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Fran grimaced at Kate behind Liza’s back. Liza’s news bulletins, they called her rambling digests of intelligence gleaned from Maud, some of which were contradictory and most of which had Germany victorious within the month.

Kate craned her head, looking back in the direction the woman had come. She wished she could thank her. She wished she could pay her. With rationing and meatless days, and the lean days of winter so close, that was a ridiculous amount of bounty to press on a stranger.

You are a good girl, the woman had said. And she’d given her chicken.

All because Kate had said they were bringing supplies to the formerly occupied zone.

“—that our troops won’t be ready to go in until spring, and the French are just holding on by sheer nerve—”

“Excuse me,” said Kate to the others, and pushed up off the steps, to where Mrs. Rutherford was sitting on the side of the Ford, meditatively munching a chicken wing.

“Why did she do that, that woman? Why did she give all this to us?”

“When the soldiers marched off to war,” said Mrs. Rutherford, “the women lined the streets, handing out bread and wine. It didn’t matter that they didn’t have much to give.”

“But we’re not soldiers.” Kate pressed her fingers to her temples. They smelled like ripe cheese. It made her feel vaguely queasy. “I don’t understand. We haven’t done anything yet.”

“You’re here,” said Mrs. Rutherford. “That’s doing something.”

She said it so matter-of-factly.

Kate looked at her askance.

Mrs. Rutherford wiped her greasy fingers daintily on her handkerchief. “It is, you know. It’s not all grand gestures. Just the fact that you came overseas.”

On the steps of the mairie, the other members of the Motor Committee were merrily eating peaches and basking in the sunshine. Kate looked back at Mrs. Rutherford. “What if we make a mess of it? What if we leave them worse off than they were before?”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” said Mrs. Rutherford. “Most of them are living in roofless cellars—and those are the lucky ones. But I tell you, to know you are there among them, living with them, bringing aid from a world they thought forgot them—that means almost as much as the physical goods we bring them. You don’t need to do anything or even say anything. You just need to be there.”

“But we are going to do something.”

“Well, of course,” said Mrs. Rutherford. She chomped down on a peach with obvious relish. “It would be madness to come all this way and just stand there.”

Kate, contrary to instructions, just stood there.

She hadn’t been entirely honest with Emmie back in Paris. Maud had tried to recruit her for the coup, not on her own behalf, but on Emmie’s. “If you could use your influence with your friend . . .” had been the phrase used. Kate had disclaimed any influence and generally avoided committing herself.

Don’t get involved, keep your head down. Those were the rules she had learned over the years.

The truth was, she hadn’t been sure Maud was wrong. Now . . . she wondered if Emmie was right, if they ought to tell Mrs. Rutherford.

But what would be the point? They had their trucks. All their plans were in hand. It would only be making trouble. It was probably all a tempest in a teapot. For all she knew, Maud had never even written those letters.

It is good, the old woman had told her. You are a good girl.

Mrs. Rutherford thrust a chicken leg into her hand.

“Here. Keep your strength up. Eat your chicken and let’s get back on the road. If we make Paris tonight, we can collect the others, pack up our parcels, and be on our way to Grécourt by Monday.”

Chapter Eight

We made our long-overdue start for the country on Tuesday, September 11. . . . The lateness of our start made lunch an immediate concern, but Miss Englund, who was driving the Ford truck, insisted on a downgrade as a stopping place. Apparently, the roads in France run remarkably level. Cannibalism was staved off solely by the discovery that someone had remembered to pack a hamper with bread and cheese, which prevented Miss Shaw from gnawing on the nearest available arm, which, I fear, was mine.

If our women refrain from killing each other, I believe we shall deal reasonably well together (note the caveat). Betsy, as always, remains entirely oblivious and is primarily concerned about the conveyance of our cows.

—Dr. Ava Stringfellow, ’96, to her husband, Dr. Lawrence Stringfellow

September 11, 1917