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The Colonie des Eglantines, a holiday camp for children in the Haute Savoie, France

August 22, 1972

The long Formica tables were laden with jars of Nutella and redcurrant jam. Children in shorts dunked buttered tartines into bowls of café au laits. A feast, but I was too nervous to eat.

The poppies in the wheat field outside the window glowed like stop signs in the morning sun.

“Be careful, Lucy. There will be hell to pay if you’re caught,” they seemed to say.

M. Thierry and his wife Mme. Mathilde Kasriels, the middle-aged directors of this holiday camp, clapped their hands in front of the stone fireplace.

“Alright, everyone. It is time to get ready.”

In fifteen minutes, a bus would take us to the town of Evian for an overnight trip.

I’d just turned twelve. The five girls in my dormitory were all a year older than me. “Don’t forget your toothpaste, Lucy,” they said, stuffing toiletry bags into their backpacks. “You always forget les essentiels.”

Of course I’d remembered my toothpaste. My breath needed to be sweet.

A whistle blew. Girls shrieked. Dozens of feet clattered down the back stairs toward the bus. No one seemed to notice my breaking away into the field of corn.

The earth was damp with dew. The late August stalks stood tall, hiding my head. Silken crowns on the ends of the husks had already darkened to the color of rust. This was my last chance to escape. Tomorrow, if I made it, I would be free from my parents back in Paris – free from the horrible boarding school that awaited me in September.

I stopped and yanked a flowered skirt out of my backpack. It would be so much nicer than the yellow shorts I was wearing. Five pairs of underwear and a training bra tumbled onto the dirt. Damn. What a butterfingers. At least the rhinestone barrettes slid easily into my short brown hair.

The gravel road at the end of the cornfield was barely big enough for two cows to walk side by side. Georges, my favorite person in the world, was leaning up against his Deux Cheveaux a few hundred meters away. Smoke from his cigarette rose in the air. He smiled and waved his hand. His long red hair shimmered like satin around his shoulders. His bell-bottom jeans were iron-creased in the front.

The sound of a car behind. My feet pounded over the stones. Metal doors slamming. Gravel crunching. Within seconds, hands tore at my blouse.

“Are you out of your mind, Lucy?” Mme. Mathilde screamed.

Georges waved again and took a few steps forward, but M. Thierry charged him like a buffalo and slammed him over the hood. His fist rained down on my hero’s face.

“Stop,” I yelled. “It’s all my fault.”

Georges fell to the ground.

The Kasriels pushed me into the back seat of their Peugeot sedan. Mme. Mathilde jumped in beside me and grabbed my arm. The automatic locks clicked. M. Thierry turned his head around from the driver’s seat. His eyes were wet.

“Did you think you could just disappear? Did you think we didn’t care?”

Yes, I was a little crazed. Here is the story, told the only way I know how.

My family lived in a penthouse apartment in the 16th arrondissement of Paris. Last June my mother laid out the Cheltenham Ladies’ College uniform on my bed. In September, I would fly to England. Day in and day out, I would don this dull-green suit with a cloche hat.

“Oh Lucy, it’s just lovely.”

The wool felt as rough as a Brillo pad. “I should’ve flunked the Common Entrance Exam. Then you would’ve been stuck with me.”

She turned and put her hands on my shoulders. “You’ll be joining the elite. If you weren’t accepted, I would’ve had to find a less prestigious school.”

At thirty-five, she was plump by Parisian standards, but men still turned their heads in the streets. Her dark hair was cut like a mushroom around her face – very Vidal Sassoon. Her hazel eyes slanted upwards like a Mongolian queen. I had finally given up hope that she would divorce her husband – my stepfather – and find another man before it was too late.

“Now be a good girl and give us a twirl before cocktails,” she said.

In the salon, my mother was sitting on the Second Empire couch she had just reupholstered in pearl-and-black stripes. My stepfather, Frank, sat in its chair to match, stroking the mahogany lion’s head on the armrest.

“Push your hat back,” my mother said. “The world wants to see your lovely face.” She dropped an olive into her lord’s martini. “Isn’t that so, Frank?”

He remained silent. To pretend we were getting along, my mother asked him to teach me how to knot the school tie while she rustled up some hors d’oeuvres.

Frank pulled the ends of the maroon silk into position, the left side longer than the right. The stubble on his double chin looked like a bib of blackheads. He reeked of tobacco and gin.

“I called the headmistress of your boarding house,” he said under his breath. “I told her all about you, why we’re sending you away.” He flipped the cloth over and under. “She has my permission to cane you.”

Never blink. Showing fear will win him points.

Frank’s dislike of me began years ago. My grandmother didn’t want my mother to marry him. “He’s a drunk, and will amount to nothing,” she warned her daughter. She married him anyway. My grandmother doted on me and never paid much attention to the sons he squired with my mother. He was afraid “the old hag” would leave all her money to me. But don’t let me play the victim. I never curtsied to the Sun King.

My mother came back with a plate of pickles and pâté.

“The trick is to never make the knot too tight,” he said, pulling the noose up to my neck.

The school year finished a week later. I was looking forward to lazy days on the Riviera, but my mother had other ideas. She summoned me to our balcony, overlooking the Boulevard Exelmans.

“You need to learn to live without me,” she said.

Green eyeshadow circled her eyes like giant pistachios. An ambulance tore through the evening traffic, its siren blaring. “Come September, I’ll only be allowed to visit you every few months.”

Cars swerved to the sides, making way. Did I misunderstand what she said?

“Every few months?”

She motioned me to sit down on the metal chair. “Cheltenham Ladies’ College does not allow phone calls, either.”

My departure was still months away. For an eleven-year-old just shy of twelve, this felt like a lifetime or two. But then – all news to me – she began to describe a French holiday camp in the Haute Savoie. There would be hikes and games and swimming every day. The children would even take a boat with sundecks across the Lac Léman to Lausanne. She had signed me up for both July and August. While I was there, she would take my stepfather Frank and their sons to Cannes.

“This is Frank’s idea, isn’t it?”

She took hold of my hand. “Things will be hard at first, but after a few weeks, you’ll be fine.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said, standing up and leaning over the railing. Down below, an old lady in a leopard coat was coaxing her poodle to shit. “Maybe I’ll just jump off this balcony.”

She pulled me back into my seat. “Knock it off. I’m giving you every opportunity money can buy.”

“I hate you.”

“You need to get out of this house as soon as possible.” She tucked the wisps of hair behind my ears. “One day you’ll understand.”

July was around the corner. We would be living apart for good.

She loves them more than me.

My mother grabbed my hand on Platform 12 of the Gare du Nord. Her tears made no sense. A crowd of children with backpacks were singing, “Cinq kilometres à pied, ça use, ça use. Six kilometres à pied, ça use les souliers.”

Two boys younger than me jostled each other in jest. The girls laughed. This crowd must have become friends last summer. I’d learned French in a bilingual school during the past year but had never been put to the test. Could I get along with them all for two months? A walnut of panic strangled my throat.

“Please don’t worry, madame,” a soft male voice reassured my mother. “Your daughter is in good hands.”

A man with red hair in a ponytail. Eyes and eyelashes the color of bobby pins. Freckles peppered all over his nose and cheeks. How old was he? Around twenty-one?

“You must be Lucy,” he said with a smile. “My name is Georges.”

His hand landed on my shoulder as we walked toward the train. This was new. Frank and I did not touch.

After twenty-four hours at the Colonie des Eglantines, my fear of the unknown had disappeared. M. Thierry and Mme. Mathilde made sure the children in their charge were never bored. The dormitories were plain – white walls, maple laminate floors, metal beds – but the schedule they posted outside their office each week was baroque. Soccer for the boys. Danse de Jazz for the girls. Relay races for both sexes. Excursions to Lac Léman. Still life painting. Le Théâtre de Molière. Campfires and songs. Le Cinéma du Samedi Soir: Rin Tin Tin. Hiking. Swimming, etc. Georges helped them lead the children through the forests nearby. He was also great fun at the pool and the lake. If it rained, Mme. Mathilde pulled out easels and paints.

The food? Simple but good. Les crudités. Saucisses et purée. Fromage. Macédoine de fruits.

On the second day, Georges sat down opposite me at the head of the long dining room table. On instinct, I stood up and scanned the room for another seat.

“Why don’t you serve the salads, Lucy? We’ll pass our plates to you.”

The serving spoon trembled in my hand. Each portion of tomatoes deserved an equal amount of vinaigrette. Oil slopping to the sides could bring disdain and shame. Georges continued to smile.

“Great job! You could be a top waitress at the Tour d’Argent.”

My mother’s voice calling me to dinner. Frank sitting at the head of the dining room table. Stepbrothers nibbling baguettes on his left and right. I pulled out the chair on the opposite end. Frank opened his napkin and sighed. My mother jumped up and took my place.

“Sit on the side, dear,” she whispered. “Frank doesn’t want to see your face.”

The sun through the window hit the back of Georges’s head. An illustration in my children’s Bible came to mind. Hair blazing like Moses’s burning bush. In this instant, he became the voice of God.

My feet teetered on the end of the diving board of the Piscine de Thonon – the wall of aquamarine meters and meters below.

What if I split my head on the bottom? Worse yet, what if I lose my two-piece suit?

My breasts ached. They didn’t yet fill a martini glass, but I should have worn a speedo.

M. Thierry blew his whistle. The children cried, “Allez! Allez!”

My stomach hit the water with a slap. Floating to the surface, voices in Dolby bounced off the walls. “Oh putain, oh la vache!”

Skin on fire, I joined the line again.

Georges bent down to me. “That must have hurt.” He stared at the blotches near my neck. “If you feel bad, you don’t have to dive again.”

“But I don’t want to disappoint M. Thierry.”

Georges shook his head. “He listens to me. I can tell him you need a time out.”

“I need to get this dive right today.”

His fingers touched my shoulder, near the strap of my suit. Like magic, the pain disappeared.

“That shows great maturité d’esprit. If you face this challenge today, your body will remember the victory.”

No one had ever given me a choice. This time the wall of aquamarine seemed only two meters down. My hands cut through the water with an elegant splash.

Mr. Thierry and the children waved and clapped. “Bravo! Bravo!”

Georges’s mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear him – just like an actor in a silent film. I made up the title card. “You are special, Lucy. You are special to me.”

We were required to write to our parents each week.

Dear Mom,

I hope you are fine. I like it here more than I thought I would. Yesterday, we went to the Piscine de Thonon. I was very scared to dive off the top board, but I did it anyway. You won’t believe what happened. My top fell off in the water in front of the entire Colonie! Georges, my favorite counselor here, dove into the pool and brought it back to me. I turned around and he clasped it in the back. He really saved the day!

Love, Lucy

The mountain air could be cool. After one hike, we hung our jackets on pegs in the cloak room. Mine was baby blue, and once everyone left, I placed it next to the black one smelling of sweat and hay. The colors looked good together, but I had to step back. The odor of man was too scary.

I turned twelve on the 15th of July. In the dining room, Mme. Mathilde placed a candle-lit cake on the table. The children sang Joyeux Anniversaire. Sure, they were nice, but in two weeks they would go home, and a busload of new children would arrive. And why bother making friends with the August crowd? In six weeks, the earth beneath my feet would dissolve into dust.

M. Thierry presented me with a Larousse French-English dictionary. “Your French is excellent, Lucy. We wouldn’t want you to forget your vocabulary amongst les Anglais.”

Who told them I was being sent away?

Mme. Mathilde planted two kisses on my cheeks.

What else did they know?

M. Thierry shook my hand.

Did Georges know?

His hand made the motion of a knife. I cut the cake and handed him the first piece.

The telephone for special calls hung on the wall in the empty hallway. I let it ring eight times then pressed the receiver against my cheek.

My mother’s voice sounded continents away. “Happy birthday, precious!”

Dead silence on my end.

“I miss you.”

“Boo-hoo.” The cord of the telephone wrapped tighter around my wrist.

“That isn’t nice…”

Georges entered the hallway and took a seat on a bench.

Did he need to use the phone or was he here for me?

I spoke slowly, making sure he understood every English word.

“Frank must be drunk. It’s the only reason you call.”

“I hoped you would be happier away from him,” she whispered. “Don’t you feel better there?”

Georges’s face appeared concerned.

“It’s good to be away from him. It’s good to be away from you.”

The phone slamming into the receiver cracked the cheap plastic on the side. It was a hateful thing to say. It wasn’t even true. If Frank would just fall off a cliff, my mother and I would be so happy.

Georges handed me his handkerchief on the terrace overlooking the cornfield. The children had retreated to their dormitories to read before lights out. In the distance, a sliver of orange shone like a crown on top of the Mont Salève.

“It can be hard to be a child. You have no power over your parents’ decisions…”

My body tensed. “How do you know?”

He hesitated, as if deciding whether to tell me a secret.

“Your stepfather called the office. He told Mme. Mathilde that you were difficult, and that the family needed to send you away.”

Frank was never satisfied. “I hate him…”

Georges cleared his throat. “He told us not to spare the rod.”

I thrust the handkerchief back at him.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. I turned away from his gaze. The trees on the Mont Salève had disappeared in the darkness. Only its jagged silhouette remained.

“You’re safe here.”

His voice was gentle. He laid the handkerchief on my knee like a sheet.

The children visited an open-air market in the village of Yvoire. The morning light was soft as lace. Medieval buildings of stone cast shade over the trestle tables piled high with flowers and sweets. My camp mates sought out the sugar. My pocket money would be spent on Georges. But how to buy a gift for a man? A silver lighter on the stand of the Antiquités stood out among a tangle of costume jewelry. It was as heavy as a rock in my hand. The vendor, an old man with a red face and potbelly, sidled over.

“The metal is of the finest brushed silver. Do you want to make a gift to your papa?”

I flipped it open and inspected the flame.

“No, it’s for my petit ami.”

He shook his head and took it away from me. “Surely your petit ami does not smoke.”

“Actually, he does.”

The vendor stared at me in curiosity. Flustered, I made up a story that my petit ami could use it for the campfires at the Colonies des Eglantines. He clucked his tongue in disapproval. He knew the Kasriels well. They would boil him alive in a pot if he sold me such a dangerous gift.

“I have twenty francs.”

The vendor handed me a black fountain pen.

It was as smooth and fat as a cigar. “Will this need ink?”

He opened it to show the full cartridge inside. “Imitation art deco. Your petit ami will write you lovely billets-doux at the end of the holidays with this pen.”

He inspected my bill. Satisfied, he turned to put my gift in a sack. I swiped a package of Chinese cigarettes off the table and put them in my purse.

The next morning, Mme. Mathilde rang a bell in the dormitory. I hurried with the other girls to the showers. Would Georges ask me to the terrace again? But during the week we were never alone. I so wanted to give Georges the pen and learn more about his past. The days fell away like dying leaves.

Clouds turned the color of ash in the sky. The Mont Salève grew dark in the distance. Lightning split the cornfield in two. The silhouette of the mountain turned into a witch with hundreds of children under her skirt.

Mme. Mathilde put down her paintbrush when I asked if I could lie down.

“Come back when you feel better. It isn’t healthy for you to spend too much time alone up there.”

Near the window of my dormitory, I opened the package of cigarettes. Each one was a different color. Maybe a stick of fuchsia would turn me into a university student in the Quartier Latin. I lit the end with a match that I had stolen from the kitchen. The first puff tasted of charcoal and guilt.

My mother smoked Virginia Slims. The advertisement in Time magazine was so cool. A young woman with a Pucci scarf and hoop earrings was standing at the window of a corner office, surveying the city below. In bold print, beneath the photo, the words: You’ve come a long way, baby. Everybody wanted to be that young woman.

My mother looked over my shoulder and ran her finger over the ad. “That’s the kind of life I want for you. Don’t get stuck with a husband and children before you’ve tried everything else.”

Before her two marriages, she had wanted to become a copywriter. Would I ever fulfill her dreams?

Georges opened the door and sniffed the air. I stamped out the cigarette in the flowerpot filled with black-eyed Susans on the sill.

He shut the door behind him. “What are you trying to hide, Lucy?”

“Oh, I would never… I thought you were M. Thierry.”

“I may have to tell him about this,” he said, walking toward me.

He was wearing a purple paisley shirt I’d never seen.

“Oh, please don’t do that. I promise I’ll never smoke again.”

He sat down on my bed. “Hand them over.”

I gave him the pack and sat next to him.

“It’s a nasty habit, particularly for a girl of your class,” he said.

“When did you start smoking?”

“When my mother died.” He sighed, toying with the loot in his hands. “Breast cancer.”

I whispered I was sorry.

He told me it was a dark time. He was so sad that he failed his baccalauréat and needed to go to work. His father drank and couldn’t support him and his younger brothers. It was surprising that our stories had similar characters, but deep down I knew it all along. He tapped the pack, as if he were going to take out a cigarette. His face looked so soft, almost like a lady’s skin – so different from Frank’s stubble and pits. He remained very still when I leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. His freckles disappeared under his blush. Who would have thought he would be so shy?

He jumped up and grabbed the pot of black-eyed Susans on the sill. “I will hide the evidence. Keep the window open to get rid of the smell.”

His expression relaxed when I promised to say a prayer for his mother.

“Why don’t you join the other children? Mme. Mathilde is bound to become suspicious.”

I realized, after he left, that I had forgotten to give him the pen.

At dinnertime, M. Thierry stood up and announced that Georges would be leaving the Colonie at the end of July. “Our friend has been offered a fine position at the porcelain factory in Limoges.”

The children banged their knives on their glasses and cheered. Georges stood up and took a bow. The blanquette de veau churned in my stomach. Why didn’t he tell me? Who would watch over me in August? I needed to give him the pen. I needed to change his mind.

Gold taps hanging over the bathtub in Paris. They looked like the claws of a crow. I remembered Frank twisting the handles.

“Eau chaude, eau froide,” he said with a grin.

Water flowed.

Georges opened his bedroom door when I knocked during la sieste the next day. A woman with blonde hair was sitting on his bed.

“How can I help you, Lucy?” he asked.

My cheeks burned. They would laugh at my stupid gift. He opened the door wider. “This is my friend Francine. We grew up together in Limoges.”

She waved at me and smiled. “Bonjour, ma puce.”

“You… you’re needed in the office,” I said to Georges. “M. Thierry is looking for you.”

Georges thanked me and hurried down the stairs. Of course, his girlfriend was pretty and nice, just like him. I could tell right away she’d known him for years. Plus, she’d have him all to herself back in Limoges. Maybe she’d get hit by a bus.

The dining room tables were pushed up against the walls for La Danse des Adieux. Purple and yellow balloons bobbed on the ceiling. Mme. Mathilde poured grenadine à la menthe and limonade into a punch bowl, while M. Thierry blew dust off the first LP. Boys wore long pants, and the girls showed off their favorite dresses. Georges and Francine strolled into the room in tie-dyed shirts and with daisies in their hair.

Chubby Checker ordered everyone to “twist again like they did last summer,” and the room went wild. Boys raised single knees in joy. Girls twisted their waists so hard, they almost snapped in two. Georges and Francine danced with more control. They copied each other’s movements, creating a bubble of love around them. I twisted closer. Georges smiled when Francine turned and twisted with me. For a few more beats, I pretended she was the cat’s meow. Chubby Checker quit singing before I could grab Georges’s hand. They fell into each other’s arms for Françoise Hardy. “Tous les garçons et les filles de mon âge se promènent dans la rue deux par deux…” A nine-year-old boy asked me to dance. At some point, he’d spilled grenadine down his white pants. His head would rest on my chest. Vraiment absurde. The spool of thread was unwinding. Before Georges and Francine disappeared, I deserved un souvenir.

Georges’s door was unlocked. Francine would keep him on the dance floor until the end of le slow. This gave me around three minutes. He’d already packed one suitcase. I looked at the half-empty dresser. Pairs of socks in brilliant colors lay like canned Vienna sausages in the top drawer. Also, a pile of underwear. All black, except for one specimen which boasted the American flag. Did Francine buy it as a gift? The contents of her cosmetic bag were strewn over the bed. She was messy, just like me. A round plastic disc, pills marked inside with the days of the week. My mother had warned me that Valium and “the pill” could be poison for a child. Did Georges and Francine do dirty things? I hated to think they were as gross as my mother and Frank. Their beauty made them seem like angels in the clouds. Lipstick with a frosted pink bullet inside. Baisers Volés, so pretty and pale. No one would notice it on my lips.

The next day Georges caught my eye in the crowded cloakroom. I pretended that the zipper on my jacket was stuck while the other children left the room. He walked over and easily – too easily – unzipped it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving. Everything is happening so fast.”

He put his finger on my lower lip and rubbed off the lipstick.

“Does this belong to whom I think it does?” he asked, studying the pigment on his fingertips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Georges looked around, then whispered, “Did you take it out of my room, or just try it on?”

I didn’t answer.

“We all take things that don’t belong to us when we’re young, but we need to stop before we become thieves. Just place it in my jacket tomorrow.”

Francine had already left that morning. Georges kissed her in the fields before a taxi drove her away.

“Are you going to marry Francine?”

He laughed and swept my bangs to the side. “You don’t need lipstick. You have the beauty of youth.”

The exodus was in full swing. From the dormitory window, I could see mountains of suitcases and backpacks in front of the bus. Mme. Mathilde and M. Thierry were counting the boys and girls, ticking their names off a list. Georges would be escorting them back to Paris by train, then travelling south to Limoges.

All the beds in the dormitory were stripped bare, except my own. It was best to stay here – alone – studying the beam of dust-streaked light in the middle of the room. If I went down to say goodbye, I would howl like a forgotten dog.

I heard Georges’s footsteps before he entered the room. He sat down next to me on the bed and gave me a hug. “In three days, the August children will arrive. You’ll make a whole new bunch of friends.”

“Why can’t you stay here?”

He told me he hated to leave me, but he had to think of his future. The porcelain factory in Limoges was one of the best in the world.

I asked him again, “Are you going to marry Francine?”

This time his face grew dark. The children began their marching song below. “Cinq kilomètres à pied, ça use, ça use…” The sun came through, brighter now.

“We’re losing each other,” he said, turning away from me. “I don’t know what is happening to us.”

The dust turned to diamonds of hope in the air, but I hated to see him in pain. “You have lost your mother. You don’t deserve to lose your girlfriend, too.”

“You sweet girl.”

I put the fountain pen in his hand. “Je t’aime.”

He smiled and told me he would never forget me, and that even if he were far away in Limoges, he could still be my friend through the post. And then he rose and left the room.

Dear Mom,

We had a farewell dance for the children leaving the Colonie. This means everyone except me. The worst news is that I have lost Georges as a counselor. Before he left for Limoges, he gave me a locket to wear around my neck.

Love, Lucy

The five new girls in my dormitory – I’d mentioned them before – knew each other from last summer. They were all around thirteen, a year older than me.

“Didn’t your parents take you to Lausanne during the break?” they asked. “Why did they leave you here all alone?”

I raised my finger to my lips. “They’re on a mission for the US government. Very hush hush.”

They shook their heads and pulled off their T-shirts. One year made all the difference. Their bras were a size larger than mine.

“Do your nipples still feel sore?” I asked them, cupping my breasts. “Mine are killing me.”

They burst out laughing. “All the time, little girl. You’d better get used to it.”

“Have any of you had your period yet?”

“Stop the train! You seem in an awful hurry to grow up.”

The girls danced for each other in their nightgowns, the light shining through. They could form their cliques and crushes on the boys without me. In four weeks, the clasp would be broken. We would scatter like pearls on the ballroom floor.

The pale-blue envelope from Limoges had a stamp showing Mme. de Pompadour sipping tea from a cup. I dropped my mother’s postcard with palm trees in the trash and rushed to the bathroom. I wanted to read Georges’s words alone. His up-and-down script stayed perfectly in between the faint lines, the sign of a rigid French Lycée.

My Dear Lucy,

I hope that you are making new friends at the Colonie. My days in Limoges are now spent at the factory inspecting the porcelain for irregularities in the colors and designs. Finding the flaws like a detective is most rewarding.

But life is lonely. I miss your smiling face across from me at the dining table, your beautiful French, your way of looking at the world. As you have such maturité d’esprit, I feel I can reveal my troubles. My story with Francine has unraveled. After a long talk, we realized that our paths are diverging. I have my new responsibilities at the factory, and she will return to the Sorbonne in the fall.

Thank you for listening. You are wise beyond your years.

Georges xx

So, I had stolen his heart.

Dear Georges,

I am so sorry for your loneliness. Did you know I’ve also been lonely my whole life? My days in France will soon come to an end. I only have twenty-one left. Please come visit me before I am sent to prison in England. Everything is turning to the darkest merde. You are my only hope to go on.

Your dearest friend, Lucy XX OO xx

My dear Lucy,

Yes, of course I will visit you. Please ask your mother to write a letter to the Kasriels, allowing me, Georges La Mothe, to take you to lunch for the afternoon in Yvoire. Try to enjoy the days until I arrive on Saturday, August 22nd. I look forward to seeing your smiling face.

Yours, Georges xx

I wrote URGENT across the envelope that I sent to my mother.

Dear Lucy,

No, you may not leave the Colonie under any circumstances. You are to break all contact with this strange character Georges. Another point: no young girl should write URGENT across an envelope. Do you think the French postal system revolves around your silly amours? We will need to have a serious talk when you come home.

Your mother, Linda

My stepbrothers climbing naked into the bathtub with their rubber ducks. I bolted for the door, but Frank slammed it shut. “What’s the matter, does your butt smell like a rose?”

I wrote to Georges, assuring him that my mother had contacted the Kasriels by telephone. “Such a delightful way for Lucy to spend the afternoon.” I was determined to run away with him to Limoges. He needed to save me from England and my family. It was a lot to ask of him, but I was convinced we could discuss our future over lunch in Yvoire.

But I was also nervous.

Dear Mom,

I have learned to live without you. I have also learned how to be good. If you take me back, I will never fight with Frank again. Just give me one more chance. I will be super nice to my stepbrothers as well. Warning: If you send me to England, I will run away, and you will never see me again.

Lucy

Dear Lucy

I am counting the days until I see you at the station on August 30th. Honey, please read my words carefully. Both you and I are outnumbered by the men in our family. I cannot watch over you every minute of the day. You must go to boarding school. In England, you will be surrounded by hundreds of wonderful sisters, just like you.

Your loving mother, Linda

Crouching in the bathtub, my hands covering my breasts.

Frank turned to his sons. “Little Miss Lucy thinks she’s special because she has tits.”

They lowered their eyes to the water. If only I could crawl down the drain. Frank waved his arms in the air. “All together now. Little Miss…”

My mother burst into the bathroom. “Enough.”

She covered me fast with a towel.

A fist of ice clenched my heart. Why did my mother put to paper such a sad little tale?

But there was still hope. Georges was traveling across half the country to visit me. When he arrived at the Colonie, I would tell the Kasriels, “My mother’s permission must have gotten lost in the post.” Surely, they would let their trusted friend take me to lunch. But then it was announced that we would leave for Evian on the very same day he arrived! They would never allow me to miss this trip. I looked across the cornfield. He used to smoke cigarettes on his breaks under the elm tree. I imagined him stopping there again. With any luck he’d need a rest after the drive through the night. He’d wave me over. Once in his car, I’d beg him to step on the gas so we could escape like Bonnie and Clyde.

The furniture in the private quarters of the Kasriels was softer than that in the dining room and the dormitories. Dozens of pictures of past excursions and dances hung on the walls. A canary in a white metal cage chirped on her bar. Madame Mathilde pulled two wicker chairs with cushions close together.

“So, Lucy, it’s a pity you missed our trip to Evian, but this gives us a chance for a little chat.”

She poured me a grenadine à la framboise. “Are you unhappy at the Colonie des Eglantines?”

I studied the zigzags in the carpet below. “No. Everyone is pretty nice here.”

“Then why did you try to run away with Georges?”

“He loves me. I wanted to go live with him in Limoges.”

She put her fingers to her forehead. “Like man and wife?”

I wasn’t sure how I would spend my days in his apartment while he was at the factory, but I knew how to make crêpes for dinner. We would sleep in his double bed holding hands, just like the adults on TV.

“Well, yes…”

She sighed, then knocked back her wine.

“Your mother thinks Georges is a very sick man.”

As I feared, Mrs. Jones had called the Kasriels and poisoned his name.

She pulled her chair closer to mine, then pointed toward her private parts. “Did he ever touch you here?”

I shook my head, embarrassed.

“Are you sure?”

“Georges isn’t sick. He’s your friend, too.”

Mme. Mathilde took both of my hands in hers. “He was too close to you. He will never be allowed back here again.”

The canary chirped and dipped her beak into the water bath. What an easy life. Each day the same. She would never fly into the unknown.

The clothes in my drawers were in shambles. Mme. Mathilde had confiscated all my letters from Georges. Did she think that she could erase him? His eyes and hair still flamed in my mind.

In the middle of the night, I pretended to use the bathroom and tiptoed down the stairs. Even the back door used as a fire escape was locked. The Kasriels no longer trusted me.

The water was calm. Bubbles of Dior kissed my neck, kissed my toes. I kicked the gold tap, and a hot river flowed. Thank God my mother had sent Frank and my stepbrothers to Normandy for our final three days together. I could lounge in this tub all evening – undisturbed – just like Brigitte Bardot.

My mother and I took a stroll along the Boulevard Exelmans. When she linked her arm in mine, I didn’t pull away. We packed my things for England and ate my favorite macaroni and cream for dinner. We had so little time left. I now wanted to enjoy every hour, every minute.

The next day at breakfast, my mother placed a blue envelope with a stamp from Limoges on the table. It was addressed to her, already open. I kept on chewing. What would Georges have to say to my mother? She pulled the letter out.

“‘Dear Mme. Jones,'” she began. “‘I am so sorry for the fear and chaos I created at the Colonie des Eglantines. My broken nose is a testament to my foolishness. I should have asked you and the Kasriels directly if I could take Lucy to lunch. And why were my actions so misguided? Somehow, Lucy’s loneliness reminded me of my own as a child, and yes, even as an adult. I could only think how a delicious meal and a walk around the lake would lift both of our spirits. The shadow of alienation is a plague to us all.

“‘Please tell her that I was honored to know such a charming jeune fille and that I wish her all the best in her new school. At the risk of sounding impertinent, I suggest that you visit her often in England. Otherwise, a “strange character” might invite her to tea. Sincerely, Georges La Mothe.'”

My mother squeezed my hand. “It took grace and guts to write a letter like that. I can see why you were fond of him.”

But why hadn’t he written to me? In his eyes, it seemed, I was only a child.

These precious days came to an end. My hands shook as I flipped the maroon tie over and under. The bottom end was much longer than the top, so I stuffed it into the skirt.

My mother smiled when I entered the salon in my uniform. “Oh Lucy! You look like you could take on the world.”

The man at the ticket counter of l’Aéroport de Paris-Orly inspected my passport. The stewardess in a navy-blue uniform hung a sign around my neck. “Unaccompanied Minor” was written in bold print.

“Never take this off, Mlle Lucy. It will keep you safe at all times.”

I burst into tears at the sight of my mother’s crumbling face.

“It’s all I want for you, to be safe,” she said, hugging me tight.

“Momma, in October will you take me to tea?”

Once inside the plane, the stewardess led me to a window seat close to the galley. “Now be a doll and click your seatbelt. When we’re up in the air, I’ll bring you an Orangina.”

The second-class passengers searched for their seats down the aisle. Would a man with long red hair board the plane at the last minute and sit next to me? Would he look into my eyes and say, “Lucy, I can’t live without your smiling face?” Quel rêve ridicule.

The plane rocketed into a carpet of marshmallow clouds. The earphones stuck like bullets, but I turned the volume up high. Neil Diamond’s voice flooded my head.

Girl, you’ll be a woman soon

Please, come take my hand

I pressed the button and leaned my seat back.

Girl, you’ll be a woman soon

Sailing. Soaring.