“How old are you, Solange?”

“Dix-neuf …” She thought about it for a minute, trying to find the right numbers in English. “Ninety.” She said quietly and then he laughed at her, and shook his head.

“No, I don't think so. Nineteen?” Suddenly, she realized what she had said, and she laughed too, for the first time, looking suddenly young again and more beautiful than ever. “You look terrific for ninety.”

“Et vous?” She asked the same question of him.

“Twenty-two.” It was suddenly like boy-and-girl exchanges anywhere, except that they had both seen so much of life. She in Paris, and he with his bayonet, killing Germans.

“Vous étiez étudiant? … student?”

He nodded. “At a place called Harvard, in Boston.” He was still proud of it, even now, oddly enough with her it still seemed to matter, and he was doubly proud when he saw a light of recognition in her eyes.

“ 'Arvard?”

“You've heard of it?”

“Bien sÛr … of course! … like la Sorbonne, no?”

“Probably.” He was pleased that she knew it, and they exchanged a smile. The tea and bread and cheese were long gone, but she didn't seem so anxious to leave now. “Could I see you tomorrow, Solange? To go for a walk maybe? Or lunch? … dinner?” He realized how hungry she was now, how little food she probably had, and he felt it his duty to feed her.

She started to shake her head and indicated the books in the string bag.

“After? … or before? … please … I don't know how long I will be here.” There was already talk of their leaving Paris and moving on to Germany, and he couldn't bear the thought of leaving her. Not now … not yet … and maybe not ever. It was his first taste of puppy love, and he was totally in her thrall as he gazed into the green eyes that seemed so much gentler now, and so full of wisdom.

She sighed. He was so persistent. And in spite of herself, she liked him. During the entire Occupation, she had not made friends with a single German, and certainly no soldier, and she didn't see why the liberation should be any different, and yet … and yet, this boy was different. And she knew it.

“D'accord,” she said reluctantly.

“Don't look so excited,” he teased and she looked confused as he smiled, and took her hand again. “Thank you.”

They stood up slowly then and he walked her to her door across the street. She gave him a formal little handshake and thanked him for dinner, and then with a resolute sound, the heavy door closed behind her. As Sam made his way slowly through the streets of Paris, he felt as though his whole life had changed in only a few hours. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that this woman … this girl … this extraordinary creature … had come into his life for a reason.





Chapter 2




“Where were you last night?” Arthur yawned as they had breakfast together in the dining room of the hotel where they were quartered. It was the Hôtel Idéal on the rue Saint-Sebastien, and troops were being billeted in similar quarters all over Paris. Arthur himself had had a particularly pleasant evening, which ended with too much wine, but not too many women.

“I had dinner with Solange,” Sam said casually as he finished his coffee, trying to make it sound like any ordinary date, which they both knew it wasn't.

“Who's that? Someone you picked up after you left me?”

“Nope.” Sam looked him right in the eye, with the famous grin full of mischief. “You remember her … we met her yesterday on the rue d'Arcole … red hair, green eyes … nice legs … great walk …”

“Are you serious?” He looked stunned, and then he laughed, it was obvious that Sam was teasing. “For a minute, I believed you. Seriously, where were you?”

“I told you. With Solange.” And this time he looked as though he meant it. “Walker, do you mean it? That girl? Where in hell did you find her?”

“Outside her house. I went back, just in case, and she was coming home. She tutors a kid with tuberculosis.”

“How the hell do you know? As I recall, she only spoke French to us, argot at that.” Arthur looked stunned.

“She speaks a little English. Not a lot, but enough. Other than the fact she told me she was ninety years old, we got along great.” He smiled a proprietary smile at Arthur. It was clear that Solange was already his woman, and looking at him, Arthur felt a pang of regret for not having persisted. There was something about Sam, and people like him. Invariably in life, they won all the prizes.

“How old is she?” He was curious now. Like Sam, he wanted to know everything about her.

“Nineteen.”

“And her father didn't come after you with a butcher knife?”

Sam shook his head quietly. “Her father and brother were killed by the Germans. Her mother died of tuberculosis. She's alone.”

Arthur looked impressed. They really had had a conversation. “Are you seeing her again?”

Sam nodded, and then smiled knowingly at his friend. “Yes, I am, and she doesn't know it yet, Patterson, but after the war, we're going to get married.”

Arthur's jaw almost dropped as he stared at his friend, but this time he didn't even bother to tell him he was crazy, because the crazy thing was that he suddenly sensed that Sam meant it.

Sam and Solange met again for dinner that night, and this time, she told him what it was like living in Paris with the Germans. In a subtler way, it was worse than what he'd been through, and she had been defenseless. She'd had to live by her wits, avoiding being arrested or tortured or merely raped by the Germans who felt they owned Paris and all the women in it. And after her father had died, she had had to support her mother. They had had hardly any food, and she had given almost everything to her mother. They had lost their apartment eventually, and her mother had died in her arms in a rented room, the room she still lived in now, filled with its ugly memories and sad ghosts, but she had nowhere else to go now. And after what she'd seen during the war, there was no one left that she trusted. Her brother's betrayal had been the final blow to any feeling she had once had for France or her fellow Frenchmen.

“I'd like you to come to America one day,” he said as though testing the waters, as he watched her eat. He kept ordering food, and was gratified that she ate it.

She shrugged in answer to his invitation, as though it were an impossible dream, not even worth thinking about. “Very far …” She gestured and then explained in French, “C'est très loin.” In every possible way was what she was thinking.

“Not so far.”

“And you? 'Arvard again after the war?”

“Maybe.” If it even mattered anymore. It was hard to imagine going back to school again. Maybe he would try acting after all. He and Arthur had talked about it a lot, at night, in the foxholes. It made sense there. But it was hard to know what would make sense once they got home. Things would be very different. “I want to be an actor.” He tried it out on her, to see what she would say, and she looked intrigued by it.

“An actor?” And then she nodded, as though it made sense to her, and he wanted to kiss her. He smiled at her and she wasn't quite sure why, and then he ordered a bowl of fruit for her, which was the first she'd had in months, or even dreamed of. His generosity embarrassed her, yet in another way it seemed very natural, as though they were old friends. It was difficult to imagine that this was only their second dinner together.

Their friendship seemed to flourish as they took walks along the Seine, and stopped in little bistros and cafes to talk and eat and finally hold hands. Sam had hardly seen Arthur in days, and when they met over breakfast, Sam didn't like what he had to say. Patton crossed the Meuse two days after their victory parade down the Champs-Élysées, and the week after was at Metz on the Moselle on the way to Belgium. It was unlikely that they would be allowed to languish in Paris for much longer. And on September third both Brussels and Antwerp were liberated by the British.

“They're going to have our asses back out there any day, Sam, mark my words,” Patterson said gloomily over coffee, and Sam knew he was right, but he was desperate to stay with Solange now. And on the day Brussels had fallen to the British, he had gone to her room, and he had gently pulled away the old blue dress that had been her mother's and made love to her for the first time. And to his amazement, and delight, he had discovered that she was a virgin. She had lain in his arms afterward with tears of happiness washing her cheeks as he kissed her. And Sam had fallen more desperately in love with her than ever.

“I love you so much, Sam.” Her voice was husky and gentle as she carefully pronounced the words.

“So do I, Solange … so do I….” He couldn't bear the thought of leaving her now, and he knew she hated the thought too. She seemed so much more dependent on him now, more trusting and open. But two weeks later, he got his orders. They were moving on to the German front, there was a war to fight after all, and at least the end was in sight now. Everyone was certain that with the rest of Europe liberated, Germany would fall quickly … maybe even by Christmas, he promised her late one night, as he sculpted her exquisite body with hungry fingers. She had flesh of a satin he had never touched before, and hair that fell past her shoulders and over her breasts like benign fire as he kissed her.

“I love you, Solange … oh, God, how I love you.” He had never known anyone like her. Surely not in Boston, or anywhere since then. “Will you marry me when the war is over?” Her eyes were full of tears when he asked her, and she didn't answer. He forced her to look at him, and the tears spilled slowly down her cheeks as though she knew something he didn't. “What's the matter, sweetheart?”