It was the first Christmas of the war. A huge fir tree had been set up
in our assembly room, and the chaplain was celebrating Mass in the
barracks chapel. More than two hundred of us were there. Our captain
stood in the front row, with her officers beside her. Then came the two
warrant officers, Petit and Morvan, the sergeants, and the corporals.
Ann, Ginette, and several others had just received their stripes. Claude
had made quite a scene, for she had not even been promoted to private
first class. She was furious, and refused to sing in the choir. Still,
she had come to Mass like all the others.
Every woman had her eyes fixed on the little manger with its figurines
of the Holy Family, and on the priest with his slow beautiful movements.
We listened to the tinkling of the bell, and each of us wanted to weep,
wanting to be pure and clean and small—to be a little girl, to be in
France.
* * * * *
Before coming to the service, Claude had had one of her moments of
warmth and candor, when she could be so touching. I had been in her
little telephone room with Ursula, and admired the sprigs of green that
Claude had put on the walls of the narrow chamber and over her
switchboard. And suddenly Claude had told us that for years she had been
promising herself every Christmas to return to the faith, to have no
more lovers, neither men nor women. She would again become the pure
little girl that she once had been. We had come together to Mass.
“_Les anges dans les campagnes_,” sang the choir, and Claude, sitting
beside me, bowed her head and clutched her missal till her knuckles
shone white through the thin skin of her lovely hands, and a tremor
passed through her. Then with a little sigh she relaxed and raised her
eyes. Seeing me watching her, she gave a little smile and shrugged.
Jacqueline was staring straight ahead of her, a look of intense
concentration on her face. But I knew it wasn’t the Mass that Jacqueline
was concentrating on. Jacqueline could think of little these days but
her fated love. In these last days her back had been paining her more
than ever, and early this evening she had complained that the pain was
intolerable. She took it as a punishment in advance, as an exchange for
what she so desperately wanted. As the choir sang, she suddenly bent her
head in prayer, and I thought I could divine her prayer. “Dear God, give
him to me. I love him, I won’t do anything to hurt him. There’s a war,
and it will be a long time before he’ll see his wife again. She won’t
know anything at all about what happens here. I don’t want him to leave
her for me. I only want to have him once. At least once. I want it to be
with him. That will be enough for me. Forgive me, I know it’s bad, but
what can I do? Forgive me, help me.”
Ursula had no religion. No one had thought of providing her with
anything of the kind. She had been given neither education nor faith.
She must have felt a stranger to what was taking place here, and yet
been drawn into the wondrous prayerful atmosphere that had been created
by all these women, her comrades.
All at once everyone had changed. All the faces had suddenly become
peaceful. As I watched Ursula scanning the altered faces of her friends,
I knew she was wondering what the feeling of this religion could be. Was
it something so good? Would she never know it? She studied Petit, her
arms folded like a man’s, her eyes closed. It was strange that Petit too
was religious. She had to ask someone—as she asked me later—whether
someone like Petit weren’t disowned by her religion. And she herself,
Ursula reflected—was she like Petit? Was she too disowned?
Claude had rented a little room in the city, and several times Ursula
had gone there to be with her. She adored Claude more than ever, and
permitted herself to be bullied, without the slightest resistance.
Claude was never in the state of humor that one expected to find, and
Ursula always felt herself to be walking a tightrope with her. One day,
Ursula knew, she would fall and hurt herself badly.
As the singing voices rose, Ursula felt doomed. She was lost, there was
no hope for her, she would end up like Ann. She wanted to cry, for she
would never love anyone other than Claude. Not even someone like
Michel—for she knew his name now, Michel Levy. He was so generous, so
intelligent, so calm, and so gentle. He had never even tried to kiss
her. Ursula felt secure in his presence, and yet she was sure that she
was not in love with him. She didn’t like his small hands and his chubby
body. He bored her sometimes, and he was timid. She preferred the
caprices, the angry moods, and the phantasies of Claude. She was ready
to endure anything for the pleasure of half an hour of Claude’s gaiety
and charm.
* * * * *
And I—I thought of my dear father, somewhere in a German prison camp, of
my mother and grandparents in Canada. Would we ever be together again
for Christmas in our little house near Orléans? It was better to lose
myself in the thoughts of the other girls....
The priest raised the Host. All the heads were bowed. A few women were
weeping in their hands. I saw tears drop between the fingers of one of
the little Brittany girls.
It was already being rumored that the invasion would not take place in
the coming spring. Our exile was being prolonged. Over there in France,
little brothers were growing up, parents were hungry and cold, the Boche
contaminated Paris, and here we were so far away—so lost. Would all this
never come to an end? “_Noël, Noël, Il est né, le Divin Enfant._” The
season of joy was even more difficult to endure than the gray days.
* * * * *
Michel Levy was waiting for Ursula as she came out of the chapel. He had
a gift for her—a book of poems. Several times in the last few days, when
Michel asked her to go out with him, Ursula had put him off in order to
be with Claude. But tonight Claude was celebrating Christmas in her room
in town with some English friends and a few of us from the barracks, and
Ursula had promised to have supper with Michel. Claude always teased her
about her “lover,” and Ursula would have liked to stop seeing him, but
she didn’t know how to manage it without hurting his feelings.
All the women who had asked for leave were scattering down the street
with their friends, soldiers, officers, and there were little groups of
girls going out together. Ann and Petit went out arm in arm.
Ginette was spending Christmas respectably with a married couple she
knew. Jacqueline left for Kensington. Mickey, in a sudden excess of
remorse, had not wanted to spend Christmas night with Robert. She had
asked Claude if she could come to her party.
Hot chocolate had been prepared in the barracks for those who were
staying in. Down Street went to bed late, and when the women slipped
into their cold cots they sighed, “_C’est la guerre._”
Others were dancing all through the night, and drinking.
And all of us, wherever we were, were thinking, Next Christmas, surely,
we’ll be in France and we’ll make up for all this. How glorious it will
be to return in uniform, we, the volunteers of Free France! Everyone
will honor us. Our parents will be so proud, the bells will ring _Noël,
Noël_ for us, _Noël_ for liberated France, and we’ll march under the
Arch of Triumph! Oh, France, France, our next Christmas will be in the
France that we will have freed!
Yes, our life here was only temporary; another few months to pass, at
most a year, and it would certainly be over.