On his retirement from commercial aviation, former WWII bomber pilot Marshall Stone visits France in search of some of the people in the French Resistance who, after he crash-landed his B-17 in 1944, helped him avoid the Nazis and escape eventually to England. The girl of the title was, during the war, among a number of schoolgirls who, typically unsuspected by the occupying Germans, helped guide stranded American aviators to hiding places and workable routes out of France.
Immediately after the war, Marshall, like so many American veterans of WWII, returns to a comfortable, if largely staid and uninteresting, life in the States, marrying the sweetheart he left behind, having children, doing the well-paying work he loves as an airline pilot. Marshall likes to see the territory from thirty thousand feet, a long and in some ways rather undemanding orientation to the world. He does what he's supposed to do, and other than a very minimal correspondence just after the war with one man in the French Resistance, he neglects to keep in touch with those who probably saved his life after the B-17 crash.
In France immediately after his retirement (and, significantly, the death of his wife two years earlier), Marshall begins a journey that changes him, and begins to wake some of the sleeping elements of his experience and his inner life. The abstractions of seeing land from aloft fade when he drives and walks in the mountains, seeing lofty places from an intimate and possibly even dangerously close perspective. It dawns on him that he's missed some things.
Marshall's search for certain people--families that first hid him, a trio of black-clad older women he recalls in one house where he was sheltered, a seemingly adventurous and jubilant young man named Robert, and Annette, the girl identified with the blue beret, goes slowly at first. It seems that many of the French also would prefer to forget the war and the German occupation of their beloved country. But eventually doors are opened, some of the people are located, and some of the people open up.
Forgetting has worked for many, both French and American. And yet when some of the characters are offered chances to purge the pain and integrate it into their lives, they become larger, and the sadness perhaps becomes smaller in its deadening influence. Some kind of inner split in the psyche is healed.
In one striking passage, Annette, now the widow of a veterinarian, reflects on the levels of depravity to which humans can sink. She rejects the notion that they can become "animals," because that's far too insulting to animals. Animals, Annette tells Marshall, "do not betray their nature. They do not practice self-deceptions. Humans have a great capacity for the diabolical." I immediately thought of the passage in Whitman's "Song of Myself" that praises animal nature: " . . . they are so placid and self-contain'd, . . .Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things . . . . Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.”
Well, we're not like that, we homo sapiens, the "paragon of animals"--we're capable of the most unspeakable cruelty, utter inhumanity to our fellow creatures (human and non-human), and using power to crush others we regard as being in our way. At the same time, our behavioral range has a very long continuum. What's celebrated mostly in Bobbie Ann Mason's novel is our capacity to also be selfless, heroic, and utterly resolute in opposition to powerful evil. So we find our humanity in frank acknowledgement of what we may be, and in the choices we make.
Marshall undergoes an awakening in his meetings with these figures from a past that has never really left him. Annette, a character of depth and beauty, appears again, all these decades later, and plays a role in saving something significant that was lost in Marshall's life. She even offers him an opportunity to provide her with something restorative--she has buried pain of her own. The long encounter between these two is an offering out of love, made richer by both the vulnerability and determination needed for their later-life healing.
The Girl in the Blue Beret moves at a modest pace in opening chapters, and with the intensification of Marshall's deepening dive into the world and his own life, the momentum gathers. The rhythm of the narrative joins the reader to the search. The novel is well-crafted, the story moving and powerful.