Crossings [calibre 2.37.1]

“You're not the only one who misjudged them. Think of what they're saying in the States. Roosevelt is trying to get reelected next year on the basis that the Americans won't ever get involved in the war over here. It's madness.”

“Willkie is saying the same thing. They might as well be on the same ticket.”

“Who do you suppose will win?” Liane asked. It seemed odd to be speaking of the American elections while Europe was in blazes around them.

“Roosevelt will, of course.”

“For a third term?”

“Do you doubt it?”

She smiled. “Not really.” It was nice speaking of those things with him. A taste of sanity and home in the midst of the nightmare they were living.

The dinner party ended early and Armand took Liane home. He yawned all the way and patted his wife's hand in the back of the Citroën, with its government driver. “I see that Burnham was there tonight. I never got a chance to talk to him. How is he?”

“Fine.” Their conversation had had none of the personal flavor of their talks on the ship, but that was to be expected.

“I'm surprised he's still here.”

“He says he's going home after Christmas. The boy and his wife went home on the Aquitania.”

“Probably with Philip Markham.”

“Did you know about that?” She looked at Armand in surprise, and then she grinned. He had never mentioned it to her, she had heard it on her own, from some of the Americans she knew in Paris. “Is there anything you don't know, Armand?”

“Hopefully not. Information is my business.” He knew also about Burnham's secret deals with Poland but he didn't say so. And then Armand glanced quickly at the driver. But the man was to be trusted. He had top security clearance.

“Is it?” Liane looked surprised. That wouldn't have been how she would have described his work. But nowadays everything was changing.

And Armand drifted away rapidly from the subject. “It was nice seeing you all dressed up tonight, my love. Like the old days, when we lived in a peaceful world.” She nodded slowly. She was still thinking about what he had said, but she didn't want to question him in the car. She had seen him glance at the driver. But she had been wondering about his activities for a while. He never told her anymore about what was going on at the office. He told her just the news that she read every day anyway in the paper. But he was much more secretive than he had been in the past. And more tired than she had ever known him. They hadn't made love since late August. And she suspected that tonight would be no different. He was already drifting off to sleep in the car before they reached the Place du Palais-Bourbon. She woke him up and they went upstairs, and while she was undressing, he did the same and reached the bed first, and was sound asleep when she got there.

n the thirtieth of November, two days after Americans all over the United States had carved their turkeys, Soviet air and ground troops attacked Finland. As usual, Liane did not see Armand. She was starting to feel that their marriage was beginning to crumble along with Europe. For months she had felt that she could serve France by serving him, but more and more now he kept a distance from her that she had never felt before. He was distracted and silent, uninvolved with the girls; their sex life was at a total standstill. He gave all of his energies to France, and would allow her to give none of hers to him. He told her absolutely nothing now, and she no longer asked him what was new. She felt as though she were living alone with the girls, and they noticed it too, although, out of respect for Armand, she denied it to them.

“Papa is just very busy. You know that. It's the war.” But she was beginning to wonder if it was just that, or if it was something more. There were constant secret meetings at all hours of the day and night, and once or twice he went away for the weekend, but could not tell her where or with whom. She wondered briefly if he was involved with a mistress, as well as the war, but she didn't really think that.

Whatever was happening in his life, it did not include her. She might as well have gone back to the States, for the little she saw of him. And she found herself wondering now and then how Nick Burnham was holding up without his son, living in the enormous house on the Avenue Foch, all alone.

In fact, he was even more lonely than Liane. At least she had her daughters. He had no one at all. He had heard not a single word from Hillary since he'd left her on board the Aquitania in September. His only letters had been from Johnny, and one from his mother-in-law. All he could gather from what she told him was that Hillary was terribly busy in New York, and for some vague, undisclosed reason, Johnny was going to continue staying with her. Nick knew exactly what Hillary was up to. It was either Philip Markham, or someone else, but she didn't want to be saddled with her child, any more than she had wanted to the past summer. It turned Nick's stomach to think of the boy alone with his grandmother in Boston, but for the moment nothing could be done. He had planned to stay in Paris until after Christmas, but by the end of the week he knew that he couldn't go back yet. He had made a commitment he had to live up to, to assist the French. Now he hoped to be back in New York by April, though he didn't tell Johnny that when he wrote to him, not wanting to get the child's hopes up until he was sure. He just said soon. He cabled his office in New York to buy the boy a mountain of Christmas presents and have them delivered to Boston. It wasn't much of a replacement for a father or a mother, but it was something; it was all he could do for the moment. And it was more than he had in Paris on Christmas Day.

He stood alone in the paneled library, where he had once stood watching Johnny play in the garden, and now there was no one and nothing. The trees were bare, the garden was pale gray, there was no sound in the house … no Christmas tree … no carols … no shining face exploding with glee, digging through an overstuffed Christmas stocking. There was only the sound of his own footsteps as he walked up the stairs to his bedroom, carrying the last bottle of brandy he had bought before the war, and praying for a few hours of oblivion, when he wouldn't be aching for his only son. But even the brandy didn't help, and he stopped after three stiff drinks. They were just enough to take the edge off and then he sat down to write Johnny a letter, telling him how much he missed him, and how next Christmas would be much better than this. Nick Burnham was grateful when at last night fell, and he drew the curtains, turned off the light, and went to sleep.

he next four or five months were characterized by a period of limbo, a time referred to as the “phony war” in France, when nothing seemed to happen. The French stood staunchly at the Maginot Line, prepared to defend their country but not being asked to. And in Paris life went on almost as normal. After the initial shock, there were very few changes, unlike London, where rationing was acute and uncomfortable, sirens shrieked, and air raid drills were common almost every night. But in Paris, life was very different from all that.

It created a kind of subterranean tension, coupled with a false sense of security that nothing would ever change. Armand went on with his constant secret meetings, and rather than being supportive, Liane was beginning to get annoyed. At least he could tell her something about what he was doing, she reasoned. He had always trusted her before, but it was clear that he didn't now. He went on with his mysterious war work, disappearing occasionally for a few days at a time. She would get a quiet call from his office, telling her only that Monsieur had gone out of town.