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    My French Whore: A Love Story
    My French Whore: A Love Story
    My French Whore: A Love Story
    Ebook133 pages1 hour

    My French Whore: A Love Story

    By Gene Wilder

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    The beloved actor and screenwriter Gene Wilder's first novel, My French Whore, set during World War I, delicately and elegantly explores a most unusual romance. It's almost the end of the war and Paul Peachy, a young railway employee and amateur actor in Milwaukee, realizes his marriage is one-sided. He enlists, and ships off to France. Peachy instantly realizes how out of his depth he is—and never more so than when he is captured. Risking everything, Peachy—who as a child of immigrants speaks German—makes the reckless decision to impersonate one of the enemy's most famous spies.

    As the urbane and accomplished spy Harry Stroller, Peachy has access to a world he could never have known existed—a world of sumptuous living, world-weary men, and available women. But when one of those women—Annie, a young, beautiful and wary courtesan—turns out to be more than she seems, Peachy's life is transformed forever.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMacmillan Publishers
    Release dateMar 6, 2007
    ISBN9781429917100
    My French Whore: A Love Story
    Author

    Gene Wilder

    Gene Wilder (1933-2016) began acting when he was thirteen and writing for the screen in the early 1970s. After a small role in "Bonnie and Clyde" pulled him away from a career onstage, he was nominated for an Academy Award as Best Supporting Actor for his role as Leo Bloom in "The Producers", which led to "Blazing Saddles" and then to another Academy nomination, this time for writing "Young Frankenstein". Wilder appeared in twenty-five feature films and a number of stage productions. His first book, about his own life, was Kiss Me Like A Stranger. It was followed by the novels My French Whore, The Woman Who Wouldn’t, and Something to Remember You By and a book of stories, What Is This Thing Called Love?.

    Read more from Gene Wilder

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    Reviews for My French Whore

    3.5/5

    91 ratings11 reviews

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    • 2/5
      Very disappointing. Very clever in places, but no emotion at all.
    • 4/5
      I read a book! In a day! Like Karen!
    • 3/5
      Wilder’s story, set during WWI, has several very nice light touches, which I also associate with his movies - sweetness and grace, human dignity under difficult circumstances, and humor. It is rather simple, but it’s hard to imagine anyone hating it.
    • 5/5
      Oh, my. What a wonderful, terribly beautiful little book. I don't really have adequate words, as I've just finished it a couple of minutes ago, but I just absolutely loved it. Romantic and sad, in a good way, is what it is.
    • 5/5
      If this book was a movie it would be a "sleeper hit". This book was mentioned in a Group Post on another site and made me curious. That was the only reason I picked it up. Thank you to whom-ever posted it, the book was wonderful! Mr. Wilder takes an ordinary man and places him in an extra-ordinary situation in an "ueber-extra-ordinary" time and we are allowed to see him rise above it all and in his own way, triumph. Kudos to this tight, little book that also proves it does not take 900 pages to tell an enthralling and complete story.

    • 5/5
      Entertaining, hilarious, and romantic - who could ask for anything more? I loved this tale of a heroic American World War 1 soldier who masquerades as a German spy and, in the process, falls madly in love with a French woman who has had to offer her body in exchange for...just about everything. A wonderful, random find from the library :-D
    • 4/5
      I so wanted this story to have a different ending even though I knew it wouldn't.

      It's a small, simple story told with grace.
    • 2/5
      Let’s face it. There is only one reason this book was published – the author’s name. Now, if you are saying that about Steinbeck, or Salinger, or Silverberg, or several others, then it makes sense. If you are doing it to document the completeness of a good author’s body of work, then you have a good reason for publication. Even if it is a new work by that author (albeit uneven) then there are reasons to move forward. If on the other hand, you say that about Krantz, or Collins, or Dr. Phil, then you are only continuing to foist the work of people-whose-only-ability-is-to-put-words-on-paper on a more-than-willing-to-accept-it world. (Let us pause – the world does accept this work. [Silent tears fall.] Let us move on.) Somewhat less heinous is the publishing of books because the author is famous. Now, I am not talking about books that are truly just the thoughts of the author (in particular, books by comedians – Seinfeld, Paula Poundstone, Bill Cosby, even one by Gene Wilder). Those are a niche served well by the practice. (Come to think of it, Jackie Collins fills a niche that is served well by the practice – I guess I just don’t believe that niche should exist; that people should be a little more discerning. [Sorry - honest, I’ll walk away from this pulpit.]) I am referring to famous people trying to actually be authors. Publishers need to be more discerning – looking for quality, rather than a name. This is not to say that famous people do not have the ability to write. For example, I have heard (though have not actually read the books) that Carrie Fisher and Fannie Flagg do a pretty good job. And, one would hope, this is the work of discerning publishers and editors working with what they have perceived to be talented authors to build a quality product.

      Mr. Wilder needs a good editor, a good publisher, a good advisor, or a mixture of all three. Then this book would be made into something worth reading, or he would be advised to stick with his strengths (of which writing fiction is not one). It is not that there is inherently anything wrong with the writing. It is that there is nothing in it worth praise. The narrative moves along, the story develops, and we just don’t care. The end is telegraphed from afar, and it is an ending that just – well, no other way to put it – it just ends. The only plausible excuse is that this is his first foray into fiction. But I stand by the opening sentence of this paragraph because, if any of those had been evident, then this book would not be out amongst us. However, a name seems to make the unnecessary happen. The good news is that this brief piece (more novelette than novel) didn’t take up much of my time. The bad news is that it did, indeed, take some of my time.

      (Final aside. “Why did you read this book in the first place?” My wife had heard interesting things about it. After reading it she indicated she would be interested in my take. I read through it and we compared notes. We agreed.)
    • 4/5
      Written in a deceptively simple style, "My French Whore: a love story" is a profound story of love in the midst of war. Private Peachy enlisted to escape a stale life in Milwaukee. But a World War One battlefield predictably proves not to be the best place to start a new life. Shocked into an act of cowardice, he is immediately captured. Yet he surprises himself with daring born of desperation and some fortuitous inside information. He convinces his captors that he is a famous spy returning home. His fluent German and quick wit enable him to enter the privileged lifestyle of "Colonel Harry Stroller." Always alert for the chance to escape, he is haunted by shame and memories of battle. Then serendipity brings into this precarious balancing act a French prostitute and an American prisoner, and Peachy surprises himself again.

      These are very human characters dealing with powerful themes: the realities of war, the shame of cowardice, revenge, unexpected courage, and of course, love. The perspective is personal but never maudlin. This is a quick read that leaves a lasting impression.
    • 5/5
      This was a simple tale, simply told.

      If you are looking for all the bells and whistles to keep you entertained, this isn't the book for you.

      Quiet, understated, charming.

      I loved it.
    • 4/5
      It takes place during the grim stalemate of World War One. Told in first person voice of a soldier who enlists in the army in search of adventure, an attempt to escape suffocatingly boring mid-west life in Wisconsin and end a failed marriage.

      This initial gray background couldn't be a starker contrast to the dashing story into which the book develops. Very strong sides of it are the meticulously constructed plot, the lovely romance and how well it brings up the astounding irony of unbelievably good times found mere miles away from the killing fields of the Western front line.

      Characters are sculpted not by the vocabulary of great literature, Gene Wilder's craftsmanship was to thrive within the confines of the unadorned colloquial of soldier's voice.

      Fast, feel-good read. Uplifting.

    Book preview

    My French Whore - Gene Wilder

    ONE

    art

    MARCH, 1918

    I USED TO BE A CONDUCTOR ON THE TRAIN THAT ran back and forth from Milwaukee to Chicago. Two or three times a year I acted in our local community theater, playing small roles mostly, but occasionally I was given a featured role. When the Milwaukee Players were putting on a play called A Brave Coward, by Winslow Clarke, I was given the part of a cowardly soldier during the Civil War who chooses, for the first time, to do something heroic. This was the biggest role our director had ever given me.

    Our community theater gave only three performances for each of our plays, and on the last night of A Brave Coward I was in the men’s dressing room applying some Skolgie’s theatrical glue onto a mustache I’d made out of crepe hair, pressing it hard above my upper lip, when our director walked in. His name was John Freidel, but all the actors called him sir because we were a little afraid of him.

    He walked past the other men, who were getting into costumes and going over their lines, and came up to my chair. You’re late, Peachy, he said.

    Sorry, sir, I came right from work. The train was late.

    Sir could be very sarcastic when he was giving notes, but I hadn’t heard him yell at anyone yet. He was a tall man and I thought his knee would hurt when he kneeled down next to me on the hard wooden floor, but I certainly wasn’t going to interrupt him. He spoke confidentially, but he was very intense.

    You’ve been way too soft these last few nights, Paul. Terribly gentle and polite. A coward isn’t a coward all the goddamn time, you know? You’re starting to act like you’re scared to death. Will you loosen up for me tonight?

    I’ll try, sir, I said.

    When the curtain goes up, forget the goddamn audience! Pretend it’s just a rehearsal. Will you do that for me, Paul?

    I’ll try.

    Twenty minutes later my heart was in my throat. I heard the stage manager whisper Go! and the curtain went up. There was silence for a moment as the audience waited, and then the first line was spoken.

    Thank goodness the play went well, and I know the audience liked me because they clapped especially loud when I took my bow during the curtain calls. I looked out into the audience while I was bowing and saw our director sitting in the front row. He gave me a smile and a little nod of approval.

    When the play was over I kept my mustache on, which I had purposely made the color of my wife’s auburn hair. I kept trying to picture Elsie when she saw it. Elsie and I had only been married for four and a half years, but the romantic part of our relationship seemed to have faded away, like the yellow roses in our backyard at the end of summer. I lived with Elsie and her mother in three rooms on the second floor of a small but clean house in the German-Polish section of Milwaukee.

    On the bus ride home a pretty girl and a soldier were sitting across the aisle from me, holding hands. The girl smiled at me. Without thinking, I touched my mustache and smiled back at her. Her boyfriend turned and gave me a hard stare. I dropped my head, pretending to be reading my theater program.

    When I got home I raced up the stairs and unlocked the kitchen door. There was a soft light coming from the half-open door of our bedroom. I stuck my head into the doorway.

    Look who’s here! I said, as rakishly as I could. Elsie was asleep, propped up against two big pillows, her long auburn hair spread out around her. A gas lamp was burning on the nightstand. The sound of my voice woke her.

    Oh, Paul, she said, still half asleep.

    I’m sorry, honey—I didn’t know you were sleeping. How do you feel?

    I was waiting up, and then I just dozed off, she said.

    I made a tiny leap, trying to feature my mustache. Look who’s here! I said.

    What time is it? Elsie asked, trying to see the little table clock on my side of the bed.

    It must be a little past ten, I said. How do you feel, Elsie?

    Is my mother’s light out? she asked.

    There wasn’t any light coming from the adjoining bedroom.

    Yes, it’s out, I said.

    Still trying to get Elsie to notice my mustache, I made another little John Barrymore leap in the air and said,

    Look who’s here, Elsie.

    Paul, if you’re going to eat something, please hurry.

    I’m not hungry, Elsie.

    You must be starving, she said.

    No, I had something on the train. Honestly, I’m not hungry. How do you feel?

    If you cared how I felt, would you have left me tonight?

    Well ... I did care, even though I left, so the answer must be ‘Yes.’ You look so pretty with your hair that way.

    I don’t feel pretty.

    Isn’t life funny, because you do look so pretty? Thank you.

    I walked up and sat beside her on the bed. I brought you something, sweetheart.

    You didn’t bring me another pastry? she asked. Oh, Paul, why do you do that?

    It must be love, I said, taking her hand.

    You’ve still got makeup all over your face. Did you know that?

    I must have forgotten—I was so excited after the play, and I wanted to get home before you went to sleep.

    I leaned down and kissed her, then took off my trousers and underwear and socks, leaving on my shirt. I turned down the lamp and got into bed.

    Don’t touch me like that, Paul.

    Why?

    I don’t feel like it, she said. Why?

    Elsie turned away. I lay next to her for a while, until I finally fell asleep.

    The next morning I was punching tickets on the ride back to Milwaukee. The car was stuffed with soldiers and their girlfriends or wives. Mostly girlfriends, I think. Standing or seated, all the couples seemed to be kissing. A few of the older men and women were trying not to look. As I walked down the aisle my attention was caught by a passenger’s newspaper.

    SIX THOUSAND GERMAN GUNS OPEN FIRE AT 4:50 A.M.

    2,500 BRITISH GUNS REPLY.

    FRANCE WAITS FOR YANKS

    After repeating Tickets please three times to one passionately kissing couple, I lost heart for punching tickets. When we reached the Third Street station in Milwaukee, I hopped off the passenger steps onto the station platform and helped some of the older people get off the train. Then I made my way through the crowd. Most everyone was hugging and kissing their loved ones good-bye. A little girl was clutching her mother’s leg while the mother was squeezing her husband’s waist as she kissed him. I stood and watched the three of them for a moment. That afternoon I wrote a letter to my

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