When she awoke the next morning, Marinette found two pieces of paper on top of her medicine bag in the supply room. There was another piece on the cot closest to the exit, and several smaller pieces tucked into the rip in the canvas of the north side. At lunch, the cook slipped her a drawing with her meal, and after dinner, one of the soldiers dropped one at her feet as she examined his fractured jawbone. Even Chloé had brought a scrap her way, and though Marinette questioned her about it relentlessly, the most she could say was that a solider had given it to her, and they both felt Marinette ought to have it.
"You ought to have it," she heard Sabrina repeat on Tuesday, and Alya repeat on Thursday. Private Nino had been exceptional in his gift of six sketches, quickly snatched up before the works were scattered throughout the camp, but even he left no more explanation than anyone else. "You should be the one to keep these," he said, without a backward glance.
At this point, Marinette didn't know what to do. She'd smoothed out each one and looked it over; she'd pinned the ones she liked best above her bed, and carefully stashed the rest in a spare manila envelope; she'd even held a few of them over a flame to check for secret writing, but there was none to be found. It wasn't that she wasn't grateful to receive the fallen soldier's life's work—she was honored—but the whole situation left her confused. There was no apparent instigator to the deliveries. There was no central person to whom each messenger had some connection. She hadn't even known all of them herself, and yet, each of them knew enough to reunite the drawing with its likeness. It was baffling.
After the second gift had arrived, Marinette had resolved to discuss the situation with Private Agreste. Perhaps he had been false about the missing sketches. Perhaps he had mentioned them being stolen in an attempt to pleasantly surprise her when, in fact, he had them all to send. Or, perhaps he had been able to track a number of them down, and was personally asking that each be sent her way. Both options seemed fairly plausible. She was prepared to confront him about it that night when it came time to dress the soldiers' wounds… but he never came.
He didn't come the next night either, nor the night after that. She told herself not to worry about it, but she still asked Alya if she knew.
"Sorry, Marrinette, but they don't tell me anything they don't tell you…" and she hadn't heard any rumors either.
By Friday, she'd even gone so far as to ask Chloé for help.
"Can't you ask your father? The general's sure to know!" but Chloé wouldn't hear anything of it.
"Even if I asked him, I wouldn't tell you," she sneered, and Marinette was left in the dark again.
She hated this. She HATED this. It wasn't that she'd been handed everything all her life, but Marinette was smart. She'd always been able to figure it out. When she saw a wound, she could piece together the cause, the complications, and the treatment long before there was time for explanation. When she met a person, she could infer their history, motivation, and mental state within minutes. Now, she had nothing. No clues, no leads, and not one, but two mysteries plaguing her brain.
"Excuse me, Ma'am, but do you have a minute for an interview?"
The man who entered the tent was slightly below average height, with tan skin and dark chocolate eyes that always seemed to be searching for something. He wore his hair slicked back under a cap, and in his hand he held a pad of paper with a pencil half-shoved through the spiral binding.
Marinette looked up from the pile of laundry she was folding. She hadn't anything better to do, she supposed.
"Great!" the man smiled, oddly relieved. He took a seat on the cot closest to her, and then asked, "May I sit here?"
"Go ahead," she responded, although the request had been retroactive, and the response unnecessary.
"Right, let me introduce myself," he beamed, "My name is Theo Barbot. I'm a journalist with Paris-Soir, here to cover our the troops."
"If that's the case," Marinette chuckled, "you ought to ask the troops."
"Oh! I'm sorry," Theo backtracked, "I'm not familiar with the terminology."
"You've never been a solider?" Marinette questioned. Avoiding conscription was not the easiest thing to do these days, especially with a public occupation like "journalist" to keep one out of hiding.
"Weak lungs," he smiled, shyly. "They didn't want a soldier who'd break down coughing in the middle of a battle."
She nodded. It didn't seem like a lie. She'd sent several asthmatics home the first week of training after it was discovered that they couldn't meet the physical requirements for enlistment.
"I used to be an sculptor, but I went in to journalism to help my country. I was very passionate about my craft, but I thought if I couldn't be a solider I should find some other way to assist. Maybe when the war ends, I'll return to my studio."
Another artist.
"But enough about me!" He realized the conversation had strayed. He had tried his best to be professional, but it seemed Marinette had that effect on people. He couldn't help but open up to her.
He flipped through his notebook, to find his list of questions. He began, "May I please have your name?"
"Marinette Dupain-Cheng," she said casually. Of course, the hyphen raised an eyebrow.
"Cheng?" he asked.
"My mother's maiden name," she said as nonchalantly as she could. She knew what was coming.
"She's not a Jap, is she?"
Marinette sighed. When Japan had first signed the Anti-Cominter Pact with Germany, no one had thought anything of it. Even when Japan had declared war on China, the average person hadn't taken note. It wasn't until Germany began its own conquest, hundreds of thousands of meters away, that Japan had been drawn into the equation. "Rome, Berlin… Tokyo?" the headlines had read.
At first, Marinette hadn't really considered the situation. True, she had been worried about her mother's relatives back east—she'd even helped write letters to her cousins in the motherland—but Japan was not a part of her heritage, and even China felt like another world to a young woman who had never even left France.
Her neighbors didn't feel that way. There'd been whispers up and down the streets for weeks. She could never be sure if the discussions were positive or negative, or even if they were directed at her, but she knew the sentiment existed.
"Hey, Marinette," a child had questioned, a finger to her lips, "Are you spying for the Mikado?"
"If Japan becomes our enemy, are you going to go home?"
"You're not a traitor, are you?"
It wasn't consistent, but it was shocking enough when did occur to strike a nerve. It had gotten to the point where her mother, the kind and soft-spoken Sabine, had taken to working in the back of the bakery, only dealing with customers she already knew personally. She had claimed she simply preferred to handle the pastries herself, but Marinette knew she was worried about the business, and the way the ignorant masses might misinterpret her appearance and her alignment.
"No," Marinette answered, forcing a smile, "My mother is Chinese. They're on our side."
The reporter pursed his lips and nodded, evidentially unaware of the offensive nature of his question.
"So, what drew you to nursing?" he asked.
Marinette considered this. It had always seemed so obvious. Between a string of relatives dropping tidbits of traditional Chinese medicinal knowledge like pearls from a broken necklace, and her notably steady hands—grown strong from working in her parent's bakery—the medical field had simply felt right. She didn't want to mention that she had been eager to leave the city, where people knew her mother, and her heritage. She didn't want to admit that she liked the way she blended in with the rest of the nurses here—her Chinese features less than obvious to the untrained eye. She didn't want to admit that she took pride in her ability to prove false those in her community who considered her a potential menace.
"I've always wanted to help other people," she replied frankly.
"Interesting, interesting," he repeated, scribbling down her words as though she had said something very profound.
"How do you feel about the war?" he continued, not looking up. "How long do you expect it to last?"
"I think we're fighting for the right reasons. I think history will say that," she stated matter-of-factly, "Hopefully, the war will be over in time for Christmas. I'd like to see my family again."
"That long?" Theo asked. He certainly wasn't familiar with the terminology.
"That's what we always say," she laughed, "All throughout history: 'The war will be over by Christmas,'" she explained, "but it never is. The fighting seems as though it's only just started, but we've been at war for over eight months now, and we're not winning."
This came as a shock to the reporter. "But the other soldiers told me they'd just had a victory!"
"We're a small regiment, and that was a small battle," she admitted, sadly, "We're not the frontlines by any means, and our skirmishes won't decide the war. We were able to push back the German advance this week—in this tiny corner of the country—but other places they're winning." She stared past him, not watching his face as she spoke. "The generals are trying to fight the Great War again, but they can't do it. This is a new age, and the Nazis are a new threat. They can't repeat history, and they're sending our best men out to die trying."
Finally, she focused back on him, and saw his expression for the first time. He was horrified. The other soldiers, they were confident, assured, and jubilant in the wake of recent success. This nurse held a message of warning that couldn't even be mistaken for pessimism. He feared the truth in her words, and stalled as he struggled to grapple with them.
"I-I'm sorry…" she said, realizing her mistake. She'd spent weeks, months even, holding her tongue. She knew she was a paragon of safe-haven to the men. She existed to heal their wounds and ease their suffering. She listened to their stories, and lauded their accomplishments. She could not be the one to shake their faith.
"Please, please," she begged, "Please don't publish that."
He looked down at his notepad, bereft of any indication of what she'd just said, and nodded.
"Can I at least have a closing statement?" he asked, "Something to quote for the article."
"Of course," she breathed, relief flooding her veins, "I want the people at home to know how brave our solders are. I want them to know what they're fighting for is worthwhile, and that we'll never forget their sacrifices. And…" and she paused, "and if they can donate, they should…. The hospital could use more supplies."
At this, the reporter gave a toothy grin, and stood up, extending his arm for a firm handshake.
"I've got a few more camps to visit before I can start writing, so please look for the article around the last week of June," he said, releasing his grip.
"Of course," she replied. "I wouldn't miss it."
As soon as he'd passed out of sight, Marinette returned to her laundry. She'd hoped the busy-work would keep her mind occupied for at least a short time, but the monotony of the task offered her more than ample time to think. Her thoughts raced wildly between Private Agreste and the mysterious drawings—two enigmas she could not solve—as she did her best to quell the gnawing in the pit of her stomach. She struggled immensely to silence the words she had just let slip from her tongue, but they ricocheted around in her mind like bullets from a gun. It was so easy to get wrapped up in the drama of the hospital each day that sometimes she forgot exactly how big the war really was. She could set a thousand bones, and stitch a thousand cuts, but it wouldn't alter fate. She could clean a thousand scrapes, and remove a thousand pieces of shrapnel, but it wouldn't make a difference. She could mend the wounds of every solider in the camp, with her brightest smile plastered to her face, but that wouldn't change the fact that France was losing, and there was nothing she could do about it.