‘This is Paris, and we are at war. Apart from Madame Chiens, I doubt anyone will have batted an eyelid.’
Robbie straightened her hat and put his own cap on. He checked his watch and blanched. ‘I should have left half an hour ago.’
‘I could come to the train station with you.’
‘No.’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘No goodbyes. I’ll write. If you still want me to.’
‘Of course I do.’
He kissed her swiftly. ‘You’ll get home safely from here?’
‘I’ll take the Métro.’
‘Take care, Sylvie.’
‘And you, Robbie,’ she said. ‘Please take the best of care,’ she whispered, watching him walk briskly from the park.
Chapter Six
2nd January 1917
Dearest Robbie,
I am safely back at my apartment now. I hope you caught your train. I am due at work in half an hour, but I simply had to write to you about today.
I couldn’t believe how nervous we both were, like children on a first date, right down to the kiss on the bench in the Tuileries. I am blushing just thinking about it. So silly, blushing about a mere kiss when we have— But that was different somehow; we were strangers. We still are, practically, and yet we are not. Do you know what I mean? Of course you do.
I was going to say that today was perfect. It was not, though it ended perfectly, if endings can ever be described as perfect. Our earlier conversation was difficult, but I am glad you said what you did. I need time to reflect, but I do see that I cannot sit on the fence forever. It made things easier, or I thought it did, but now I see that all it did was postpone—I don’t know what, pain, definitely, some difficult decisions probably—but things I need to confront eventually.
So often when I write to you, I think you must be scratching your head and wondering what on earth does she mean? After today, I will worry less about that. Have a safe journey and keep safe.
Sylvie
2nd January 1917
Dearest Sylvie,
I am writing this on the train so won’t be able to post it until I get back to camp, but I couldn’t wait until then. Today was—momentous! Is that too strong a word? It doesn’t feel it. I can confess now, I was worried you would not be the person I imagined, or, worse, that I would not live up to your expectations of me. You were so much more than I imagined, and I pray, if your kisses are anything to go by, that I did not disappoint, either. Such kisses, Sylvie. I had quite forgotten that kissing could be more than a means to an end.
But I am not writing to tell you how wonderful your kisses are—that I made perfectly obvious at the time. I fear I was quite harsh with you earlier today, and yet there is a part of me that is glad I was. The honesty between us, my dearest Sylvie, is extraordinarily important to me and, I hope, to you. It matters, which I confess I find a little disconcerting.
I am a soldier. That is not going to change in the near future, and even after—but I won’t talk of after. It is not all that I am, but for now it is by far the biggest part of me. My job is to kill the enemy, and though it’s under orders, and though we are assured that God is on our side, I can’t reconcile myself to it. But I do it all the same. There will always be blood on my hands. If we are to continue to correspond, perhaps even to meet again, though I won’t tempt fate by hoping for that, you, too, will have to find a way of accepting that fact.
I won’t read this over, I never do, but I’ve a horrid suspicion I sound like a pompous ass—pardon the language! I would not have dreamed of committing such thoughts to paper before—is it the war that’s making me so self-analytical, or is it you? We’ve just pulled in at a station and there’s what looks like an entire brigade of French soldiers coming on board so I’ll finish now.
Bonne nuit
, Sylvie. Don’t work too hard. I wish you didn’t have to work in that place.
Robbie
5th January 1917
My very dearest brother,
I have not heard from you in
two months
. I tell myself, because there has been no telegram, not even one of those dreadful postcards, that you must be well, but the more time passes, the more I am afraid for you.
Henri, the last time we met we both said such dreadful things. It seemed then that we were on diametrically opposing sides, but I don’t think we were, it’s just that our way of coping with the loss of Maman and Papa and all the other people from our little town is different. Our tragedy is being replicated all over the Western Front, in Italy, in the Balkans, everywhere this dreadful war is being fought. It felt like we had lost everything back in the autumn of 1914. But we still have each other, and that is so much more than some of the people I meet these days.
Being reconciled to you, my dear and only brother, is my
fervent wish
, and one, if granted, that I pray will help both of us to become reconciled to the tragic loss of our parents. I will not lie to you. I still see this war as a pointless exercise whose terrible cost cannot ever be justified. But...
I said to you that I could never imagine myself killing another human being, no matter what the circumstances. I had no right to say such a thing, because I have never been forced to confront the kind of extreme circumstances that you and all the other soldiers face every day. I passed judgement and it was wrong of me. Soldiers are also men, who kill only because they have to. They are not animals; they take no pleasure from what they are forced to do—on the contrary, it almost destroys them. I know that now.
I shut out the memory of that dreadful day, but in doing so shut out everything else, including you. I am
so very sorry
that I judged you so harshly. I hope that you can find it in your heart not to judge me as I did you. Please write. I beg of you, please write.
Your own sister always,
Sylvie
12th January 1917
Dearest Robbie,
I received the letter you wrote on the train only today, even though we’ve both written twice since. How strange that we both felt compelled to write almost the same thing to each other. I don’t know what the English word is, but in French we say
nos esprits se rencontrent
.
You say that being a soldier is the biggest part of what you are, but for me, it is second to the fact that you are you, Robbie Carmichael. You know now, or at least you will if my letters are getting through, just how much my opinion has changed. I can never condone war, but nor can I condemn those who fight it honourably. I have written to my brother. He has not yet replied. I will write again to him soon, regardless. For now, I send you a kiss, and I leave it up to you to decide which kind.
With affectionate thoughts,
Sylvie
16th February 1917
Dearest Sylvie,
Despite the relative quiet on the front lines, perhaps due to Jerry concentrating all his effort on blowing up our submarines, our mail has been extremely irregular. I received yours of 12th January along with the one you wrote just three days ago, and I confess I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes imagining every possible variety of kiss that you could possibly give me.
Nos esprits se rencontrent
means serendipity in English. More than a happy coincidence, but a meeting of minds, as you say. Not that I believe anything so fanciful. At least I wouldn’t have, before. Now, isn’t that strange? I think that’s the first time I’ve ever compared before—before the war and before Sylvie—with now, and actually preferred now.
I am so glad you finally had word of your brother. It sounds like he’s been through hell, and I’m not surprised. They reported Verdun as a victory, but they said the same about the Somme. I will be thinking of you tomorrow, and hoping with all my heart that Henri manages to get to Paris as promised. However it turns out—and you’ll know before you get this, I suppose—at least you’ll have tried. No matter how changed he might seem, remember that somewhere inside is the brother you love.
I’m being summoned, so must go. I’m refereeing a football match, would you believe. We played rugger at my school, so I’m not exactly sure of the rules, but it allows me to mix with my men. I can hear you laughing at the notion of me voluntarily seeking company—how I wish I could hear you laughing, Sylvie—but I find these days I quite like being one of the lads for a while, when I am elsewise one of
them
.
Robbie
20th February 1917
Dearest Robbie,
Henri has gone back to the front, and I am
so happy
and
so sad
. You were right, he has changed almost beyond recognition. For the first two days, he barely spoke, barely did anything save lie on my sofa and stare into space. He does not drink, but he smokes, lighting one from the other, dragging on the cigarettes as if they were a drug. I suppose they are. Then, in the middle of the second day, I found him weeping uncontrollably—oh, Robbie, such raw pain. I won’t repeat the details of what he told me. Horrors I could never imagine—but then you will know, of course you will know. I let him
talk and talk and talk
. I said nothing, or at least nothing meaningful, but I held him, and after a while, he started talking to me and not at me and then, only then, I could see what you promised, that inside, trapped but still there, was the Henri I know and love.
It is an exaggeration to say that he is better. I can claim only that I gave him respite, but I do think it is the beginning of something new between us. What that will be I don’t know, only that at least it will be something. You will say you played no part in this, but you did. You gave me the courage to face what I had been hiding from, and that has given me hope. Oh, but Robbie, what a mixed blessing is hope, for now he has gone back...
But I won’t dwell on that. Instead I will tell you my other big news. I am teaching again! Voluntary, not paid, so unfortunately I still have to work in the nightclub, but during the day I teach classes of little ones from refugee families. I thought I could not, that it would remind me too much of what I had lost. I have discovered instead that it is a way of assuaging that loss.
You see how far I have come, how far you have helped me along?
Today I dare finish—with deep affection,
Sylvie
13th March 1917
Dear Mr and Mrs Finchley,
I am writing to express the deepest sympathy of the officers and men of my Company for the sad loss of your son, Private Eric Finchley. It is customary in these letters to extol the virtues of the man as a soldier. I have been proud to serve with your son for the last eleven months, and can assure you that Private Finchley was one of those soldiers who could be relied upon utterly to follow through the course of action expected of him.