Marie's Story

I had noticed the Canadian Sergeant as he walked down the street. In our village any man was rare enough apart from the old ones like my father, but he was so good looking. So I wasn't watching where I was walking, and turned my ankle and fell. I was embarassed to be so clumsy, but when he rushed over to help – and spoke to me in French (proper French, not what the Tommies spoke) – I was glad that I had. I tried to brush off my fall, but made sure that when I put my weight on my foot I cried out, so that he would stay with me. It worked, and he helped me home.

I couldn't believe it when he asked Maman and Papa if he could visit again. I said nothing, but I said all I could with my eyes.

We began walking together, short walks at first (it was so hard to remember that I had a sore ankle). I could tell that he liked me. He told me a lot, including that salope who ran to another man when he joined the Army (and I was so glad to hear that!). And he was Catholic – but he could have worshipped idols for all I cared. I told him about Pierre, who I really missed, and about Jean, my fiance – but not too much about him. I realized that our engagement could never have worked – but he seemed to me at seventeen to be my last hope, especially with so many of the village boys killed in the War.

He was so unlike Jean, who had tried everything to get me to sleep with him. He was kind, he was clean, he was everything I had been looking for. But he was a soldier, and a foreign one at that, one who some day would leave and probably never come back. But for now I was enjoying his company, and the envy of the other girls in the village.

Then the third day, we went for a long walk. He held my hand differently, and I knew that his feelings for me were different, and stronger. I said a little prayer to Ste. Catherine, as many French girls do when looking for their husband. I knew suddenly that he loved me.

My heart was so full that I raced him to the top of the hill, quite forgetting that I was supposed to be recovering from my injury. I saw him look towards the front lines, and his face lose its happiness. How long? When he lay down to rest, I sat looking at him, and my heart was filled with happiness just to be with him. I ran my fingers through his lovely hair, and when he didn't stir, I grew bolder. I kissed him on his mouth. It was an impulse I couldn't resist. Perhaps he wouldn't kiss me before he had to leave. I didn't know what a Canadian man would do, and he hadn't tried to kiss me yet. I wanted that kiss to remember and to cherish after he went. I was careful not to kiss him too hard, in case he should wake and be angry with me. Maybe Canadian girls are different. I didn't want him to think I was anything but a good girl.

I was not as good at it as I thought, as I saw the glimmer of his eyes through his eyelashes, and I knew he was awake. But he pretended not to be for a minute, so I knew he would not make anything of it. But his heart was beating as loudly as mine.

And if possible my happiness became even greater, because I knew that he loved me. Yes, he would have to go, but no one could take that away from me. And the Bon Dieu willing, he would find his way back to me.