The Stolen Years

Letters were few and far between, and one morning, when she was handed an envelope addressed to her in Angus’s neat hand, all she could do was stuff it into her pocket while she rushed through the chaotic ward to aid an agonizing patient whose blood had congealed, gluing his torn limbs to the hard canvas of the stretcher. She tried to remove it as gently as possible but finally had to cut the canvas away. The soldier’s cry of pain resounded against the ceaseless clatter of trucks, ambulances, ammunition wagons and trains filled with reinforcements, making their way to the front.

When she’d cleared the ward as best she could, she told the other nurse that she was taking quarter of an hour off before the next convoy arrived. Going to the kitchen, she grabbed a cup of strong tea and sat down, exhausted, at the makeshift table, between a harried doctor and the weary chaplain, to read her letter. Taking a sip, she skimmed the lines. All at once, her eyes filled with horror-stricken tears and her hands trembled.

“Are you all right?” the chaplain asked solicitously, laying a hand on her sleeve. “Can I help you, my dear?”

Flora put down the letter and wiped her eyes. “My Uncle Hamish died of a sudden heart attack. He was like a father to me,” she whispered.

“I’m so sorry,” he replied quietly, pressing her hand. “You look exhausted. Perhaps you should try and rest.”

“What? With this mess going on around us?” She glanced bitterly toward the corridor, where another trail of stretchers shuffled by, drenched in blood. The men didn’t even see the front-line stations anymore, but were brought straight here from the shell-blown trenches.

“Still,” the chaplain insisted, “I think you should take a break. If I remember rightly, you lost your fiancé as well.”

She nodded wearily. It all seemed unreal. Gavin gone, abandoned forever in the trenches. Uncle Hamish, dead of shock and unhappiness. Was there nothing this endless war would leave intact?

Taking the kind chaplain’s advice, she wandered aimlessly outside, seeking some solace in the fresh air, a contrast to the acrid stench of the ward. She walked over to a clump of trees and sat down, watching a lumbering horse-pulled cart bringing more injured soldiers.

She turned away, heart overflowing with sadness for Gavin and Uncle Hamish, for Angus and Tante Constance, for the life that had been theirs and that would be no more. Perhaps Angus was right after all. Perhaps the only way to survive was by creating an invincible barrier, pieced together out of painful but loving memories against which, united, they could build a future.

She gazed across the fields, her mind far away. If the war ever ended, she would go home and marry Angus. At least helping him through the ordeal of assuming a role designed for his brother, for which he had neither the nature nor the inclination, would give her life a purpose. She watched as the sun set behind the dark clouds, an ominous stretch of orange-streaked lead that seemed to foreshadow dark weeks ahead where, for the first time, the unmentioned possibility of defeat lurked.

Several days later, as she was sluicing the bedpans, Flora heard two V.A.D.s, Ana and Heather, calling her excitedly.

“Flora, come and see. They’re finally here.”

“Who?” she asked curiously, washing her chilblained hands.

“The Americans. They’re here. Come and see them,” Ana urged, and Flora followed her hastily to watch the long lines of tall, well-built, clean-cut young men marching swiftly along the road. It made her realize how tired and disheveled they must seem, after almost four long years without respite. But the sight infused her with both hope and excitement, tempered by sorrow. Gavin and the others had marched off the same way, full of strength and will…She wondered sadly how many of these young men would return, and how it must feel to come so far and fight for what must seem so alien to them. She commented on this to Ana.

“Just be happy they’re here,” Ana replied with the first grin Flora had seen in many months. “Now we stand a real chance of clobbering those bastards once and for all.”

Flora smiled and watched the First United States Army march into Etaples, filled with deep respect and gratitude toward these dignified, purposeful young men willing to endanger their lives in the name of justice, a sentiment that she was determined to remember always.

As she made her way back to the ward, she sent up an inner prayer of thanks for the hope these soldiers brought with them.

8

Pontalier, Switzerland, 1918

If the Americans were here, he was jolly well going to find them, Gavin decided, standing on the platform of the tiny station at Pontalier, a Swiss border town north of Lake Geneva. His false identity papers, which had been provided by a priest named Frère Siméon, identified him as Michel Rouget. He grimaced, not liking the idea of being named after a fish, but he knew he could pass perfectly as a young Frenchman.

It was barely six o’clock, and the station was empty, for the passengers departing to Nancy on the 6:40 had not yet arrived. He eyed the stationmaster, his crisp, blue uniform and brisk gait as pompous as his curled mustache, crossing the tracks in the chilly, damp mist, then peered through the window and shabby net curtains of the Buffet de la Gare, 2ième classe. The door swung open and a whiff of coffee and fresh croissants made his mouth water, bringing back poignant memories of Greta, who was never far from his mind.

He fingered the meager change in his pocket, wondering whether to invest in breakfast or wait till later. But there was no sign of the train, so he rose and went inside where a sleepy young waitress stood behind the counter, flicking a feather duster halfheartedly over a tightly packed row of bottles. She cheered at the sight of a young customer and laid down the feather duster, smiling.

“Is that real coffee?” Gavin asked.

“Yes. But you’d better order now, before the morning crowd comes in. After six o’clock it’s usually all gone. What’ll it be?”

“A café au lait and a croissant,” he replied, remembering the many coffees that Eugène, Angus and he had so often enjoyed in Ambazac, after an early-morning fishing expedition. It too reminded him of Greta and his hasty departure. He gazed down at the hard-boiled eggs, his mind far away as he remembered the sound of the approaching car, the two of them peering, unbelieving, from behind the heavy damask curtains; Greta’s terrified look as the vehicle finally entered the courtyard, coming to a slow stop in front of the pavilion.

“It’s an army car,” she said, voice trembling. “Oh my God. You have to flee, Gavin. You must go to the cellar immediately. God knows what will happen if they find you here.”

“That’s absurd. I can’t leave you. I won’t.”

“Wait,” she whispered, clutching his sleeve as the car door opened. “That’s General Meinz-Reutenbach, one of my father’s best friends. He tried to save poor Franz.” She turned, lips white and eyes pleading. “Darling, you must go. It’s safe for me, but not for you. If they find you here, they will be obliged to take us both prisoner. I would be hiding an enemy—they wouldn’t have a choice. Please,” she begged, seeing the other officers exiting the vehicle, stopping to admire the facade before they approached the front door. “Go.” She pushed him into the hall toward the cellar door, desperate.

“How can I leave you alone? What if you are wrong? What if—”

“Just go, Gavin, I implore you. You must,” she sobbed, her face ashen. “Take some money from the safe, as we planned, and go,” she said in a tremulous whisper, grabbing a jacket from the newel post and thrusting it at him. Gavin lingered reluctantly, part of him telling him to stay and defend her, whatever the consequences, the other knowing she was right, and that by staying he was placing them both in danger.

“But I can’t abandon you, for Christ’s sake,” he insisted as she pushed him relentlessly toward the top of the cellar stairs.

The doorbell clanged through the hall.

“Go,” she whispered, eyes wild. “I beg of you. Do it for me, darling.”

“I’ll wait in the cellar.”

“No.” She shook her head desperately.

“Greta, I won’t leave you to face this alone. I—”

“For goodness’ sake, go, or you’ll get us both killed.” She shoved him down the stairs, but he held her.

“I love you, Greta. Remember. I’ll be back, I promise.” He gave her a last tight hug. “Where will I find you?”

“My aunt’s—Louisa von Ritter in Lausanne.” She touched his cheek as the doorbell rang a second time, then tore brusquely from his hold, closing the cellar door and locking it firmly behind her. He stood, powerless, his ear glued to it in helpless frustration, hearing the voices. Calm, friendly voices. There was obvious relief in the officer’s tone. His heart beat fast as he debated what to do.

After what seemed like ages, he heard footsteps, the distant sound of shutters being closed and doors being shut. They’re closing the house, he realized, trembling. They’re taking her away. He raised his hand, about to bang the door down, but knew it was useless. The echo of the front door closing and the far-off rumble of the car’s departure left him sinking to his knees on the cellar stairs, besieged by guilt and frustration, praying she would be all right.

It was impossible to absorb that, in a few short minutes, their magical world had fallen apart, disappeared, whisked from beneath them like a tablecloth sending china flying in every direction. It seemed unbelievable that less than two hours earlier she had been lying comfortably in his arms, wondering whether or not to bake today. Now cold reality and doubt seeped through the damp stone steps. Perhaps he should have stood firm and taken her with him. They could have not answered the door, pretended no one was there, escaped together into the forest. He buried his face in his hands. Why had he allowed her to persuade him?

Because instinctively he knew she’d be safer without him. Slowly he drew his head up and rose, leaning against the wall, pulling himself together little by little. It was better for her this way. It was the right thing. He could manage on his own, but taking her with him would have made her a criminal. He reached up and tried the door one last time, knowing full well that it was locked and there was little choice left but to follow Greta’s instructions.

He felt his way numbly down the steps, lighting the small gas lamp at the bottom, his eyes seeking the safe tucked between two casks to his right. Should he take the money? Yet what choice did he have? He braced himself and, crossing the cellar, opened it as Greta had instructed him. Stuffing his pockets with French francs, German marks and British pounds, he then searched for a bag to carry some food with him. He found a sack of flour and emptied it in a corner. After giving it a good shake, he filled it with sausages, dried meat, a bottle of red wine and some cheese. At least that would keep him going for a while.

Reluctantly he picked up the loden shooting jacket Greta had thrown at him and put out the lamp, afraid it might set fire to the place. Reaching for the secret lock on the panel in the wall, he waited, his pulse racing anxiously. What if it didn’t open? He would be trapped alive in this dark, dank dungeon of a place…But it sprang open promptly and he delved into the blinding darkness.

Banging his head hard on the low ceiling, he saw stars and swore. After a while his eyes became accustomed to the dark. Thanks to Greta’s tender care, his thigh and hip were much better. Thank God, for the narrow passage was so cramped there were places he could barely crawl. But he ignored the musty, festering smell, the fleeting shadows and scuttle of vermin, determined to reach his goal.

“Voilà!” The waitress’s singsong voice brought him back to the present with a bang, and he blinked for a moment at the croissant and large, chipped cup of milky-brown coffee on the counter. Then he smiled and thanked her before dipping the tip of the flaky crescent pastry carefully into the beverage, relishing the moment.

“Are you from near here?” she asked coquettishly.

“No. I’m from Limoges. Ever been there?” He grinned, sinking his teeth into the soft, buttery texture, willing it to last, not knowing when he’d see another. The change in his pocket had dwindled to a few coins, just enough to get him to Nancy, where he hoped to meet up with a British or American convoy and rejoin his regiment.

“I’ve never been far away at all,” the girl answered wistfully. “Why aren’t you at the war?”