Ruth slumped her shoulders. With the outbreak of war, it had become nearly impossible to acquire a passenger ticket for leisure transatlantic travel from the US to France. She could tell, from the string of her mother’s telegrams, that she was heartbroken over not being able to be by her sister’s side for shiva.
Colette lowered her eyes. “Also, your parents think it might be best if you search for a way to find passage to the United States, perhaps with a British or Canadian supply vessel.”
“We’ve already discussed this.” Ruth clasped her cup. “I’m not leaving.”
“You’ll be safe if you go home,” Julian said.
“America may be my home, but my homeland is France.” Ruth’s shoulder muscles tensed. “Am I no longer welcome to stay here with you?”
“Of course not,” Colette said. “I adore having you live with us. But I—” She drew a breath and her bottom lip quivered. “I’ve lost my only child, and your maman and I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.”
Julian blinked his eyes, as if fighting back tears.
“I will be safe in Paris.” Ruth reached across the table and clasped hands with her aunt and uncle. “I cannot turn my back on the country and people I love. Running away is no way to honor Marceau.”
They squeezed her fingers.
“When you were my age, you were fighting to save lives near the battlefront. If anything, I need to do more for the war effort—not less.”
“She’s right,” Julian said to his wife. “We worked at a field hospital a few kilometers from the front line.”
Colette looked to the ceiling, as if her mind was reliving memories of her service in the Great War.
Ruth released their hands. “When I get home from work, I’ll write a long letter to my parents.”
Colette nodded.
They spoke no further of Marceau or the war. After they finished their coffee and bread, Ruth washed the dishes, kissed them on the cheeks, and left for work. Outside the apartment building, she glanced at her wristwatch. With a bit of extra time, she decided to take a longer route to work to clear her head.
As she walked through Le Marais, she hummed her repertoire of songs that she hadn’t rehearsed since the night she received notice of Marceau’s death. She easily recalled the lyrics, but the pieces evoked no emotion. Her humming dwindled away and she wondered how long it would take to repair a broken heart. A year. Two years. A lifetime? She shook away her thoughts and traveled along a cobblestone street.
“Try it again!” a man’s voice shouted.
Ruth turned. Across the street was a French Army truck that was parked in front of a warehouse of a canning factory. One soldier sat behind the wheel, while a second soldier peered under the open hood of the truck.
The engine cranked over but didn’t start.
“Are you pressing the accelerator?” the soldier asked, raising his head from the engine compartment.
“Oui!” the driver shouted.
The starter grinded for several seconds and stopped.
Ruth crossed the street. She passed the bed of the truck, which contained crates of canned peas, and approached the soldiers. “Do you need help?”
The driver leaned his head out the open window. “We need a mechanic. Do you know of someone nearby?”
“You’re looking at one,” Ruth said.
The driver wrinkled his forehead.
“I grew up on a farm,” she said. “We had an old truck and tractor, and I helped my papa complete all the repairs. Mind if I have a look?”
The soldier at the hood shook his head. “I can fix it myself, mademoiselle.” He fiddled with the wire connections on the battery.
“Have you checked the fuel line?” Ruth asked.
“Not yet,” the soldier said. He scanned the engine compartment and scratched his head.
“Want me to show you where it’s located?” she asked.
“Non,” he said. “I can find it.”
“You’ve been tinkering under that hood for twenty minutes,” the driver said to his comrade. “Let her have a look. If we ring the base, it’ll take at least an hour before an army mechanic can get here.”
The soldier shifted his weight and gestured with a hand to the open hood.
Ruth walked to the front of the truck, put down her purse, and peered at the engine compartment. From across the street, the truck appeared new, given its fresh coat of matte olive-green paint. Up close, she discovered it was an old, repurposed truck, given the layers of grime on the engine. An acrid smell of burnt oil penetrated her nose.
“Where are you headed with the peas?” she asked.
“Our base in Nancy,” the soldier said.
“My parents were stationed near there during the Great War.” She checked the fuel line, which was intact.
The soldier relaxed his shoulders. “Where’s your farm?”
“Maine, United States.”
