There were a few work e-mail messages waiting for her, but nothing pressing. She sent notes to Hugh and her mother to let them know she had arrived safely. None of the local champagne vintners had returned the messages she had sent earlier asking to arrange tastings, so she rooted through her shoulder bag to find the longer list of producers Hugh had suggested she meet with in Champagne.
Her hand stilled when she came across one of Emma’s old letters stuck in a side pocket.
The envelope was stamped January of 1915, by which point Émile and Doris had been corresponding for a few months. As she had on the plane, Rosalyn studied the letter with a wordless sort of reverence: the military envelope, the yellowing onionskin paper, the ink fading to a rusty brown at times so faint she could barely make it out. Dark splatters of some substance—mud? Coffee? Blood?—marred one edge.
She brought out her travel dictionary, opened the bookmarked website that translated French into English, and began to decipher the letter as best she could. There were words she didn’t know, phrases she didn’t understand—but at least very little had been cut out or censored.
It was laborious but fascinating work. From time to time, the faded ink was so hard to read that she had to squint to decipher the letters, or resort to an educated guess based upon the meaning of the rest of the sentence. Other words and phrases were legible but unfamiliar, necessitating a thorough search of the dictionary and website, cross-referencing to be sure she understood their true meanings in context. Most challenging were the idiomatic expressions, which conveyed great meaning but defied word-for-word translations—she marked those with the placeholder “xxx.”
She brought out her journal and began a list of unknown words and mysterious phrases; maybe she could figure them out later, or find a native speaker who could help.
My dear Marraine, Madame Whittaker,
I do hope my meaning won’t be lost or altered by the censors. But word has come down that the censors have been xxx with too much mail to analyze, so now it is a lottery to see what shall make it through!
Shall I tell you the difficulty that sometimes exists between poilus and the officers? They are men from higher classes, no more attuned to war than we poor farmers. Some are decent types, but others xxx. There have been mutinies, soldiers tried for treason and shot down dead with French bullets, not for cowardice but for the sin of not wishing to face bullets and poison gas, shielded only by their too fragile human flesh. (If Anastasia’s scissors are sharpened, I’m sure none of that will survive.)
One of the officers is affianced to a young lady from Reims, named Lucie Maréchal. I will not mention the gentleman’s name, which would mean nothing to you, of course, but he was known to me in Reims. He and his brothers xxx and xxx were in the habit of hunting in the fields not far from our home, on the outskirts of the city. Often he would stop to purchase a jar of my honey—my bees were known to produce among the finest honey in the region—and he was always trying to negotiate me down from my standard price.
With communication with Reims disrupted, he has been set upon by the fear that the young lady in question is being unfaithful, or perhaps has been harmed or xxx in some way. It seems she declined to evacuate the city when she had the chance; I cannot understand why.
I did not have an acquaintance with this young lady, but because I know Reims, and he and I were known to each other, the officer has sent me to the city to gather intelligence—and to carry a gift and letter to his beloved. He claims he is unable to leave his important post, though I believe it is more likely he fears the treacherous trip in and out of the city. Risking my life to pass through the dangerous zone for an invented purpose xxx as ridiculous as so much else in this war; as I’m sure you know, it is never guaranteed that one will survive the expedition.
Refusing a direct order is not possible, so I went, and took heart from knowing I would be able to see for myself as to the well-being of my old neighbors and my beloved city. My own dear family has evacuated to the south, thank the heavens, but I was happy to return to Reims, if only to indulge in a bottle or two of my region’s famous bubbly nectar. In the trenches our only luxury is our daily ration of wine and brandy. When in Reims I felt sure I would be able to imbibe at will.
I will not describe for you at present what I discovered in the formerly handsome streets of my city. My heart is still broken at the scandalous devastation, not only of the homes and businesses, but even the great cathedral, where the kings of France have been crowned through the ages, where Joan of Arc rode in to savor her victory.
The Huns have done their best to destroy it, and along with it, our very spirit as a people. Whether they will succeed is xxx.
Well, my dear Marraine, what shall I tell you about the young lady in question? I found her in her family home, which had been badly injured by a mortar, losing half the wall that had enclosed a grand staircase. She and her mother were nursing a dozen soldiers along with only one maid. I am certain it was quite a shocking change from their previous life, before the war.
The mademoiselle is beautiful, to be sure, the sweetness of her countenance most welcome after months in the rotten gray muck of the trenches. There is a grace about her, as if she would smell like flowers despite the mud on her face. I was certain she would be silly and vain, as so many young ladies of her class are. I will admit, with shame, that I was angry at having been sent for such a frivolous reason, and upset at the state of my fair city, and did not mask my feelings around her.
She did not flinch under my harsh words. On the contrary, she smiled and asked what the officer in question had sent her.
It was an intricately carved comb for her long chestnut hair. She laughed when she saw it.
“What good is a comb? A wheel of cheese would have been more welcome.”
I was surprised, and pleased at the same time.
When not nursing the soldiers, the mademoiselle’s mother knits incessantly and gave me a present to take with me: a knitted balaclava for the officer from Reims, and two pairs of thick wool socks for me. This might seem a small thing. But clean, dry socks are a balm to the poilu, who stands day and night in the muck.
We shared a bottle of champagne—the young lady, her mother, and I. Perhaps it is the contrast of what I have seen these last months, but never have the bubbles tickled my nose in such a joyful fashion, never has the nectar tasted so sweet.
Obviously, since I am writing you this letter, I made it back to my xxx in one piece. Still . . . I think it will take me some time to understand all I saw and felt on my trip back to the city that I once called home.
Rosalyn sat back in her chair and stretched when she came to the end of the letter, feeling a sense of accomplishment. Glancing at the clock, she realized hours had passed while she had been immersed in Émile’s world, translating, struggling to understand.