AWAKENING, CHAPER 8: LE CHEF STAGIAIRE EN PARIS
Late April 1946
They could have flown to Paris, of course, but LeBeau seemed intent on meeting them in Calais, so Peter and Hogan boarded a ferry on April 29, a week before Hogan's planned departure for Washington. It was a Sunday, a day off for Louis, and even on the Channel, where the seas could be rough, the budding warmth and fresh promise of spring was evident.
They stood together on the upper deck as the French shoreline approached. Peter's light brown hair, barely long enough to ruffle under most conditions, was undulating in a brisk wind. Hogan kept a knit watch cap on his head, because like most pilots, his jet black hair was on the long side, and there wasn't enough Brylcreem in all of Great Britain to hold it in place at 18 knots.
Peter was gazing into the distance. "You're sure you want to come off the ship with me, Sir? I'm certain I can fffind him myself." The words "if I have to" went unspoken; he didn't want to leave Hogan abruptly, even though he had no doubt he would find Louis. He asked the question without turning his head, fearing deep inside that the reunion with his best friend would vanish like a sweet dream if he dared to take his eyes off the coast.
"I don't need to return until tonight, and I'd like to see LeBeau. We can have lunch in a café in Calais before you to head back to Paris," Hogan said. He rested a hand on Peter's shoulder.
"I'd like that," Peter said with a grin. Hogan could see the relief wash over his young charge, and he tugged him closer. Change was hard for Peter. The shift to LeBeau's custody was welcome and it was short-term, Hogan knew, but that didn't mean parting would be easy. Peter had come to depend on him more than ever, and they both knew it.
Peter had been fragile all autumn and winter, and not only physically. Some days simply getting him out of bed was a challenge. He had repeatedly invoked the phrase "Mayfair"—the private signal that Peter needed comfort and assurance. Thus far, April had been Mayfair-free, and that was progress.
Hogan hadn't pressed for an explanation, because he hadn't needed to. Peter was struggling with abandonment and having difficulty getting back on his feet. A war he was too young to fight had stolen his youth and wrecked his home and family. Hogan, Mavis and LeBeau were his only stability, and while they each took the responsibility seriously, there need to assure Peter of their commitment to him was constant.
If he had been psychic, Hogan would have known Peter was angry.
He was angry at his Mum for leaving him to go to Australia, and at Helen for taking her away. He was angry at Rose for being far away in America, and for not making time to see him when he was close by in December. He was angry at his brother-in-law Jim for saying things about why Hogan was helping him, and he was angry at Helen for believing him. He was angry at Neddie for deciding that being like Jim was a good idea, and for not being able to cry when he couldn't stop. He was angry at Annie and Eliza for living in bloody Norfolk and never paying a whit of attention to him. He was angry at Alan Puckett for taking Mavis to Canada so she could fall in love with the place and with his bleeding family to boot. And he was angry beyond words at his old man, who'd come to the house just two weeks earlier and tried to persuade Colonel Hogan that he was needed at home, wherever that was, when all he wanted was an extra pair of hands for a job.
But nobody really knew what was on Peter's mind—not even Peter himself, half the time. It seemed the only people in England he wasn't angry with were Hogan, Mavis and Nora.
And of course Aunt Betty, Dottie and Mrs. Holtzman. But he couldn't bare his soul to them, not any more than he could to his new friends, Tim and Philip, the twin sons of an American general. Americans who actually knew how to play football, no less. Actually, he was a bit angry at them, especially Tim, for leaving London to study at Oxford. They'd be back from university at the end of July, and he wouldn't be there. It served them right.
As he mulled his complicated, mixed up feelings, Peter kept his eyes on the shore. There, on the landing outside the terminal, he spotted a familiar figure. His beret was the wrong color and so were his jacket, trousers, and scarf, but everything else was exactly right. Peter was smiling and leaning into Colonel Hogan, but he was shaking a bit.
"Hey, don't be nervous. He's thrilled to have you with him," Hogan said.
"Me too," Peter said, burying his face in Hogan's jacket. "I miss him all the time. I'll miss you too, Sir."
"Same here, kiddo, but I'll be back. And remember, we'll talk once a week and write once a week, OK? You can't hide what you're up to from your old man."
As the ferry approached the slip, its fenders suddenly kissed the dock bumpers, jostling the two men momentarily off balance. Their hug tightened briefly as they held each other upright. Peter let go, knowing he wouldn't fall if Hogan had him.
"You alright?" Hogan asked, holding onto his arm.
Peter stepped back. "Sir, yes, Sir," he said with a salute and a saucy grin. "Let's go find LeBeau."
XXX
After a leisurely dockside lunch with Hogan and a three-hour train ride, Louis and Peter were in Paris, stepping off the train at Gare du Nord and boarding Le Metro. "We take the No. 5 to Place de la Bastille, and we can walk from there," Louis said. "It's nine minutes."
"Place de la Bastille? That's a real place?" Peter said a bit louder than he should have. The train was crowded enough for them to stand, though not so crowded that hiss rucksack bothered anyone.
"D'accord! There's nothing left of the fortress except some markers on the ground, but most certainly, it is a very real place. We can walk from the Metro, five minutes." He stopped for a moment. "Or switch to another train if you are tired, mon pote."
"I'm fine, Louis. I'm strong again now." He tugged at the pack on his back. "This is easy to carry."
"You've come a long way since you were in hospital," Louis said.
"Blimey, I should hope so. I don't even like to think about how feeble I was," Peter said, rolling his eyes.
Louis touched his jacket. "You're still too thin, Pierre. We can fatten you up."
"On bloody fish stew? Not a chance, mate," Peter replied with a grin.
"Je pensais aux patisseries," Louis replied. "Pastries. Répète après moi."
"Pastries," Peter said.
"Pas ça, imbécile," Louis said. "Patisseries. Répète, Pierre."
"Pierre," Peter said.
"You never change," Louis said, laughing. "You're supposed to learn French, you know. Hogan's orders."
"Je pensais aux patisseries aussi," Peter replied. "J'ai toujours faim."
"Your accent is atrocious," Louis said.
"So is yours, mate."
They were so busy bantering that they nearly forgot to disembark at Bastille, but as they dashed to the door, a burly man held it open for them and they squeezed onto the platform just in time. Ascending a flight of stairs to emerge above ground, they walked in the direction of Louis's flat as he kept up a patter about where they were going.
"My grand-mère died a year after the Vel' d'Hiv' Roundup, but her flat was exactly as she left it in 1942. It took until December for the lawyers to sort out the estate, but it's mine now. Mon frère Henri got her place in Annecy, which he always loved, my mother got the art, and my sisters got her jewelry, which is probably worth more than the two flats combined," he said.
"Blimey, this neighborhood is beautiful, Louis. What's it called again?"
"Le Marais. It used to be more elegant than it is now. A lot of Jewish families lived here, and as you can imagine, it's been in some disrepair since les Boches occupied Paris."
"Is your restaurant near here?"
"No, it is a short walk. It's on Île de la Cité, near the cathedral. I'll take you on Tuesday. Tomorrow we rest."
They walked through the courtyard with its linden trees, and Louis stopped to chat with a lady sitting outside on a bench. She must be the concierge, Peter decided—he'd heard LeBeau mention that there ladies whose job it was to assist the residents. Their French was too rapid for Peter to grasp, but he got bits of it.
My young English friend... POWs together... Courageous… (Thanks, mate, you too.) Come and go from the flat as he pleases... Keep an eye on him… Very young, and a little stupid.
Well, thank you very much, Louis. Still getting laughs at my expense, I see, Peter thought. He was smiling anyway at Louis let them into the flat. Blimey, he thought as he walked down a paneled hallway. Did everyone but the Newkirks live in grandeur?
XXX
May 1946
Work began on Tuesday, and Peter applied himself diligently to the task LeBeau had set for him: Putting his superb knife skills to work by learning the craft of a vegetable chef, or legumier. Louis went off to work five mornings a week, and returned each afternoon to bring Peter back with him for the dinner shift. It was enough work to keep him busy, and not too much to wear down his health.
Peter was smoking again, to Louis's dismay. He'd stopped for a while when he was being treated for severe respiratory illness; he admitted to Louis that he'd started up again in February. Within days of arriving in Paris, Peter had become part of a small knot of smokers who took their breaks in the alley. Most were men, but a few girls flitted in and out.
Thérèse and Solange from the tobacconists were there without fail whenever the younger men gathered; they giggled and preened and whispered to one another. Then they got sassy enough to dispense cigarettes to the boys they liked—a select group that quickly came to include the handsome but quiet young Englishman who was staying with LeBeau. Wanda and Veronica, two Polish girls from the restaurant's washing-up staff, also joined the pack as often as they could. Peter and a few of the other young men flirted shamelessly with the girls, who reciprocated cheerfully.
One night, two men were earnestly discussing Jericho, a new film about a joint initiative by the RAF and the French Resistance to free 50 civilians who were being held as hostage by the occupying German Army. LeBeau had actually taken Peter to see the movie two nights earlier, and they'd discussed it in detail, having been privy to the details of Operation Jericho in 1944.
Peter noticed how another man's eyebrows shot up when he said, "J'étais dans la RAF." It turned out that the man, Tomasz, had been a mechanic in the Polish Air Force and had tried to get to England after the collapse of France, but was unsuccessful. He threw his energies into the Resistance instead. Peter couldn't tell Tomasz what he'd done in the war, but he found his stories about the Resistance fascinating, and started arranging his smoke breaks to coincide with his new friend's.
Peter, Tomasz and two or three other young men talked and joked endlessly, starting with which girls were prettiest and most likely to make themselves available. It was obviously sport; there would be hell to pay if they got frisky in the alleyway with shop girls, and Peter knew Louis would have his hide if he caught him speaking with disrespect toward any woman. So instead they told ribald stories, compared war injuries, and poked at politics. Within days, the talk had settled on football, and that cemented the friendship. By the middle of May, Peter and Tomasz were inseparable.
Notes:
The dialogue on the Metro:
- Louis jokes he's thinking about fattening Newkirk up with pastries ("Je pensais aux patisseries") then orders him to repeat it. ("Pastries. Répète après moi.")
- Peter repeats the English word.
- Louis says, "Not that, idiot. Pastries. Repeat, Pierre" ("Pas ça, imbécile," Louis said. "Patisseries. Répète, Pierre.")
- Peter repeats... "Pierre." (He really is annoying.)
- Then Peter shows off by saying "I"m thinking of pastries too. I'm always hungry." ("Je pensais aux patisseries aussi," Peter replied. "J'ai toujours faim.")
Also, LeBeau says his grandmother died a year after the Vel' d'Hiv' Roundup. This was the roundup of French Jews in July 1942 at the indoor bicycling track known as the Velodrome D'Hiver. A year later, she would have been deported to Auschwitz, where she died. This is not canon, but I'm including this detail in tribute to Robert Clary. In my mind, LeBeau was part Jewish but probably not recognizably Jewish (ie, his Catholic father didn't allow his sons to be circumcised) so his German captors couldn't tell.
The Mayfair signal between Hogan and Newkirk is explained in a story by that name on AO3.