Page 43 of After Paris

Last entry

Friday, August 10, 1945

The baby and I arrived in England in June of 1943, after wintering in Portugal. Finding piecework in Portugal was easy, and I made enough to keep us fed and housed. I’d sold a diamond bracelet in the spring and secured passage for us to England. The crossing was harrowing, with the captain and crew keeping a sharp eye out for U-boats, which often weren’t detectable until the torpedo was fired.

I’d thought when we docked in Yarmouth that we’d be safe and that we’d left the war behind. But the city had then been devastated by bombs. We continued on foot until a truck stopped and allowed us to sit in the bed. He took us as far as the town of Diss, which I’d heard was near an air base.

In Diss, I rented us a small room in a house owned by a war widow. Her name was Kathleen, and she had a one-year-old boy. She needed money from a boarder, but I think she also took pity on me. She assumed I was a widow like her. I didn’t tell her otherwise because a husband lost to the battlefield softened many hearts. From Susan I learned that the Americans would hire me for piecework. With Susan watching Michele, I set out for the base. It took me several hours to reach the airfield.

When I arrived at Thorpe Abbotts air base, it wasn’t much to look at. The soldier on guard duty didn’t care about my offer of work and, given my accented English, assumed I was a spy. When I realized I would have no luck that day, I was turning to leave when a jeep stopped at the gate. The driver, an American, judging by his uniform, asked me to state my business. I explained myself and my situation as a war widow. He wrote down my name and address.

Two days later, Lieutenant Ross Talbot pulled up in front of Susan’s cottage. It was a lovely day, and I was watching Susan’s young son and my daughter while I weeded her garden. Lieutenant Talbot asked if I could mend several of his shirts. The man had such a beautiful smile, and there was a brightness in his gaze that I liked very much.

He didn’t return for another week. There’d been work delays, he’d said. I’d seen the bombers flying over the village and knew he had been on one of those planes. I gave him his mended, cleaned, and pressed shirts. I offered him tea, and we sat in the garden with the children for an hour.

His visits became as regular as they could be, and in August, he asked me to marry him, cautioning that the war was far from over for him. I could easily become a widow again. Despite the risks, it was very easy to accept his offer. We married two days later.

I decided not to tell him about Paris or how Michele had come to me. Some secrets were buried so deep there was no resurrecting them.

But at night, I often thought about the past. I remembered the captain who’d saved my life twice. I remembered the young couple who had loved their Michele so much that they’d been willing to die for her. I remembered the actress who’d vanished into the crowds in Marseille. I always felt sorry I didn’t have the courage to tell their stories beyond the pages of my journal.

My redemption would have to rest in a sacred vow to dedicate myself to Ross and Michele. And after I closed this book today, I would never speak of the past again.