Sometime during the night, Claude shook Ursula, telling her to return to
her own bed. Ursula was so tired that she moved as though in sleep to
the other cot.
At seven o’clock the corporal came on her tour of inspection. Claude was
singing in the bathroom. She had a beautiful voice, rather low. She
sang:
“Tel qu’il est,
Il me plaît.
Il me fait
De l’effet
Et je l’aime!”
The corporal glanced at Ursula, who was polishing the buttons of her
jacket, and Ursula blushed. It seemed to her as though “that” must be
visible on her face, as though the whole world would notice the change
that had taken place in her, for she had made love, and now she was a
woman. She was Claude’s woman. And Claude seemed to her extraordinary
and marvelous.
Now there came back to her mind certain phrases that she had heard in
the barracks. Disagreeable remarks about Ann and Petit, about Claude
too. Expressions she had read in books. She had never paid much
attention to them, she had never quite understood them, but now
everything was clear. She understood. No, Claude had invented nothing
last night. Just as there were homosexual men, so there were homosexual
women. Ursula had known it about men for a long time, because one year
when they were rich her mother had employed a chauffeur, and he had been
like that, and everybody had made jokes about the man. But she had not
known about women. Now she understood. And yet a mystery remained. If
Claude were “that” way, how was it that she had so many male lovers? And
how could she still love her husband, as she said she did?
It was so difficult to learn about life all alone. Yet she didn’t come
to me then with her story. Much of what I now relate to you was revealed
to me later.
What hurt Ursula most of all, that morning, as she later expressed it to
me in her pain and perplexity, was Claude’s indifference. For when
Ursula turned to her Claude seemed cold and distant, as though what had
happened during the night were insignificant, common. Ursula didn’t dare
to touch upon the thousand questions that trembled in her. Claude,
humming, went off to breakfast.
* * * * *
I noticed how miserable Ursula looked that morning, and wondered what
had happened. But we all had to rush off to our jobs, and it was not
until evening that I had an opportunity to talk with her, and by then
she had told a good deal to Mickey.
For Ursula had been off duty in the afternoon, and she had gone out. She
didn’t know a soul in London, and walked haphazardly through the foggy
streets, wanting only to find a corner somewhere, to hide away and cry.
Huge red busses passed, and the policemen at the crossings seemed to her
immense and majestic, and they seemed to know something about her.
She walked along Piccadilly, looking at the marvelous shop windows, and
for a moment she thought of buying Claude a beautiful gift. But her Army
pay was very small. She had only five shillings in her pocket, and
besides, she knew so little English that she didn’t dare go into a shop.
A house that had been hit during the night was still smoldering. A few
firemen were at work in the ruins. The passers-by didn’t even glance at
the house. Because it was done for, because it was lost, and because one
should never remember the night before, in the day.
At Piccadilly Circus, Ursula bumped into Mickey. It was five o’clock,
and Mickey had left her office an hour early to go to the dentist. At
last, a familiar face! As Mickey hailed her with her usual enthusiasm,
Ursula felt as though she had met someone of her own family. Out of the
anonymous, out of this strange city from which she had expected nothing,
at last a face emerged that had a point of connection for her. And
Mickey was so excited at seeing her, so friendly, always in good humor,
with her turned-up nose, her clear eyes, and her heart-shaped mouth. She
took hold of Ursula’s arm and pulled her along.
Then all at once Ursula unburdened herself. The need to speak was almost
a physical compulsion. She began to talk about Claude, and little by
little she described what had happened in the night. She said, “I was so
happy, Mickey, it was so marvelous and so strange! And yet I feel as if
it can’t be right. What does it mean? She’s a homosexual, isn’t she?”
Mickey laughed with superior knowledge, then grew sober at the
perplexity and worry in Ursula’s face. “You mustn’t do it again, Ursula.
You’ll get sick. And besides, you mustn’t go around talking about it.
Don’t tell another soul!”
Ursula didn’t feel that she knew any more than before. Yet Mickey seemed
to take it for granted now that everything was explained. And Mickey,
too, had a story to tell. Just before the dance, in the canteen at GHQ,
she had met an officer who was absolutely wonderful. “Handsome as a
god!” She was in love with him. Whenever she had to go into his office,
Mickey felt chills and fevers running up and down her spine, she began
to perspire, she couldn’t stand still, and she was sure that he noticed
all this. He had invited her to go to the movies tomorrow. He liked her.
But Mickey had noticed that he liked all women. He was very dark, with
green eyes, a rather strong nose, and thin lips. His name was Robert. He
was nervous and disorderly. He often appeared in Mickey’s office. He’d
arrive in a rush, kiss the typist on the neck, call Mickey “darling,”
and pass his hand down the back of another secretary. The women laughed,
and scolded him without conviction.
It crossed Ursula’s mind that she would die of fright in the presence of
such a man, but Mickey adored him. They had reached the dentist’s door,
where they separated. Ursula didn’t know what to do with herself or
where to go. It was six o’clock, and night had fallen. In the blackout,
one could scarcely see the pavement. Everything was black and
depressing. The alert sounded; no one paid any attention.
Ursula readjusted her gas mask and helmet. They were heavy and clumsy,
but regulations required that they be worn in the street. She waited for
a bus and mounted to the top. In the day, it was amusing to sit up there
and look down into the street. But at this hour one could no longer see
anything beyond the windows.
Everybody noticed her French uniform. Ursula was proud of her uniform. A
woman nearby leaned toward her and said with a strong English accent,
“_Vive la France!_”
“_Merci_,” said Ursula. “Thank you very much.”
A man said to her, “I was in France in 1914, at Douai, Verdun,
Valenciennes.”
Ursula smiled. It was amazing how many Englishmen had already stopped
her in the street to tell her things like that. They had all been at
Douai, Verdun, Valenciennes. Indeed, Englishmen often pressed my hands
in the street, repeating the same words. The English are nice.
Ursula got down from the bus. For a moment it was difficult for her to
orient herself in the dark, but she managed to find her way toward Down
Street.
* * * * *
That night there were fewer of us at dinner than usual. It was a
Saturday, and many of the girls had begun to make friends and to go out.
In the rooms at night, there were always some who talked about their
lovers, recounting their experiences in full detail, while laughing and
often ridiculing the men. I suppose for some of us, this served to
increase our curiosity, and at the same time to decrease the importance
of such things, to lower the barriers to love affairs, so that it didn’t
matter much if one went out and did the same. After all, all this was
temporary. The war would soon be over. In the spring of 1941 there would
surely be a second front. And then our exile would be ended, together
with all these local love affairs and the loneliness of Down Street. But
for others of us, this easy talk had another effect, making promiscuity
repulsive.
The talk went on when we went down to supper, and while we stood in line
for our food. Sergeant Machou, the cook, dished out the portions
according to her preferences. The best servings were handed to the women
who flattered her, or who could talk back with her own vulgarity. She
also had respect for those who were friendly with the officers, and so
she was always generous with Ann.
Ursula stood in line for her soup, and then she looked around, and I
knew that she was looking for Claude. But Claude had liberty, and had
gone out to dinner. Mickey was gossiping at another table. She kept
whispering to Ginette and glancing at Ursula. I had already heard a bit
of Mickey’s tale upstairs. Although Mickey had warned Ursula to keep
silent, she apparently felt no need to follow her own advice. As Ursula
hesitated, looking so isolated, missing Claude, I motioned her over to
the place beside me.
That evening in the dormitory, the women all looked at her coldly, and
scarcely anyone spoke to her. I helped her carry her bedding up from the
switchboard room.
Ginette made a remark about _gousses_, and there was a general burst of
laughter. But Ursula didn’t know what it meant. She went to bed early,
and in spite of the light and the noise, she closed her eyes, trying to
sleep. Poor girl; she had told me everything, as we trundled her bedding
from the switchboard room, and I knew that she could not sleep, and that
she was lying there with a cold feeling oppressing her heart.