not have anything to do with the real business of living. Fortunately, the Germans did not take their pigs or rabbits. They had their land, small though it might be, and so they could survive.
Mme. Duval led them into the house. They entered through a chilly formal living room with heavy cherry furniture, furnished over generations, and a cold blue tile stove. They continued into a dining room warmed by a fireplace large enough for roasting a whole pig. M. Duval gathered the papers scattered on the massive round table and stacked them onto the carved chest under the window. He explained that he had been making formulas for dye at their textile mill, where they made yarn like that of the powder-blue suit Mme. Duval was wearing. It was good wool, and he was pleased with it.
M. Duval brought out an unlabeled bottle from his cellar. He took delicate goblets from a corner hunch, and poured the clear red wine.
When they were seated, and the wine passed, M. Duval held up his glass to a newspaper picture of Roosevelt pinned in the wall, framed by two tiny American flags. “A le President Roosevelt, notre liberateur.” They lifted their glasses in a toast. Kathy felt that she would be loved by all Frenchmen as long as she wore her American uniform.
When Mme. Duval returned, the Chaplain raised his glass to her. “A la hostesses charmante,” he sipped his wine with relish.
“Tell us,” said Chaplain Kirkemo, “what is the French woman’s secret of charm? You have a distinction our Hollywood beauties lack.” He winked at Kathy. “Yes, even an old Chaplain has an eye for beauty.”
Mme. Duval graciously accepted the compliment. “I do not say French women are more beautiful than your movie stars. It’s just that we have different ideals. Your Hollywood beauticians push all features to look the same. Lipstick is to make a large mouth smaller and a small mouth larger. Powder is to make a big nose average and a small nose average. We French accentuate the differences. That makes distinction. My large mouth makes a better smile.” She contemplated Kathy’s face. “You have a French distinction. Your face is good. Your brown eyes are beautiful; one can see your heart through your eyes. Your nose is distinguished. We say Distinguee. But why do you cover your high forehead with bangs?”
Kathy beamed happily. Her prominent nose distinguee! All these years she had not believed her father when he called her nose regal, like the noses in the British royal family. “Thank you. Merci,” Kathy said.
“I wish we had cakes to serve. Sugar is rare. C’est la guerre.” Mme. Duval said and shrugged her shoulders.
Charles shrugged his shoulders, repeating her gesture. “We could not eat your food, anyway. You could not have enough food to feed all of us Americans.” This was a nice way to express the regulation that concerned questionable sanitation some places. It was, however, permissible to drink French wines.
“Tell us the story of your church,” said the Chaplain.
“Ah,” said Mme. Duval, “You should not ask a Frenchman about history if you do not have hours to listen.” She refilled the wineglasses.
“We have hours,” said the Chaplain.
M. Duval poured more wine and talked rapidly of Louis VII and the construction of Notre Dame and of French crusades and wars. The French understood wars. Wars had, after all, been going on in France ever since Caesar first came, saw, and conquered. French and British fought over Aquitaine for four hundred years. M. Duval did not expect the Americans to understand. Americans had never been attacked, not even threatened by war. Even Pearl Harbor was too many thousands of miles away to most Americans to really threaten. Generations of Frenchmen lived and died without knowing a year of peace. Now the situation has changed for Germany, with fighting actually going on in their own country. They are no longer following Hitler’s orders, but defending their home.
Here in Suippes they lived with history, and history taught them what was important. The affairs of government were not as important as the affairs of the family. The family went on whether the government was dominated by a Napoleon or a Hitler.
M. Duval had his land and his family, his wife and his children. He made yarn of sheep’s wool and raised his cabbages and pigs. These were important. Wars come and wars go. The land endured. Wars kill members of families, and that was sad. But after the war, there were still families.
“Don’t you hate the Germans?” Kathy asked because in his talk M. Duval showed no rage.
He answered that the Germans had been stupid to start a war. Hitler had a foolish big head. The Germans were clever and disciplined and strong, but they did not know the meaning of life. They knew progress and they knew science—but they did not understand civilization. Whereas, he had his family and his land.
“Et la musique. Ton violon,” said Mme. Duval. “Play for us.”
M. Duval played his violin, and Kathy loved the French.
“We must be going,” Charles spoke abruptly when the music was done. Kathy and the Chaplain rose with him, and put on their coats. The Duvals invited them to return the next evening. Chaplain Kirkemo had another engagement, but Charles and Kathy were delighted to accept.
Hurrying home walking between Charles and the Chaplain through the woodlot, Kathy said, “I like that philosophy. The land and the family are the meaning of life.”
Charles snorted. “He underestimates material progress. If he serves wine with his discussions, no one will listen for more than two hours. Unless, of course, he gets a bathroom. I predict we will flee each night from his charming, idyllic home to rush back to our unromantic American plumbing.”
Kathy stood between their rooms to tell Mrs. Foster of her evening at the Duval’s. “I’m surprised I’m not exhausted.” Kathy said. “They have a beautiful old home and a four-year-old boy. It was good to be with a family again.”
Mrs. Foster sat before her table, looking into her little stainless-steel mirror. She pinned her hair into small precise curls. She said, “It must have made Charles homesick for his family. He has a boy almost the same age. His wife’s a nice motherly woman. We met them at Fort Lewis.”
Well, that ended that. Kathy would not go to the Duval’s with Charles, not with a married man.
So, the following evening when Charles called for her, she walked with him a little distance and then stopped under the linden tree where they could talk privately. She wondered how to tactfully break the date, then said bluntly, “I should not go out with you. Mrs. Foster told me you are married.”
“I thought you knew. Everyone met my family at Fort Lewis. Oh, no. You didn’t join us until later. That needn’t keep us from being friends.” He nodded, a thoughtful little nod that showed he understood and was considering. His smile was an openly friendly smile and his eyes looked honestly into hers. “There’ s no harm in an evening at Duvals. I assure you I won’t hurt you.”
“I wasn’t thinking of me. I love Rocky, and I will marry Rocky. It’s that I don’t want to hurt your wife or come between you.”
“Distance is no danger for us. My love for my wife, and our love for each other is very strong.” He paused. “How can I tell you? There is no more danger of anything coming between my wife and me than of your mother ceasing to love you. Now come on; you’ve earned a few pleasant evenings.”
Many pleasant evenings followed. French families welcomed the Americans as liberators. Since Charles and Kathy were among the few who could speak French, they were popular in the village. There were dances in the square in front of the church, and picnics beside the river. There were also occasional trips into Reims, where they walked on cobblestone streets, visited wine caves, and gazed at the sculptures in the magnificent Reims Cathedral.
Kathy was grateful for pleasant evenings. Without them she could not have survived the day’s steady stream of wounded patients and the nights of crying into her pillow. Her sorrow for the wounded patients never hardened, and her bewilderment at Rocky’s silence increased. It had been four months now without hearing from him. She could only guess at his reasons for not writing.
The rains stopped and the sun shone and suddenly it was April. From the mess door, Kathy could hear the nightingales singing, indoors and out.
Charles walked over, on his way to pick up Kathy for lunch, and stopped to listen. “I thought we had gotten them out.”
“They’re sitting on eggs in their nests.” She put her hands on her hips, barring his way into the mess. “Don’t you dare disturb the eggs!”
He was finding it hard to be dutifully hard-boiled about birds who sang so melodiously. “All right! All right! I’ll move the whole nest without touching an egg. I’ll outsmart them. Are you ready for lunch?”
“Sure.” She walked beside him with skipping steps to keep up with his long stride.
He smiled down at her. “You going to the show this afternoon?”
“What show?”
“You haven’t been reading the bulletin board!”
“No, I didn’t. What show?”
He merely smiled.
“Charles, what show?”
“Curious, aren’t you?”
“Are you going to make me walk all the way over to headquarters?”
“You’re supposed to do that every day.”
“All right. I confess I’m not a good soldier. I’m just a good dietitian. Now will you tell me what show?”
“Two USO girls will perform this afternoon and this evening in the auditorium for the ambulatory patients and staff. Tomorrow they’ll go on the wards.”
“Let’s invite the Duvals. We go there so often; it would be nice to invite them here.”
“I’ve seen the girls. We’d better monitor the show first this afternoon.” Charles wouldn’t say more. Kathy had to wait for the show to know what he meant.
That evening, two USO girls strolled onto the stage swinging their hips. They wore short tight skirts and spike-heeled sandals. Red kerchiefs held back their blond hair. Their satin blouses were low necked and high-waisted to the point that they could hardly be considered blouses. Their makeup was heavy, with green and blue eye shadow, artificial lashes, and scarlet lipstick. They strummed guitars to the tune of “Over There.” Their words didn’t quite fit the tune so they added an extra beat with slaps on their guitars and sang: “Roll me over, oh roll me over, roll me over, roll me over and do it again.”
Most of the audience hooted and shouted and whistled. Charles and Kathy looked at each other, and shook their heads. They did not invite the Duvals.
By dinner time the report was going around that the Colonel had ordered the girls to clean up the show or leave. He would not allow them on the wards with the show they had presented.
I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into Chapter 11, "A Toast with the French," and that it gave you a deeper understanding of Kathy's journey. I encourage you to continue following my blog for more insights and behind-the-scenes reflections on the story. If you've read the book, your feedback means the world to me—please consider leaving a review wherever you purchase your books. Your thoughts and support help bring Kathy's story to more readers.
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