We jumped from the truck, one after the other, and were swallowed in the
barracks hall. The house seemed to come awake, invaded like a beehive.
Doors slammed, women ran up the stairway, women called to each other
from room to room.
Mickey, in pajamas, began to dance in the middle of our dormitory.
Jacqueline was dressed in one of her elegant flowered linen nightgowns.
She sat massaging her face with cold cream. Ann, who was already
carrying out the duties of a corporal, even before being promoted, came
to remind us that the reveille for tomorrow was for six o’clock, as
usual, and to put out the lights. One door after another was heard
closing, and the night quieted. There were still a few whispers from bed
to bed.
“I was dancing with a sailor, and he’s crazy about me.”
“He’s a perfect dancer. He wants to take me out someplace where we can
have fun. You know.”
“He’s going to phone me tomorrow.”
“But honey—it’s amazing—he knows my brother! They went to the same
school in Lyons.”
As for myself, I hadn’t met anyone special. I had given my name to a few
of the men, perhaps for one of those evenings when a girl is so lonesome
she’ll go out with anyone. I’d seen some of the girls do things they
probably wouldn’t do otherwise, out of this loneliness, and I hoped it
wouldn’t happen to me.
The whispering gradually ceased. Ursula slipped through the room in the
dark. She had been in the bathroom, as she was still modest about
undressing; she had put on her regulation rose-colored pajamas. This was
one of the nights when she slept in the switchboard room, and she
slipped out of the dormitory, going downstairs.
* * * * *
When Ursula reached the little switchboard room, Claude was already
stretched out on her narrow camp bed. A storm lamp stood on the floor.
In the feeble light, Claude’s bright hair shone. Everything else was in
shadow. Outside, the guns began to roar.
Ursula went to sit on the edge of Claude’s bed. The alternate nights
that Ursula was assigned to sleep in this room were impatiently awaited.
For on these occasions Claude talked to her at length about her husband,
about her lovers, about her life before the war. Claude told about
places where opium was smoked, and about her travels, and about her
pets. It was always passionately absorbing, and Ursula would listen
without saying a word, extremely impressed by the number of important
people Claude knew, by her countless adventures, and flattered to be
spoken to with such intimacy. No one else had ever been like a real
friend to her. Especially a really grown-up mature woman.
Ursula adored Claude, and was attracted to her in a special way she
could not explain to herself. Sometimes it seemed to her that Claude
took particular pains to charm her, as though she, Ursula, were a man.
But that would be absurd, and Ursula rejected so ridiculous an idea.
That night as she sat on the edge of the cot Claude said to her, “What a
whorehouse that dance was! Where did you hide yourself? I drank I don’t
know how many glasses of port. Everyone offered me port to drink. I’m
sleepy. Kiss me, Ursulita.” She drew Ursula against her as she had that
evening by the door, and suddenly she kissed her on the mouth. But this
time the kiss was not so short. Ursula felt Claude’s lips burning hers.
She didn’t know what was happening to her. She was lost, invaded,
inflamed. She tried to get hold of herself as though she were drowning,
dissolving in Claude’s arms. Claude drew her into the bed.
Ursula felt herself very small, tiny against Claude, and at last she
felt warm. She placed her cheek on Claude’s breast. Her heart beat
violently, but she didn’t feel afraid. She didn’t understand what was
happening to her. Claude was not a man; then what was she doing to her?
What strange movements! What could they mean? Claude unbuttoned the
jacket of her pajamas, and enclosed one of Ursula’s little breasts in
her hand, and then gently, very gently, her hand began to caress all of
Ursula’s body, her throat, her shoulders, and her belly. Ursula
remembered a novel that she had read that said of a woman who was making
love, “Her body vibrated like a violin.” Ursula had been highly pleased
by this phrase, and now her body recalled the expression and it too
began to vibrate. She was stretched out with her eyes closed,
motionless, not daring to make the slightest gesture, indeed not knowing
what she should do. And Claude kissed her gently, and caressed her.
How amusing she was, this motionless girl with her eyelids trembling,
with her inexperienced mouth, with her child’s body! How touching and
amusing and exciting! Claude ventured still further in discovering the
body of the child. Then, so as not to frighten the little one, her hand
waited while she whispered to her, “Ursula, my darling child, my little
girl, how pretty you are!” The hand moved again.
Ursula didn’t feel any special pleasure, only an immense astonishment.
She had loved Claude’s mouth, but now she felt somewhat scandalized. But
little by little, as Claude continued her slow caressing, Ursula lost
her astonishment. She kept saying to herself, I adore her, I adore her.
And nothing else counted. All at once, her insignificant and monotonous
life had become full, rich, and marvelous. Claude held her in her arms,
Claude had invented these strange caresses, Claude could do no wrong.
Ursula wanted only one thing, to keep this refuge forever, this warmth,
this security.
Outdoors, the antiaircraft guns continued their booming, and the planes
growled in the sky. Outside, it was a December night, cold and foggy,
while here there were two arms that held her tight, there was a voice
that cradled her, and soft hair touched her face.