Ursula had come to lunch at the barracks, after all. The sentry had not
noticed her as she slipped in. Afterward, she, along with the rest of
us, had to piece together what had happened.
Immediately after lunch, our captain had called Ursula to her office.
The Captain spoke very considerately, and Ursula said nothing. She did
not cry. The Captain knew that she was to have married Michel, for the
marriage request had passed through her office. But like nearly everyone
else, she was ignorant of Ursula’s pregnancy.
Ursula was seated, her head lowered; her hair covered her face almost
entirely. Her hands tightly grasped her knees. The Captain told her to
cry, that it would do her good to let herself go, but Ursula didn’t
answer and she didn’t cry.
There was a long silence, and the Captain could think of nothing else to
do with this child whom she scarcely knew and with whom she had almost
no contact. She told Ursula that she could have a week’s leave, that she
didn’t have to report to her office, and that she could do whatever she
liked. The Captain spoke also of the war, of the hundreds of young men
sacrificing life and happiness that the world might be free of
oppression, that there might be no more concentration camps, no more
refugees on the roads, no more homeless, and no more blood spilled, so
that peace and friendship should reign between nations. She no doubt
said what everyone else would have said in her place.
When Ursula sensed that the Captain had finished, she rose and went out.
She seemed calm. The Captain reflected that the girl was quite young,
and that the sorrows of love are transitory.
Ursula went directly to the infirmary. No one was sick just then, and
the infirmary beds were vacant. Ursula quietly asked the nurse for some
aspirin.
While the nurse went to get the aspirin, Ursula reached out her hand and
took two vials of sleeping pills.
Then she went down to the kitchen in the basement. It was about three
o’clock, and no one was there. The kitchen was clean, with everything in
order. Machou was in town, as were her assistants, for they were always
at liberty between two and five o’clock.
Ursula went to the cupboard, took a mug, went to the sink, poured water
into it, and then emptied the contents of the two vials into the water.
She took a spoon from a drawer and crushed the pills until they formed a
white powder that floated in the water like a cloud in the sky.
Ursula must have gone about her task methodically, as if it were only
one more of her duties, one more thing that she had to do; for she left
no disorder behind her when she finished her bitter drink. There was
only the mug on the table, with the spoon beside it, and a little of the
white powder at the bottom of the mug.
She went upstairs to the Virgins’ Room. How long she remained alone
there no one knows. We know she was there, and that she must have been
very calm, for afterward we found all her things neatly arranged
together on her bed, as though she wanted to make everything as easy as
she could for those of us she was leaving. Everything must have seemed
quite natural and normal to her. Her life had begun with Michel, and now
she was ending it with him. The future was already dead.
When she left the barracks, she slipped out by the kitchen door, so as
not to have to pass before the table at the entrance, where she herself
had so often sat guard.
After having telephoned the barracks, Mickey and I felt a momentary
reprieve. We decided to get in touch with Ann, to help us break the news
to Ursula. Ann was one of the most capable girls in the barracks, and we
believed that her presence would have a steadying effect.
I had to hurry to my office. I was able to telephone Ann during the
afternoon. She took the news in her quiet, strong way, and saw at once
that we would have to help Ursula support the shock. As I sometimes had
to remain late at my office, Ann promised to be at the barracks before
Ursula might receive the news from the Captain.
* * * * *
All afternoon Mickey was worried and heartsick. It was almost as though
the tragedy were her own, as though it were Peter who had been cut down.
She had intended to meet Ann at the barracks after work, to be with
Ursula, but instead she hurried to her little flat, with the panicky
feeling that she would find some message there, some news of Peter. As
Mickey hurried along, a young English aviator fell in beside her. “_Bon
jour, mademoiselle._”
Mickey gave him an automatic smile, and then walked on faster. She had
no heart at all for flirtation; indeed, since her marriage she had been
surprised at the change in herself, at the sense of respectability that
had come over her. A married woman never responded to strangers on the
street. She had flirted like that as a girl, but now the world was
suddenly serious; she was married, her best friend’s lover was dead, and
there was no response in her to flirtation.
There was no mail. Mickey went slowly upstairs. She dreaded the moment
of solitude, of opening the door. She would fix herself a bit to eat,
and then go to the barracks to find Ursula.
As she climbed, she heard a record playing. It was Charles Trenet
singing:
“Je chante
Soir et matin,
Je chante
Sur mon chemin ...”
Her heart began to beat wildly. She opened the door and rushed into the
room. “Peter!”
It was he. He had grown a beard, and looked somehow different, but it
was really her Peter, big, handsome, smiling. His expression was grave
and matured, as though years had passed, as though he were older. This
was no longer the young lad whom Mickey had married, but a man.
Mickey pressed herself to him while he kissed her arched lips. She
studied his face, and a kind of pride spread through her. Yes, he was a
man now.
“Peter! How did you get here? How could you come back so soon? Oh,
darling, I’m so happy!” she burbled half in English, half in French,
covering him with kisses.
Peter held her off a bit, the better to look at her. It was still
difficult for him to believe that he had a wife, and such a beautiful
wife. What times we’ll have, skiing together in Norway! he thought. But
in the same instant he felt the force of all he had just lived through.
He saw himself clambering over a wall in the night, with his grenades
belted around him; he saw himself in an icy river; he saw himself
bending over a man’s body. Peter closed his eyes. A great disgust welled
in his throat. He saw the dead, all the dead bodies, the burned
villages, the monstrous tanks pushing along the roads; he heard the
shells exploding; and there was Eric, whom he loved as a brother, his
childhood friend Eric, howling in pain, with his guts crowding out of
his belly.
Peter sighed and pressed Mickey close. She looked into his face, feeling
him suddenly removed from her, seeking to understand him, wondering at
the tightness that had come over his face, and noticing the new creases
at the corners of his mouth.
“You’ll stay here now, Peter?” she said. “It’s finished?”
He shook his head. “No, dear. Only one night. I’ve been sent back to
make a report on a German installation we blew up—a big one. Tomorrow
I’ve got to go back again.”
The phonograph record kept going around, the needle caught in the last
groove, repeating over and over, “_Chante, chante, chante._” Peter went
to shut it off. Mickey started to prepare dinner. She felt like crying.
Only one night.
She thought of the tragedy at Down Street. She could not smother this
one night with Peter under that tragedy. She tried to push away from her
the trembling thought that next time Peter might not come back. She
would keep this one night for him.
After their meal, Peter made a fire on the hearth. He lighted his pipe,
and Mickey sat on the rug, leaning against his legs. In the past, they
would have gone out dancing or to a movie. But Mickey felt that all that
was over, that she and Peter would never again be the same.
As though he had followed her thoughts, he said gently, almost as though
he were speaking to himself, “After the war I’d like to live in the
country. Do you think it would be too boring for you, Mickey? I want to
have a house. I’ll build it myself, in the mountains, at home in Norway.
We’ll have a whole lot of children. In winter I’ll take them to school
on a sledge, and in summer—oh, Mickey, it’s so beautiful in the
mountains in the summer. You’ll see. They’re covered with flowers, and
you can hear the torrents rushing down. I’ll raise a lot of things, and
we’ll ski and hike in the mountains. You’re as strong as a man, you’re
made for that life. Do you want it like that, Mickey? I’ve had enough of
cities, I’ve had enough—” he hesitated for an instant—“enough of men. I
want to forget the war, my darling. I want to live, really to live. The
war—it’s the worst, the most horrible punishment that man puts on
himself. I don’t want my children to have to go to war. And there in the
mountains we can teach them to love, not to hate, not to kill.”
“Yes,” Mickey breathed. Then she looked up with an effort and said,
“Peter, I have the most frightful thing to tell you. Michel—Michel has
been killed.”
“He, too,” Peter said. Suddenly he cried out, “It’s more frightful than
that, Mickey, because it doesn’t do anything to me any more! I’ve seen
too many dead, too many of my friends. We’ve all got used to it. Every
day you hear that someone else is dead—fellows like myself, young men,
who wanted to live, to have wives and children. They believed in the
future, like Michel.... Oh, Mickey, I want to begin all over again, all
new after the war. I’ve come to understand so many things. I know what
happiness is, and that every man can build it for himself. It depends
only on us. We can refuse to kill, refuse to die—that has to come from
us, and from the life we choose to live. I know now, I’ve chosen what I
want for myself. You understand, Mickey? Say that you understand.”
Mickey was weeping. Tears shone in her large blue eyes. “You’re talking
just like Michel,” she said, and she tried to smile. “Yes, dear, of
course I understand. And I’d love to live in the country in Norway, and
we’ll go skiing, and I’d love to have a whole lot of children....”
Already she felt lighter, seeing herself surrounded by her sons, a whole
flock of them, climbing the rocks.
Peter took her in his arms. His eyes too had recovered their old gaiety.
“Get me a piece of paper, Mickey,” he said. “Let’s draw the plans for
our house.”
* * * * *
Ann was the first of us to return to the barracks. She looked for
Ursula’s name in the register. Ursula had been marked out after
breakfast, and had not been marked in again. Ann therefore concluded
that Ursula was still in town, and knew nothing.
I got home soon afterward. Ann and I decided that Ursula had probably
remained in town for dinner. It didn’t occur to us to speak to the
Captain.
Ursula must have wandered along the streets until her sleepiness became
so powerful that she turned into Hyde Park, and found a quiet corner,
between two trees. Although it was still early evening, she was unable
to see anything; her eyes could no longer focus. She saw everything
double, and the images trembled and danced and multiplied and retreated
before her eyes. Her head ached, ached terribly; she had a pain in her
stomach, and her heart pounded. Then she slipped to the ground, and
curled up as wounded animals do, and she resisted no more.
* * * * *
When Ursula had not yet returned at eight o’clock, Ann reported the
matter to the sergeant of the guard, who hurried to the Captain. We
learned then that Ursula had been there at noon. She knew. Now the
police were telephoned, and a description of Ursula was given out to all
the stations in London and its environs and along the Thames.
Someone had telephoned Jacqueline, and she rushed over to Down Street to
wait with us for the news that we knew must come. None of us in the
Virgins’ Room went to bed. We all waited in silence. The hours passed.
At midnight, although I knew I wouldn’t sleep, I undressed and put on my
pajamas. As I shifted my pillow I heard a soft rustling sound, as though
the pillow had rubbed against paper. But I had left no paper there. Who,
then? Could Ursula have left a note? My heart thudding, I lifted the
pillow.
There was no note, but something more eloquent than anything Ursula
could have written. It was a small snapshot that I had never seen
before, a picture of Ursula and Michel, standing close together,
smiling. It was her only legacy.
Wordlessly I handed the picture to Jacqueline, who had come to stand at
my elbow. She stared at it uncomprehendingly a moment. Then her eyes
widened. She understood. She gave a wordless cry, dropped the picture on
my bed, and ran from the room.
As I gazed after her, I realized that of all of us keeping this hopeless
vigil, Jacqueline alone had really expected to see Ursula again. Only
Jacqueline had ever made a gesture toward death, and she had failed.
There was the night she had lain huddled on the ground beneath the
window from which she had jumped, and the day she had slashed her wrists
in the department-store washroom.
Jacqueline had tried, and failed, and tried again. For Jacqueline there
would always be a new beginning. When she saw the little picture that
Ursula had slipped beneath my pillow, I think she realized for the first
time that for some, there is only one beginning and one end.