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With Each New Dawn

By Gail Kittleson

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Moist clay stuck to Kate’s two-toned Sylvia heels as she turned past a demolished block toward Mrs. Tenney’s house. Cement powder rode the air even in the heavy May mist, a reminder of the Lu wa e reducing great hunks of London to dust during the Blitz.
On Kate’s le , a displaced occupant si ed through the remains of his home every a ernoon. e hunch-shouldered, white-haired phantom never even looked up when she passed. Mrs. Tenney said his hair had bleached overnight as he failed to grasp the reality of losing his family—for two years now, he’d faithfully searched the rubble.
Shattered bricks dotted the surrounding area like limestone rocks in an Iowa pasture. e image roused a wave of homesickness and brought Kate’s best friend Addie to mind.
“Oh, Addie, I miss you so much. We thought my trip would last months at most, but fate had other ideas.”
A few blocks from home, a short-legged, barrel-chested fellow approached. His low-slung beret slanted like an awning over his eyes and his upturned collar buttressed him against the drizzle. Built low enough to the earth that his trench coat grazed the sidewalk, his girth made up for his height.
She’d noticed him a few times before, but today, he came near enough to wa the smell of old wool, strong co ee, and a hint of stale tobacco. Kate sti ened. Maybe, like the man going through his house, the war had “tipped” him.
With two blocks to go and not another soul in sight, he halted before her and removed his beret, standing his thick dark hair on end. ree deep, leathery creases tunneled above a prominent nose set between dark, ery eyes that seemed oddly familiar. His deep, resonant tone sent a chill through Kate.
“Marguerite Dumont.”
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With Each New Dawn
“Pardon me?”
“Aussi vrai que je respire. Vous êtes la lle du Madame Dumont.” His smooth statement rang with certainty and ignited Kate’s
childhood French. As I live and breathe, you are the daughter of Madame Dumont. His resonant voice jolted something deep inside her, almost as if she’d heard this exact intonation before. A tting response sat on her tongue, but she’d better resort to English, to keep him wondering.
“As you live and breathe? Sir, I cannot be Marguerite Dumont’s child, for that name is unfamiliar.”
A brown stained fore nger waggled. “I knew your mother.” Caressing the English with slow deliberation, his breath wa ed onion and a mysterious spice. His full lips twitched under a vagabond mustache, but his eyes held no malice.
“No, Monsieur, that is not possible. I am American.”
e re in his eyes ared higher. “Oui, you come from Iowa.” His imperfect pronunciation of the i like an e tightened Kate’s throat. How could he possibly know that? A trickster breeze tickled her ankles and she shivered again.
“Iowa ...”
“Without question, you are Madame Dumont’s daughter.”
e trill of truth skittered her spine. “Monsieur, I’m afraid you
mistake me for someone else.”
Sharp heels clicked, and the peak of Mrs. Tenney’s shiny black
umbrella appeared over a slight rise. Her version of Veronica Lake’s perfect victory roll upheld a tawny velvet hat, and sunlight emblazoned the Women’s Auxiliary pin on her jaunty red plaid wool jacket.
Always the lady, she paused a reasonable distance away but held out a courteous gloved hand with a verbena scent. Although grateful that Mrs. T allowed her to share her home when her son Charles hired her at his o ce, Kate sometimes resisted her caretaking. But this time, relief ooded her.
“I had begun to worry about you, Kathryn. Is anything wrong?” She returned Kate’s grasp and, eyes narrowed, faced the stranger. “Good day, sir.”
“Bonsoir, Madame.”
“ is man says he knew my mother. I told him he’s mistaken, but
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nothing shakes him.” Mrs. Tenney towered over the Frenchman while questions deluged Kate, along with a weight in the pit of her stomach. Someone who knew her mother, right here on the streets of London— how could this be?
“Do you speak English, Monsieur, and what is your name?”
He shrugged and took a long breath. “A leettle. I am Monsieur Le Blanc.”
“You say you know this young woman’s mother?”
“Oui, from France.”
“When?”
“She worked as an Allô Fille at the Front.” His profuse eyebrows
formed a fuzzy caterpillar between his temples. “In ze Great War. Beleef me. Ees true.”
Kate’s scalp went cold. Her mother did work overseas, though Aunt Alvina never mentioned her being a Bell Telephone Hello Girl. A er Kate moved from the East Coast to Halberton when her parents died, Aunt Alvina o ered only sparse information. e “Hello Girl” scenario seemed plausible enough. Still, she’d never pictured her mother tending a switchboard at the front in the Great War.
A lump blocked Kate’s throat, for a peculiar security came in knowing few speci cs about the past. at way, she could hold it at bay, free to imagine whatever she pleased. But at the same time, an old, tenacious hunger gripped her at the word mother and backs of her eyes burned.
Mrs. Tenney tightened her hold on Kate’s hand. “What documentation do you o er?”
“I haf photographs of Mademoiselle Dumont. I know her husband, also.”
Nameless, ragged desire inundated Kate. She wanted to shout, “Prove it to me,” as she had a few months back when o cials noti ed her of her husband Alexandre’s death. A er all the wild ups and downs of searching for him, nding him, and then having him crash again, she’d been loathe to believe the worst.
But when the RAF messengers quietly held out a parcel containing Alexandre’s dog tags and personal e ects, she had no choice. She’d been working at starting life anew without him, but now this stranger was
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With Each New Dawn
asking her to open another painful wound from long ago.
Mrs. Tenney propelled her sharp nose forward like a goose, directly into the Frenchman’s line of vision. “ is girl has already lost her husband in the war. If you are serious, be at that little park down the
way at precisely seven-thirty tonight.”
She gestured with her umbrella. “My son, Mr. Charles Tenney, a
lawyer and government o cial, will be present.”
Variegated brown and yellow teeth peeked between Monsieur’s lips.
“I will be there, Madame. Au revoir.” He saluted and turned on his heel. Mrs. Tenney steered toward home, but halfway there, Kate pulled on her elbow. “I can’t help but wonder how he happened to come this way just when I was walking home. I’ve seen him before, though, and
usually about this time of day.”
“Quite the coincidence, eh? War can play such peculiar tricks on a
person.”
“Did you say Charles is a lawyer?”
Mrs. Tenney sputtered, “Not technically, dear, but he’s equal to one.
I wanted to show that chap what sort of people he’s dealing with. You never know these days, Kathryn. Deceivers pull all kinds of stunts, and we must beware.”
She turned to Kate. “Do you think that man’s story could possibly be true?”
“I don’t know—that would’ve been before I was born, and my aunt told me very little.”
Back home, Mrs. Tenney called Charles, who said he’d stop by for Kate. Dinner was le over meat pie and a biscuit sweetened by a jar of jam Addie had sent a few weeks before.
“Do tell your friend when you write again how much we enjoy this bit of sweetness, Kathryn. Just think how dry our biscuits would be without it. Do you think she made it herself?”
“She did. Addie can cook almost anything.”
“And she’s so generous to share with us. Have you heard? ose American P-38’s did indeed kill Admiral Yamamoto last month. Your folks back home must be celebrating.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“We’ve taken Tunisia’s Longstop Hill, and soon, allied troops will
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command Tunis. ank heavens for your ghter squadrons and the Palm Sunday Massacre—I’m so grateful you Americans came to our
aid.”Mrs. Tenney seemed bent on discussing recent war events, but Kate had all she could do to concentrate on the conversation. A rising riptide of curiosity swelled inside her with every bite she took. at very night, in just a little over an hour, she might learn something about the puzzle that had haunted her sleep all through her youth.
Charles rang at seven- een, and at seven-thirty, true to his word, the Frenchman awaited them on a bench. His coat collar was bunched up around his chin, and a thickening haze added to his intrigue.
Kate clasped her throat beneath a heavy scarf Mrs. Tenney had wrapped around her neck before she and Charles le the house. Solid as steel, he tightened his elbow to secure Kate’s ngers against his coat. Monsieur stood, and her mouth went dry. She croaked to Charles, “You do the talking.”
“If you wish.”
Mr. Tenney held out his hand. “Monsieur?”
“Le Blanc. And you are Meester Tenney?”
“Yes, Kate’s employer, and er ...” He hesitated. “My mother says you
have some photographs to show her?”
Monsieur Le Blanc sprawled across the bench and fumbled with
the latches of a black leather attaché case. He pulled out a yellowed envelope with his stumpy ngers.
is moment will change your life forever. Suddenly faint, Kate let go of Charles’ arm and sank beside the Frenchman. Charles stepped back to hold the umbrella over her as Monsieur le Blanc twisted her way.
“Madame Dumont liked to speak of Iowa, land of corn and cows. Her sister, her name ees ... Alveera?”
A precise knot cinched Kate’s stomach, but she held her peace.
Alvira—de nitely close enough to Aunt Alvina’s name.
He wiggled out a black and white photograph showing a young woman at the end of a long wooden telephone switchboard. Behind her, a cord battened back a tent ap.
at dark haired Hello Girl’s long black dress made her huge eyes stand out even more. A tremor traced Kate’s backbone. e young
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With Each New Dawn
worker’s pro le could not have borne more resemblance to her mother’s portrait on Aunt Alvina’s bookshelf.
Mr. Tenney touched Kate’s arm, his eyes re ecting concern. She straightened her shoulders as he addressed the stranger.
“You have more?”
At another photo with an even more vivid rendering of Madame Dumont’s face, Kate hugged her arms, helpless in the draw of those sparkling blue eyes.
Once again, Charles took up her cause. “ is a ernoon, you made a rash pronouncement that profoundly unsettled my employee. What else do you know about this Madame Dumont?”
“ at ees not my intent. I would not speak so eef eet were not true.” e Frenchman slipped out a third photograph, a close-up that snatched Kate’s breath.
“But ees true.”
His wide palm balanced her mother’s graduation likeness, a copy of the very one that hung above Aunt Alvina’s mantel. Sometimes, when no one was looking, Kate used to sit before the replace, simply staring at her mother’s likeness. She would know that expression anywhere.
“Where did you get this . . .?”
He answered in melodic French phrases. “Madame Dumont stood out as a leader among the operators. Once, she refused an evacuation order and rallied the others.” Monsieur Le Blanc spoke quickly. en he closed his eyes and tipped his head as if calling up memories. Perhaps because of Mr. Tenney’s throat-clearing, he broke into English.
“Ah, sorry ... ees di cult to say in English.”
But Kate understood every word.
“Madame Dumont, she say, ‘We shall continue to do our job. We
came here to work. We’ll show zem what women are—how you say— made of.’”
He gave Kate a broad smile. “Your mother ees very strong, Mademoiselle.”
You’re just like your mother. at was Aunt Alvina’s consistent comment when Kate’s headstrong nature reared in de ance of Halberton, Iowa’s outdated traditions. e correlation brought Kate’s breath up short.
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Mr. Tenney leaned toward her. “Have you seen enough?”
Enough? She hesitated. How could she ever see enough? Perhaps the envelope contained more photographs. Monsieur might know how her parents met, or even what led to their deaths. What if he held more clues to unravel all of her troubling questions? Monsieur’s eyes never le her face, and she saw that he read her longing.
He reopened the envelope. “You desire to see more?” e next photograph featured a large group, including three men. “ e one in the shadows on the right ees your father ... le Renard Intrepid.”
His rolled r dipped right into Kate’s heart, and a broken sigh parted her lips. She almost cried out, “My father?”
Monsieur held up his palms. “All ze allo girls—how you say? Swooned over him, but your mother, she won ze prize.” His sigh accompanied a faraway look. “You would like to keep zese?”
“Oh, yes. ank you.” Kate’s thoughts churned. What was Monsieur le Blanc doing with this photograph?
“I stay perhaps one more month at this address.” He scrawled something on a piece of paper and handed it to her. An irresistible urge drew her closer, to hold onto this encounter, to learn as much as possible about her father.
At the same time, something told her this mysterious stranger knew that she did. She’d never met him until today but had the sensation that he saw into her soul. at intuition in his eyes caused her to sidestep to Mr. Tenney, who o ered her his arm.
“Merci, Monsieur. Good evening to you, then.”
ey started to walk away, but with each step, Kate’s incessant curiosity swelled. She’d always denied her insatiable questions as unanswerable, yet now ... Perhaps she could ask just one more thing. But when she turned to look back, her heart fell. Monsieur Le Blanc had already vanished in the ever-thickening haze.
Charles saw her to the back door, and Kate hurried upstairs to prop the photographs on her bureau. Alone with her scant memories and still wearing her coat and scarf, a groan rose from her inmost being.
“Mother ... who are you? Who were you?”
Reading what Monsieur added below his address on the paper scrap only heightened her interest. “Your eyes reveal your mother’s
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With Each New Dawn
courage. Many su er now and need your help.”
He seemed to know her better than she knew herself. He reminded
her of a fortune-teller passing through Halberton one summer in a gypsy caravan.
A sharp kick in the abdomen reminded Kate of her unborn child, the last remnant of the love she and Alexandre shared, the fruit of his twenty-four hour Christmas pass. She sloughed o her wraps and smoothed her bulging midri .
“But this stranger had no idea ... my coat hid our baby.” e realization brought her some comfort as she put on her warm nightgown and stacked pillows against her headboard.
Maybe reading a book would calm her mind. But her mother’s determined brows and that set-to-conquer-the-world look in her eyes laid claim to Kate. What must it have been like in earshot of the terrible ghting on the Front? And the journey across the Atlantic ... undoubtedly much more arduous than her own a year and a half ago.
A knock on the door forced Kate back to the present. “Come on in.” “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, ne. ank you for asking.”
Mrs. Tenney followed Kate’s glance. “Is this your mother, then?
She’s beautiful, and your facial features replicate hers. Your dark eyes must come from your father’s side?”
“My father’s side ... maybe so. Until today, I knew nothing about him. Kate’s voice forsook her, so Mrs. Tenney continued.
“What a day it has been for you, Kathryn. Who would have guessed such a treasure would come to you in this extraordinary way?”
“Yes. I ... I don’t know quite what to think. Maybe it’s just the war. Otherwise, Monsieur Le Blanc might not even be in London.”
“Indeed. And neither would you. at reminds me, have I mentioned lately how glad I am that you came?”
Mrs. Tenney crossed the room and eased her fore nger over the photograph. “She truly is lovely. ose eyes, so dauntless and daring— she le her home for such a dangerous task. I would think your aunt would have regaled you with stories about her ...”
“No, Aunt Alvina never mentioned her unless I asked. And then, she always seemed abrupt. I’ve o en wondered why.”
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“Humm. Families can be so complicated. Perhaps she hesitated to open old wounds. Perhaps she loved your mother dearly but couldn’t bear having her taken from this life so young.”
“I’ll never know.” Once again, Kate connected with her mother’s eyes in the photograph. “But it’s nothing new, really. My whole life, I’ve hungered to know about my parents, and nally learned to set my questions aside. I guess I can do it again, can’t I?”
“At least now you know what your father looked like, and what they called him. He must have been quite famous.” Mrs. Tenney turned to Kate with thought lines deep in her brow. “In the States, do you ever use our old saying, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie?’”
She paused, and Kate recalled her kindness on those winter days when nausea forced her home from work. O en, Mrs. Tenney produced dry toast and precious rationed tea, and sometimes even an egg in the middle of the day. When asked how she managed with such severe shortages, she skirted the question.
“I have my methods—never underestimate a determined British woman.”
But now, Mrs. Tenney stepped back as if dismissed. “Good night, then. Do let me know if you need anything.” Her footsteps continued down the hall, and from her bedside table drawer, Kate pulled out a picture Aunt Alvina took years ago, of her and Addie dressed up like Barbara Stanwyck and Myrna Loy.
“We can always talk mysteries through, Addie, and you o en see things I don’t. Your ship must be leaving soon. Believe me, I have a million questions for you when you get here, and we’ll make up for lost time.”
Kate padded to her bureau for a magnifying glass and turned over the switchboard photograph. On the back, black ink faded into the pale blue cardboard.
“Bon courage. Marguerite.” e crackled backing showed another muted inscription: “Au Renard Intrepid.”
“To the Intrepid Fox. Why, my mother gave this to him, wishing him good luck! But if the Intrepid Fox really is my father, how did Monsieur Le Blanc get these photos?”
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With Each New Dawn
light. When she opened the blackout drape, faint moonshine danced through the curtains and played with the sparkles in her mother’s eyes. e sight piqued a vast ache under Kate’s ribs.
Your mother’s courage ... many su er now and need your help. For sleepless hours, Monsieur’s note troubled her. Why should she meet him now, when she needed help herself? Another kick from her baby reminded her that Addie crossed a dangerous ocean right now for that very purpose.
“If only I knew what he meant about your courage, Mother.”
But the silent photograph lent her no favors. Let sleeping dogs lie. Maybe Aunt Alvina had good reason not to detail the past—in every other way, she’d provided for Kate’s needs.
But those sleeping dogs barked all night long, and in the half-light before dawn, Kate sat up in bed and punched her pillow. Her mother’s smile seemed to chastise her. What good did all of her conjecturing do? She gave herself a erce talking-to.
“You must forget all this, Kate Isaacs, be the best mother possible, and honor Alexandre’s memory. e last thing this world needs is another orphaned child.”
But that thought led to more queries. Had her mother considered her when she went o on her last trip, years a er her stint for Bell Telephone? What if she’d been given a post-war espionage assignment and she couldn’t say no? Or, had the thrill of adventure called more strongly than her own daughter? And what had caused Aunt Alvina’s steadfast silence about the woman Monsieur Le Blanc called courageous?
Kate swallowed a spike of bitterness, though she knew speculating about her mother’s frame of mind would do no good. No matter what, she wanted to turn the tables and be there completely for her own child. Nothing was worth risking that all-important responsibility. She buried her head in her pillow and tried to catch a little sleep before her alarm called her into the new day.
But that scrap of paper Monsieur slipped into her hand appeared before her mind’s eye ...perhaps one more month at this address ... She grappled with the nal searching expression in his eyes until daybreak.

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