Free The French War Bride by Robin Wells Page A

much. Sometimes at night, I think about you, and . . .” He blew out a harsh breath. A thrill chased through me.
    But his next words were like a bucket of cold water. “Romance is not something we should even consider in a time of war.”
    â€œWe’re not really at war,” I said. “There’s no actual fighting.” Everyone called it
la drôle de guerre—
the joke of war. The Americans called it “the phony war.”
    â€œIt will come,” he said, “and when it does, it will be brutal. It is best for us just to stay friends for now.”
    The thought of being something more in the future emboldened me. I stepped closer and put my hands on his chest. “Our friendship would be more special if you would kiss me again.”
    He took my hands, removed them from his chest, and stepped back. “Do not persist in tempting my baser nature, or I will not see you anymore.”
    â€œYou would quit seeing me rather than kiss me?”
    â€œYes. I do not want to ever harm you.”
    If his kisses were a prelude to how it would feel, I very much longed to be harmed.
    â€”
    I did not want him to stop seeing me, so I followed his rules. Rather than kissing, we talked at great length about politics, about Hitler, about the impending German attack. I asked about his family, and learned that he had distant aunts and uncles and cousins flooding into Paris, and that many of them were temporarily staying with him and his mother. I also learned that he’d had a younger sister who had died. He would not tell me how. Every time I broached the subject, he would come up with a reason to leave.
    I did learn that his father had owned a fine leather-goods store. The family had lived in a lovely house in Vienna, but now lived in a squalid apartment in the eleventh arrondissement. His mother took in ironing to help pay the rent, much to his shame and chagrin.
    â€œShe says she does not mind, but it is probably a good thing my father is dead,” he said bitterly. “It would kill him to see her reduced to this. I want to quit school and fully support her, but she says my education is the key to the future, and hope for the future is all she has to cling to.”
    â€”
    On my own, I learned all that I could about what had happened in Austria in 1938—mainly by questioning my father. He was delighted that I was taking such interest in world affairs, and would give long, boring explanations involving Poland and other countries I didn’t care about, talking in such detail that my eyes glazed like a Christmas ham.
    As for Joshua, I learned that if I asked about political history, he wouldtalk freely. If I asked about his personal history, he would shut down. Little by little, though, I broke through his defenses.
    We were at a deserted student café on a cold afternoon, sitting at a table by the fireplace, when he finally told me what happened.
    â€œI know that Germany annexed Austria a year and a half ago,” I said. “Why didn’t Austria fight the takeover?”
    â€œWe had a very weak leader. The Nazis presented annexation as a wonderful thing for our country, and most Austrians did not mind. But the Jewish population . . . oh, that is another story.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œThe Nazis started a hate campaign against us almost immediately. Posters went up on every lamppost, along with awful comics in the newspapers calling us thieves and crooks and the scourge of the world. They made it difficult for Jews to travel or operate businesses. But it became untenable after Kristallnacht.”
    â€œâ€˜The night of broken glass.’ My father told me about this. It was started by a murder here in Paris, right?”
    He nodded. “A German diplomat was assassinated. The Nazis claimed it was conspiracy masterminded by Jews. They used it as a reason to attack Jews in Austria and Germany. The windows at our home, at my