Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

The weapons of warfare are different for women. Rarely do we have the luxury of bullets and bombs. Our tools are benign. Silk stockings and red lipstick. Laughter. Cunning. The ability to curse in foreign languages and make eye contact without trembling. But the most effective weapon by far, I believe, is charm.

The French are better at day drinking.

“His name is Picon,” I say, setting one hand to my heart, “and I believe he will be the great love of my life.”

To me this was a story to pursue. But to Janos it was a nightmare to escape.

“Are you always so difficult?” “I assure you, this is the agreeable version of myself.”

“What is life for, ma petite, if not for dancing?”

I wasn’t going to quote poetry. Just the truth.” “I thought they were the same thing.”

I am a devoted fan of the male species. They are brave, brilliant, offer endless entertainment, are good for moving heavy objects, and make the act of procreation a great deal more enjoyable. I’d hate to see a world in which they did not exist. But sometimes they can be spectacular idiots.

But I know better than to expect anything but play from a playboy.

“You are being erased from history even as you’re writing it!”

It’s like bourbon, only better, somehow, as though bourbon got dressed up and went out for drinks.

The Seine at dusk is, I believe, the eighth wonder of the world.”

The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice.

She is an Old World city, boasting good bones and expensive taste.

“You have no idea where my mind is.” “Quite happily frolicking about the gutter, I’d say.”

Love is a choice. It is the active choosing of good for another person. But like? It is a gift and it cannot be forced.

The friendships of women are strange and wonderful. Fraught and irreplaceable.

“She finally becomes a Parisienne, only to leave Paris.”

For the second time in the lives of most of us we are at war.

“It means, ma chère, that one day we will remember our friends and count the dead.”

The thing about marriage, I am learning, even this early on, is that so much is said without words.

“But why would you even want to help? War isn’t for women.” I lean very close to him and lower my voice to a dangerous pitch. “And yet we suffer most in them.”

Luxury is an odd thing. You don’t know you have it until confronted with someone else’s lack.

Nancy is the sort of woman who bathes in a meteor shower. She is not the kind of woman who concedes to anyone.

“I want you exactly as you are. Brave and bawdy.”

I’m not sure what exactly the café brewed but it tastes of old leaves and disappointment.

It is one thing to study war and another to live the warrior’s life.

I simply disappear into that great void of consciousness known as sleep.

He would care nothing about the jewelry. But it is a grievous loss to me. A piece of him that I no longer have.

This is my life and it feels as though I have always lived along the ragged, hateful cliffs of the Pyrenees Mountains.

You who suffer because you love, love still more. To die of love, is to live by it.

and by the time I stepped onto the platform in the city of fog, I felt as though half my life had been wasted by travel.

Mine is a level of fury that requires two coats of lipstick and a fully loaded revolver.

He has no idea how this war will end. But he is absolutely certain of three things: his wife is the bravest person he has ever known, his father is a fool, and Marceline is a liar.

Her name will be forgotten.” “Not by me.” “Alas, you are not enough to keep her memory alive.”

I am the same but different, and I greet this new reflection with a nod of acceptance.

There is metal in my spine and there are fractures in my soul. I resemble Garrow now. I have been changed by war.

There will likely come a point when the only weapon at your disposal will be your bare hands.”

“It’s a loss, though, and a terrible one.” “One of millions. Henri just happens to be mine.”

The rest, as they say, is history. Or, if you prefer, her story.

“hurry up and wait”

The other part is that when Picon died, the last of my youth died too”

The thing is, books are never really done. They are only due.