In spite of everything, Down Street, when Ursula entered again after a
week of absence, had something of an aspect of home for her. She glanced
into the assembly room, cold and somber as ever, and then went up to the
dormitory with its uncovered beds and the photograph of General de
Gaulle on the wall. Ursula listened, and as she had expected, the
phonograph was playing “Violetta.” Machou’s raucous voice was heard from
the kitchen, and the sound of a typewriter came from the Captain’s
office.
It was the barracks; it was the unhappy barracks, in this country of
exile, with everyone longing for the end of this period of military life
that had brought nothing but a series of disillusions.
And still in that immense and strange city of London, it was the only
refuge any of us had. It was at least a lively place, filled every night
with French voices and familiar faces, with smoke and babble. We had all
in a measure become part of this house, which seemed to have taken
flesh, not only through our physical presence, but through the private
life of each one of us, through each one’s history, through each one’s
pain and joy.
And yet, what had we succeeded in accomplishing? Nothing, nothing at
all. We had become classified numerals. Not one of us really believed
she had done any real soldiering. Even the lucky few who, like myself,
had jobs in which they were interested could not help but feel that they
were doing little to free their country. It was said in some quarters
that De Gaulle was against a women’s section in the Army. Sometimes we
reasoned that our presence in the service freed the male recruits for
more useful activities. Very well, then, as Ursula used to say with her
touching, pessimistic wisdom, that meant that three or four hundred
soldiers were thus free to go and get themselves killed. The whole
thought was maddening.
We had imagined that the uniform would somehow put us right into the
middle of the war, but it was not at all like that. The war was taking
place far from us; we were not participating in it. Bombs were bursting
over our heads, but no more over ours than the civilians’, and we worked
in offices with civilian women who were much better paid and who were
free to do what they wished when the office day was over.
And what was the use of all this? What was the use of going on blindly
for months, living in the midst of all these women, not one of whom felt
any real reason or purpose in what she was doing?
Still Down Street was our barracks, almost a corner of France.
* * * * *
It was five o’clock in the afternoon when Ursula came home; most of us
were not yet free from our jobs. Ursula noticed that there was a
suitcase on what had once been Jacqueline’s bed, and that the chemistry
student’s books were no longer behind that bed, but in another corner of
the room. So there had been a change during her absence. Ursula began to
arrange her things. The door opened and someone cried out, “Ursula
baby!”
She turned. It was Jacqueline.
She looked as fresh and pretty as ever. She threw herself on Ursula’s
neck, and they sat down on the bed, both talking at once, delighted to
see each other again.
Jacqueline was cured. She had found the hospital extremely tiresome, but
she had been a great success there, too. Her doctor and several of the
patients had, naturally, fallen in love with her. Fortunately, De Prade,
now a captain, with a car at his command, had been able to come and see
her often. He had been simply marvelous to her, bringing her fruit,
flowers, and other gifts.
Jacqueline chattered on, bringing Ursula up to date in the affairs with
which we were all so familiar. De Prade was still her great love, but
she still enjoyed getting every man she met to pay court to her. And
there still wasn’t a man who failed to succumb as soon as he laid eyes
on Jacqueline’s rosy face with her pretty mouth, her regular teeth, and
her shining hazel eyes. For she, too, couldn’t live without at least an
illusion of love, and she used all of her power to create this illusion,
employing her expert eyes, her sensual mouth, and her supple young body.
But now Jacqueline turned all her attention on Ursula, resuming her old
protective air. “You don’t look well, my dear child, you’ve become
thinner. I’m sure you don’t eat at all. It’s a good thing I’ve come
back. I’m going to take care of you.”
Ursula, of course, detested having anyone officiously take care of her;
this had always irritated her in Jacqueline, but she said nothing, for
life in the barracks had already made her more indulgent toward the
faults of others. After all, it was part of Jacqueline’s character.
Now the girls began to come home, one after the other.
I scarcely had a moment to talk with Ursula before Mickey arrived,
shouting, “Ursula! How glad I am to see you!” She danced around Ursula,
with her excited, disjointed gestures, and then sat down on the edge of
the bed, swinging a long khaki-clad leg. Ursula was delighted to see
her, to hear Mickey talk with her slight English accent, and to hear her
laugh. Mickey had a gift for making a room seem warm.
Ginette asked Ursula if she had had a good time, and if she had gone out
with any boys. Ginette had already set herself to polishing the buttons
of her uniform. When they were bright enough to suit her, she began to
clean her shoes for tomorrow; she was meticulously neat. And Ursula was
duly surprised at Ginette’s new hair-do; but actually the new
arrangement only made Ginette’s face, her eyes, her nose, and her mouth
seem rounder and flatter than ever.
The dinner bell sounded. We took our places in the queue, plates in one
hand, mugs and utensils in the other. Machou was shouting as usual,
“Move along, move along! That’s enough, there’s someone else here
besides you! If you don’t like it, go to the Ritz!”
So Ursula was resuming her life, her real life, her life in war.
After dinner, she sat in the assembly room with us. Mickey and
Jacqueline were there. Jacqueline decided that we ought to have a drink
in honor of Ursula’s return, and of her own, and she went to order
Dubonnets at the bar. Her walk was as distinguished, as worldly as ever.
Just then Claude entered. According to the new schedule, she was on
twenty-four-hour duty on alternate days, from eight in the evening to
eight the following evening; she had just finished her stint. Ursula had
not seen her at dinner. Now Ursula studied Claude as she stood at the
door, talking to Ann. Claude carried herself straight, as always, with
her blonde hair pushed back, and she gestured gracefully with her hands
as she talked. She noticed Ursula and made her a distant sign, smiling.
Ursula rose and went toward her, and suddenly, as she was approaching
Claude, she told me later, it was as though someone had at that instant
cut a cord between them. Suddenly Ursula had a physical sensation as of
a weight dropping away from her, setting her free. It was over in a
second; she was advancing toward Claude, and in the next instant she
knew that it was finished, that she was not in love with her any more.
And as Claude went on talking, Ursula saw her for the first time
objectively.
Claude’s magic power no longer worked on her. Ursula saw nothing more
than a woman of forty, a handsome woman, very well made up, but with
little lines at the sides of her mouth and a scattering of white hair.
Her voice was feverish. What Claude was saying no longer interested her.
When Claude began to recount her last dispute with one of the girls,
Ursula found the story tiresome and felt that Claude made trouble over
nothing.
Claude left for the switchboard room, and Ursula remained standing where
she was. She had the impression of having suddenly grown. It was a
strange impression, leaving her with a sort of pride in no longer being
a little girl.
She looked around. Now she was free.