Page 23 of When Stars Dream at Midnight (The Midnight Stars Saga #3)

September 1945

T he war that seemed as if it would never end finally did. By June of 1945, Percy had come home to his wife and daughters. To celebrate, Peter and I had joined Stella and my sisters at the beach house for much of June and July. After getting to know Percy, I understood why he and Stella made such a perfect match. Seeing Stella so happy made my heart sing.

Peter and I had married at the end of 1943 in a Christmas ceremony at the Westbrooks’, with Stella and my sisters in attendance. By the end of that weekend, it felt as if the Westbrook and Bancroft clan had become one large family. Nothing could have delighted me more than to see all their adoring faces around the wedding feast table.

Ten months after the wedding, I gave birth to a baby girl we named Mauve. She brought joy and distraction while we waited anxiously around our radios as the rest of the war played out, battle by battle.

I was expecting another child come Christmas. As with Mauve, my pregnancy had been relatively easy. Since May, when the Victory in Europe Day had been declared, we’d all felt lighter and hopeful for the first time in years. With my first pregnancy, I’d worried about what kind of world I was bringing a son or daughter into. With the war over, I felt much more at ease about the future.

The feeling we had that September was one of great relief, although a lingering sadness for the toll it had taken on so many families would stay with us for years to come. On a warm day in late September, even though we would continue to miss those we’d lost, we were in a celebratory mood. The weather had been unseasonably warm that afternoon, and Isabella convinced us to pack a lunch for the beach. We’d donned our bathing outfits to swim and splash in the surf, taking turns keeping watch over Mauve. My sisters adored her and spoiled her terribly. Secretly, I was glad another baby was coming, if only for Mauve’s sake. She needed a little competition for affection. As of now, she had two sets of grandparents and four aunties who thought she hung the moon.

We returned to the house sandy and tired from the sun and salt water and ventured up to our rooms to clean up and rest a little before dinner. An hour or so later, feeling refreshed, I dressed Mauve and myself for a casual dinner. The kind of meal we enjoyed so much here at the beach, where we would linger about the table long after the food had been devoured. Especially now, with Percy being home, it felt as if every dinner was a celebration.

Peter had taken the job at the Times, and we’d bought a small apartment in the city not far from Stella and the girls. When I’d become noticeably pregnant with Mauve, I’d left my job at the translator’s office. Which was just as well because not long after that, thankfully, we were no longer needed. I had adjusted to married life and motherhood easily, and I was surprised to find how contented I felt. I’d worried I’d miss the stimulation of work, but between the time at the Westbrooks’ and with Stella and the girls, I had all the support and companionship I needed.

In 1944, Betsy had started a nursing program through Greenwich Hospital that combined coursework and hands-on clinical practice. When she was done, she would be an official RN. She lived in the dormitories, visiting her family only on weekends. Thus, I didn’t see her as much as I would have liked. Regardless, I was proud of her accomplishments. Her work gave her meaning, especially as a way to honor George’s memory.

Although she didn’t say it, I had a feeling that part of the reason she pushed herself so hard at school and work had at least a little to do with Charlie. He’d worked for Mr. Westbrook for several years when a woman appeared, claiming to be his wife. There was no choice but to believe her, as she had a photograph of the two of them on their wedding day. Charlie, although still with no recall of his former life, had felt he had to return home. Especially when he learned of the little boy his wife had given birth to while he was overseas, serving in the army.

She didn’t say, but I knew Betsy had been utterly crushed. I could only hope that there was another love out there for her. One who knew who he was and what he wanted and didn’t have a wife and child. She deserved only the best.

I’d just finished getting Mauve and myself dressed when Peter came into the attic space where we always stayed during our visits. He wore a linen suit that I thought he looked particularly handsome in. Mauve called out to him, running into his arms. “Dada.”

Peter picked her up, twirling her in a circle while she squealed with delight. When he set her down, she ran back to me, crawling into my lap for cuddles. From the small chair in the corner, I studied Peter. There was something off about him, like he was nervous.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

He perched on the edge of the bed, just below the tall window that looked out to sea. “I have something to tell you.”

I kept quiet, knowing how Peter took time to gather his thoughts. At times, I wished he’d be a little more blunt and less cautious, but I loved him madly either way.

“Percy’s been working on something.” Peter cleared his throat. “He used his contacts to search for information about Pierre.”

My stomach dropped. Would I finally know what had happened? How exactly he’d died?

“Yes?”

“He’s alive.”

“What?” My mouth went completely dry. Black dots danced before my eyes.

“He was captured during a battle during the German invasion in 1940. Along with the others, he was marched to a POW camp. Conditions were grim—overcrowding, malnutrition, forced labor. Somehow, though, he managed to stay alive. When the allies liberated his camp, he was emaciated and gravely ill with a lung infection. He was then sent to a hospital in England, where they didn’t expect him to live. Apparently, it was months before he was strong enough to tell the nurses his story and ask about his wife and their vineyard. After some digging, they learned about Mauve’s death. They also promised to help locate you as best they could. This coincided with Percy’s inquiries. One thing led to another, and Percy’s arranged for him to come here. He’ll be here any minute.”

I simply stared at him. Could it be? “They didn’t know about his Jewish mother?”

“Apparently not. Or he wouldn’t have survived. Percy said screening for Jewish ancestry was not always consistent. Probably, because of the sheer numbers of prisoners, he went undetected.”

“I can’t believe it. He’s alive. Is he well?”

“He’s still frail, from what they told us, but was well enough to travel. Like I said, Percy’s bringing him here tonight.”

I started to cry. Mauve placed her plump hand on my cheek. “Mama sad.”

“No,” I said through my tears. “Mama’s very happy.”

Stella had kept Mauve inside to feed her dinner so that I could wait on the porch. Peter and I were sitting in rocking chairs side by side when Percy’s car appeared in the driveway. Percy parked in front of the house and hurried around the front of the car to open the passenger-side door. A frail, thin man stepped out, his feet unsteady. I’d not have known him. His face had narrowed and become taut, like skin over bone and nothing in between. His thick hair had also thinned and had turned completely white. He walked with a slight hitch, not unlike Peter’s.

But when he raised his gaze to me, I knew him then. His brown eyes were the same. The light and sparkle had dimmed somewhat, but they belonged to my dear Papa.

I ran down the steps, almost tripping in the gravel driveway. Papa stood stock still, staring at me for a moment before tears began to run down his gaunt cheeks.

“Oh, my Mireille. Is it truly you?” He spoke to me in French. His voice sounded weak. I remembered Peter had said he had had a lung infection.

I threw my arms around him, and he gathered me close as I wept. “It’s me, Papa. It’s me. I’ve missed you so.”

He held me at arm’s length. “I hear there’s a grandchild I’m to meet. And another coming soon, too?”

I touched my fingers to my bump. “Yes. And Mauve’s inside. Waiting to meet you.”

“I’m sorry, ma fille. About your mother. I should have sent her here instead of worrying about my precious vineyard.”

“Papa, you can’t blame yourself. She wanted to stay.”

“I’m sorry you had to learn the truth about what happened when you were a baby in such a way. We planned to tell you when you turned eighteen and give you a choice to come to America to meet Mauve’s sister, but alas, the war came, and everything changed.”

“We’ll talk about all that later, Papa. Right now, we must focus on your health. The past is the past, and we cannot change it. But now we have a future. Together.”

“Yes, yes. I want to hear everything about your life. No detail spared.” He glanced at Peter, who stood a respectful distance apart. “This is your Peter?”

“Yes, this is my Peter. My husband.”

The men shook hands. For a moment, I remembered what Peter had looked like when he returned to me, almost as frail and broken as my father. But he’d gotten better. We would nurse Papa back to health in the same way. Between Percy and Betsy, he would be in the best care possible.

“Come inside, Papa. Mauve’s waiting. And Stella and her girls.”

“I knew her as Estelle,” Papa said in English now. “A very long time ago. She gave me the greatest gift. You.”

At which point, I started crying all over again.

That evening, we dined on the patio as the sun set behind us. I could hardly take my eyes off my father. It was such a shock to see him. Alive and almost well. Well, enough.

Papa told us his story over a supper of grilled fish and succulent tomatoes. Percy had opened several bottles of French wine, then another, filling Papa’s glass several times.

He told us of his capture by the Germans and that he’d been sent to a prison camp where he nearly died of starvation and illness. But he’d hung on, clinging to the thought of me, of Mama, and of the vineyard he had left behind. He told us about the day the Americans came, breaking open the gates and rescuing those who were still alive. He had been sent to a hospital in England, where he went in and out of consciousness for several weeks. “The nurses tell me it was not likely I would make it. The infection in my lungs was quite severe. But I slowly got better. They were able to find out what happened to Mauve and, our vineyard and the village. It broke my heart to know that my beloved wife was gone. Much more so than my vineyard. I once again clung to hope. The idea that I might be able to see my daughter again kept me from dying of sadness.”

I listened, tears streaming from my eyes. Peter had taken my hand under the table, caressing me with his thumb. Beside me, Mauve babbled away in her high chair, stuffing food into her mouth while watching her grandfather. She was like Peter, observant and intelligent.

When a maid had cleared the table, Mauve pointed at Papa. “Me. There.”

My father’s face lit up, and for a second, he looked as if I had remembered him. “Oh, yes, please. Come and sit on your Pepe.”

“She’ll be a little sticky,” I said, thinking of the blackberries and cream we’d had for dessert.

“I do not care.” Papa’s eyes flashed, showing me that he was indeed still inside there. Muted and dormant, perhaps, but they had not taken everything from him. They could not take away love. No matter how they’d tried.

Peter scooped a wriggling Mauve out of her high chair and placed her in Papa’s lap. Mauve looked up at her grandfather, touching his chin with her chubby fingers.

When he’d met her earlier, he’d been speechless, clearly awed by the sight of my darling girl.

“Is it me, or does she look like your mother?” Papa asked softly.

“Sometimes. Other times, I think she looks like Peter.”

“Well, she looks like herself, maybe, yes?” Papa said, kissing the top of her downy head.

I smiled. “Yes. And she has a mind of her own.”

I looked across the table to see that Stella wept quietly into her napkin. What memories it must bring up for her, seeing my father with a baby. He’d promised to take care of me, and he had.

Now, we’d come full circle. Without my dear mama, but I had a feeling she was with us still. Perhaps looking at us from up above in her new home with Jesus.

Oh, Mama, how I miss you. But you can see how happy I am. How family is all around me. Papa has come home to me.

What was to become of our family vineyard now that France was free? Time would tell that story. Tonight, with the stars sparkling from a purple velvet sky, I put aside all thoughts of the future and let myself bask in the glow of the faces all around me.

In the end, evil had not fully won. They had left some of us behind to do the work of rebuilding a world ravaged by war. We would all have our parts to play but for tonight, we could simply be grateful to be here, loving one another.

Love could not conquer all. I wished I could say it was true, but I’d witnessed tragedies so unfathomable that it was impossible not to be tainted. Yet, we would not stop trying to change the dark to light. It was our only job, really. Loving one another so fiercely that evil could not make us bitter or despairing. For with love comes light.