Dead Heat to Destiny by J.B. Rivard

Author:J.B. Rivard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: J. B. Rivard
Published: 2022-12-29T23:05:47+00:00

North Island, San Diego, California

The letter from Adrienne Bock was written and mailed in May of 1915. But because of worker shortages, shipping restrictions, and interruptions caused by the war in Europe, Will Marra did not receive it until late in 1915. Nevertheless, he was thrilled to receive her letter. It was handwritten in French:

Dear Will,

I am writing to your last address in the United States. I hope my letter reaches you, although you may have changed location, and there is now this horrible war.

It is a year nearly since I received your letter. It is difficult for me to know you are now flying an aeroplane. I must admit I fear for you, although I believe I understand why you decided against completing the University degree.

Your letter is here on my desk as I write. I find myself choking a little, considering you may have taken the opinion that my delay in writing intends I no longer wish to relate with you. Although I am understanding of this, please know our relationship is changed. Please allow me to explain.

As your letter acknowledges, I have now lived in Paris for years, and have experienced advancement in my aspect of couture. What you could not know is that I now have my own business. With humility for the patronage of the wonderful Comtesse Cécile Sorel, I maintain the house on rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré (8 Arr.). It is named “Atelier Adrienne.”

This is well and good, but the war has changed everything. Paris is pinched, there are many new faces, women have taken slots surrendered by men gone to fight, even to the driving of taxis. During this last winter, coal was scarce and wool clothing valued. Still, I am thankful that women of aristocracy and wealth continue to desire haute couture, for that maintains my life.

You will have difficulty seeing the Paris where hotels become hospitals, soldiers are everywhere in the town, uniforms on crutches, uniforms limping, uniforms with an empty sleeve—how my heart hurts for them!

Last year when the war came, my parents were forced to flee from Charleroi by the invading German army. Mother and Father only escaped with what they could carry of their possessions. They have no knowledge of what has happened to their home, which may be destroyed. They arrived on one of the last trains to Paris to escape Belgium, because the Germans did not exempt ordinary persons from the cruelties they inflicted. It is merciful that they arrived safely, and that I was able to provide for them here in Paris.

My father, Jean Boch, is not robust, and he climbs our steps only slowly. He often seems lost, absent the friendship of his Belgian confidants. He has gained fortunately employment as a records-keeper for a drink company, despite the fact that in Belgium, he was a successful banker.

To be sure, it is good to have my parents safe and in Paris with me. My mother is a mainstay. As you may envision, however, my residence was not large enough for their comfort nor for my frequent coming and going.

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