Chapter Text
In 1927, when Myka Bering was 12 years old, the headmaster of her school returned after summer break married to the prettiest woman she had ever laid eyes on. Having travelled from France with her family as a child, first to Quebec and then Missouri; Madame Charlotte was softly spoken, with dark hair that curled up at the tips, hazel eyes and expressive hands. She was employed by the college for a time, teaching those young men and women privileged enough to attend, but also offering extra curricular French lessons at her husband's school.
Myka begged her father to allow her to attend. Professor Bering was a scholarly writer who taught at the same college - a stern but practical man, he saw the value in his daughter acquiring a new language.
"It is a big commitment, Myka, you must see it through. It will reflect badly on myself and your mother if you do not."
He peered at her over the top of half-moon spectacles, and she nodded her head determinedly, fighting to suppress a giddy smile. It was usually such a battle to win permission for a change that her father had not instigated. He examined her demeanour closely for a long moment before returning his gaze to the papers on his desk, her cue to leave. She held her glee inside until she was on the porch, then she jumped down and ran across two fields to the nearest house - where her best friend lived. Pete laughed as she shared the news, observing that only she would be so happy about having more lessons. Then his sixteen year old self came to the fore, as he nudged her elbow and winked.
“Now that I think about it, I would not complain about extra tuition from her!”
Myka had punched him in the arm for that.
Madame Charlotte was a special teacher, so classes hardly felt like lessons at all. Myka looked up to her, drank in her tales of a childhood in Europe, and beamed when she earnt sincere praise and the ’darling’ that came with it.
Myka’s father would call her into his office regularly to enquire after her progress at school, even though he received termly reports from her teachers. Never overt in his praise, instead always pushing her to be better, Myka was immensely proud when he suggested she was worthy of continuing her education beyond high school. In 1933, 17 year old Myka Bering started attending Colorado Springs College to continue her French studies, take up German, and study literature. Formed in 1874 as a coeducational institution, the college was situated to the south of the wealthy Old North End, and young people from that district and further afield would attend. Myka’s father made a good living, but her mother’s family were well respected in the railway industry and had been present at the formation of the town - money would never have been the barrier to her education.
Though the depression had hit hard and there were less students on campus, Myka felt in the main removed from the strife of families elsewhere in Colorado; and she was not unmoved by the plight of others - taking part in food and fund drives to provide poor relief. She was not a social animal, but still attended occasional dances, and joined a number of sororities. Myka had few true friends who she would confide in. She didn’t have a close bond with her younger sister Tracy, whose flighty nature took her into very different circles. Myka’s goals in life did not revolve around marrying into a good family and achieving high social status.
Though older, Pete remained a firm constant, while the familiar faces she met through the small French community were who she felt most comfortable with. Former pupils of Madame Charlotte kept up a tradition of monthly gatherings which evolved into outings, and the sharing of each other’s passions - music, drawing, or even skiing. Myka had also taken on some teaching duties with the young pupils at her former school. It was close to the end of her second year at college when two things happened to tilt her world on its axis.
Pete, who was by then 22, enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Force. As an enthusiastic young teen years earlier, he’d been taken by his mother and father to see the newly opened Colorado Springs Municipal Airport. Examining the planes and their engines up close, a wide eyed Pete had passionately declared he was going to be a pilot. He and Myka had raced through the fields with aeroplane arms, laughing wildly in the afternoon sun. He was her big brother in spirit, so when he left she had embraced him with a trembling lip and glassy eyes as he whispered a promise to write often.
At the close of the same year, Madame Charlotte, who by then had a young daughter, died in childbirth - devastating her husband and the community that had come to love her. Myka was bereft, she had lost the two most important, inspiring people in her life, yet her own family struggled to understand her grief. Wishing to express her loss adequately, Myka put pen to paper before posting a heartfelt letter through the headmaster's door one bitterly cold Saturday. One week later, he arrived at their family home to thank Myka and ask permission for a friend to print it in the Gazette, a tribute of sorts. That was the bittersweet beginning of her path into journalism - when the progressive editor had recognised potential, unconcerned by her age and gender.
“Hell, did you know this paper had a female sporting reporter many years ago? A female reporting on the World Series, imagine that!” and he’d winked at her encouragingly as he puffed on a tobacco stained pipe.
Myka began writing a column for young people, and occasional feature pieces on world events. When she was mid way through her final year she was offered a permanent position, to start from the month she completed college. Her father had not been so enamoured of the opportunity, and Myka knew it was partly due to his mistrust of the press, but also because it took her away from the path he envisioned her following.
"Father, I can bring news to the masses, educating people about the world around us," she’d argued.
He'd looked at her over the very same half moon glasses, shook his head ruefully. She had teared up at his next words.
"Damn French lessons,"
He knew her world view stemmed not just from college, but from many hours spent with immigrant families in the community.
"It is the thing I’m most grateful for. Please don't be disappointed in what I do, father."
"I am disappointed you will not be following my path into teaching, Myka.”
She knew that his unfulfilled wish for a son was a source of regret, her very name was a reflection of that, but he had still wanted Myka and her sister to be educated. It’s his inherent belief in the value of knowledge that she thinks made him pause for thought, glance at her name printed in the Gazette, then acquiesce. It wouldn’t sound like approval to another ear, but Myka knew it was the best she could hope for.
"Teaching will always be open to you, once you realise you’ve made an error."
"Yes, father," she'd said and left it at that, feeling as giddy as her 12 year old self. It didn’t matter that he was most likely looking forward to being proved right in the end.
When Myka was 21 years old, a new reporter joined the staff at the paper. Sam Martino was a few years older, an attractive batchelor who had moved back to Colorado Springs following a university education in Washington. Myka knew of his family, his father was a politician and his mother was a friend of Jean Bering. She vaguely remembered the sporty blond blue eyed boy from school, but he had never held a particular space in her memory. So when Sam Martino, all charm and smiles, had offered to walk conscientious, intelligent, unglamorous Myka home, the office gossips - men and women alike - had been surprised.
She reluctantly allowed him to court her, not wishing to be weighed down with expectations. But he was kind, made her laugh and had a surprisingly modern view of the world. He didn't expect her to fall at his feet, he often expressed admiration for her writing, her tenacity and independence, her beauty. Myka laughed at this, but secretly was thrilled at his acceptance of her less than traditional ambitions. Eighteen months later, when he broached the topic of marriage, she faltered.
"Oh Sam, I feel much too young still," she said, in the knowledge that most women her age were already married, or on that path. "I know there is a lot more for me to explore out there, and marriage would feel like..."
"A ball and chain?" he laughed softly, looking down at their joined hands as they stood by the fence surrounding his father's property.
"Like missing the chance to experience life, before..." she said, her eyes darting up to the sky, "...before settling down."
He considered her for a moment, then appeared to make a decision.
"There is a reason I have asked now, other than the obvious, Myka," a faint redness coloured both their faces. "I’ve an opportunity to work in the diplomatic office abroad," he looked away briefly, "It's a position I can't pass up on..."
"Oh," Myka exhaled, a little ashamed that her predominant feeling was not of sadness at Sam’s departure, but jealousy of his chance to see foreign shores. He continued to speak, his words drifting over her until she felt her fingers being lightly squeezed. Sam was eager, but his face was tinged with concern.
"Myka...? Were you listening, what do you think to that?"
"I'm sorry Sam, I was lost in thought. Tell me again?"
He smiled hopefully, "I said - I had hoped to take you to France as my wife, but I may be able to get you a junior position in the service, secretarial work and so on...it would be a start. I have a good friend in the Associated Press, you know?"
Myka was speechless, here Sam was, offering her the chance to go to France of all places, despite his pride being a little dented at her refusal. They both understood that marriage would come eventually, but to go on an adventure together beforehand, it was perfect.
Sam was grinning, "I take it by your expression you like that idea?"
She laughed, "Yes, oh yes I do!"
So it was that when war in Europe broke out in 1939, Myka had been living and working in France for almost a year.
---
It started like any other day for Helena. She was roused from the bed in her grandparent’s Paris home by the smell of baking, and so tiptoed down creaking stairs wrapped up against the early morning chill. Her grandmother was seated as always at the table, strong coffee cradled in one hand, chewed pencil stub in the other, hovering over a crossword puzzle from the previous day’s newspaper.
“Morning, mémère,” she whispered, lightly patting her grandmother’s shoulder as she passed. “May I?” she asked, as she always did.
“Of course, Helena, mon trésor,” came the usual reply.
Helena tore into the still warm bread where it sat on a wooden block, then smothered it with butter from a cracked ceramic dish. Her grandmother squinted up with curious dark eyes which, though crinkled around the edges, had lost none of their sparkle,
“You should try to sleep longer, Helena, rest that brain of yours,” she chuckles.
It’s a sound and a familiar tease from Helena’s childhood, when they’d lived in France for a while with her mother’s family before her English father landed a government role. Helena and her elder brother Charles soon found themselves relocated to just an hour from the bustle of London.
“Monsieur Cockerel never has a day off!” Helena sighs, “I have been in the habit for a long time, and besides, I have plans for today.”
Her grandmother gives her a sly look, “Ah, Monsieur Allard has you rising early, not Monsieur Cockerel?!”
Helena feels her cheeks go warm, “Mémère!”.
Her wily grandmother misses nothing, and in her twenty-seven years Helena had yet to fool her once. Her granddaughter’s new found enthusiasm for Parisian museums and galleries has not gone unnoticed. Serge Allard is a designer at the automobile factory where Helena’s grandfather oversees engineering and design. Since she’d started work there, in part due to her pépère’s standing and influence, Helena Wells had been required to prove herself worthy thrice over in the male dominated field, and not least with Serge. A few years younger than Helena, he was confident to the point of arrogance, and she supposed she saw a little of herself in him. They’d clashed frequently, but then, in the midst of an argument over a new prototype, he’d stopped suddenly and flushed, stuttered, then walked out. The following day, he indirectly apologised - teasing her about being correct for once - then promptly asked her out to dinner. He was attractive with unruly brown hair and a contrastingly neat moustache, green eyes and a tendency to appear a little rough around the edges due to long hours at work. She’d surprised herself and accepted, deciding she was due a little fun, and, well, she did enjoy their arguments.
This morning, near the beginning of June 1940, it's a month into their tentative relationship, and they are going for a late lunch before he takes her to meet his sister’s family. She tells herself she isn't nervous, but changes her outfit several times before walking to the station to join the throng of train passengers.
It is a strange existence, living in a country at war for six months yet revelling in the freedom to express her talent at work, supported by her family. The protection of her passport and fluency in the language won’t suffice for much longer, but right now it is easy to feel removed from her life back home. She often thinks of her reckless yet noble brother. Thanks to his last correspondence, she knows he enlisted, and she can only hope he was not sent over to France. The British Army is in the last throes of resistance. Reports from the last few days confirm there are beach evacuations in the North, and here she is, sat on the train looking forward to a cafe date in central Paris.
Helena emerges from the Montparnasse Metro under cloudy blue sky at almost half past one. She’s walking at a brisk pace along the Rue de Rennes when the loud drawn out wail of an air-raid siren pierces the air. It doesn’t stop, and she curses loudly before turning on her heels into a jog back to the Metro. Of course, many people follow the same instinct, and as the low drone of aircraft begins its distant ominous hum, she’s jostled in the panicked rush of bodies. She stumbles, catching herself against a set of iron railings, the breath pushed from her lungs. She glances up and there’s girl huddled in the doorway of a house, no more than 8 years old, clutching teddy close to her chest, wide eyed and trembling.
Without thought Helena steps up and bangs on the door, “Where are your parents?”
“I lost them,” the girl cries, and Helena realises this doorstep is merely a convenient escape. She scans the road from her vantage point, but frustratingly can't distinguish frantic looking parents from the crowd.
Making a decision, she holds out her hand. “You can’t stay here, let's get underground and we’ll find them afterwards.”
The girl hesitates, but the brittle noise of anti-aircraft guns crackles close by, and she jumps up, “Promise?” she stutters. Helena gives her a firm nod before dragging her along and down into the subterranean shelter that may yet prove their saviour or their final resting place.
They endure for an hour. Sustained, loud, reverberations shake the foundations where the masses are huddled together in absolute shock. This has been expected but the reality is sinking in, despite brave faces and songs to distract the children. The reality is this - the Germans are coming, and this raid will be the first of many to soften the city’s resistance. When they step up into the acrid atmosphere, they shouldn’t be surprised to see evidence of the destruction inflicted by the Luftwaffe. The girl, Michelle, clings to Helena tightly and Helena clings back. She is shocked, because only now does she think of Serge, and she isn’t sure why that is. Perhaps her immediate need to protect, and her faith in his innate confidence served to assure her he would be fine.
They pick their way back along the road, and as they approach the same house Helena sees them. A woman no older than herself wearing a red cardigan, and a man with his shirt sleeves bunched up around his elbows and dirt smeared up his arms. They are frantically calling and searching, that much is clear, and then Michelle cries out. Her hand pulls away to leave Helena’s in an empty curl by her side. The family reunite in relief and fear and joy, then Michelle is pointing back to Helena and the couple smile, teary eyed as they approach.
“Thank you so much, thank you!” The mother grabs Helena into a hug, with a kiss to each cheek. Michelle’s father musters a relieved smile, one arm around his wife's waist and a palm on his daughter’s shoulder. Anxiety radiates from them all, and Helena frets for parents with little ones as the war marches towards the city.
“Thank you,” Michelle says quietly, “I hope your home is safe.”
Helena dips down, “I am sure it will be darling, thank you for keeping me company this afternoon,” she winks and is happy to see a little easing of the frown on her forehead.
They part ways, and Helena rushes back to find that the district where her grandparent’s home is remains untouched. Her grandfather arrives home later that evening, devastated and dishevelled. The factory has been targeted, lives have been lost, the damage immense, and production is at a halt.
“I am only glad it was a day off for you, mon trésor,” he says, “Serge came by afterwards to help start the clean up. He was worried about you.”
She nods gratefully and pulls her grandfather, who suddenly looks his age, into a hug. They are swiftly joined by her grandmother as they silently thank the universe that they are fine, for now.
In the weeks that follow, there are many raids, and panic spreads. Helena helps out at the damaged factory, but feels a little selfish retrieving her rolled up designs to store them in the relative safety of home. Each day she journeys across the city, there are signs of more people than usual arriving from towns and villages already occupied by the Germans. They are arriving, while others are preparing to flee before the might of the German army reaches Paris itself. Families with suitcases and wheelbarrows, young and old, all adrift and consigned to uncertainty.
She and Serge do not meet outside of work since that first raid, choosing to lunch at the factory together, discussing the inevitable. Helena has both a British and a French passport due to her parentage, but they both know it would be dangerous for her to remain in France. She is certainly stubborn in her wish to be there for her mémère and pépère; and she feels a buzz when Serge relays whispers about a group of workers planning to covertly resist the invaders. As engineers, he and others at the factory had been exempt from conscription, their skills deemed vital to the war effort. Even so, Helena senses that he has felt somehow impotent up until now.
When the Germans arrive the collapse is swift. The French government flees south and Paris flings its doors wide open. On June 14th, they are amongst the crowds on the Champs Elysee as row upon row of regimented grey uniforms pour into the city. Helena’s eyes sting, and she drags her eyes away from the grimly fascinating spectacle to see the twitch of Serge’s jaw. She reaches across to squeeze his hand in the both of hers.
The change in the city is instantaneous, the sheer might of the German army no longer a distant rumour. In the months that follow, the people of Paris regulated into submission by the uniforms which insinuate themselves into everyday life.
At the factory her grandfather is a leader, refusing to meet with the German army head of transportation. He resists until Helena and his colleagues persuade him there will be better battles to fight and win. Helena discards her British passport, as foreign nationals are being rounded up for interview before possible imprisonment or deportation. When several Jewish families on good business terms with the factory have their property and wealth expropriated by the German ambassador and later an anti-Jewish exhibition opens; Helena feels the chill of foreboding settle like a weight on her conscience. She often wonders about Michelle and her parents, and hopes they have left the city already.
Over the months she endures an existence on edge, finding solace in the underground activity that begins to make its presence felt. She participates in the distribution of anti-Nazi literature during the dead of night, hurrying from cover to cover to avoid patrols of soldiers and police alike. At the factory, now commandeered for the repair and production of military vehicles, they organise a go slow on the suggestion of her grandfather, and sabotage engine parts when they can do so without detection. She and Serge bond further in this new purpose, she is very fond of him, and they have a common drive to rail against occupation and the dull compliance of the populace. She doesn't blame everyday people for being paralysed by fear, but the active collaboration of authorities sworn to serve them disgusts her. Helena’s protective nature, and frustration in the face of regular injustice, will eventually force a decision that will alter her path through this war.