LONDON, ENGLAND—SEPTEMBER 24, 1940
Ruth exited a train at Marylebone station in Central London and traveled down a sidewalk. Clouds of smoke wafted over the city, and wails of fire brigade sirens filled the air. But Londoners, despite seventeen consecutive nights of Luftwaffe bombardment, were going about their morning routine. Proprietors opened their shops. Police officers patrolled the streets. Teachers headed to their classrooms. Bus drivers shuttled passengers to work. A deep admiration for the British people rose inside Ruth. They’re all going about their duty, she thought, her shoes clicking over the sidewalk. And so will I. She quickened her pace and turned onto a side street.
Initially, Ruth was hesitant to call Nicolas Bodington. She’d worked with Lucette since her days at the cabaret, and—together—they’d persevered through dreadful times while serving in the ambulance corps. To Ruth, it felt wrong to explore another role without her friend. But her feelings began to change after she confided in Lucette about her unusual encounter with an intelligence officer named George.
“It was my leg that held you back from joining a British ambulance corps,” Lucette had said, rubbing her sore knee. “I won’t let it happen again. That man saw something unique in you, and you need to find out what the role is about. If you don’t ring him—I will.”
The following day, Ruth called Nicolas Bodington from a telephone box at RAF Croydon during her break. She’d expected to leave word with a receptionist and was surprised when he answered. She explained how she got his number, and when she inquired about the position, Bodington declined to provide details. He did, however, invite her to come to his office to talk. They agreed on a date and time, and he informed her that someone would contact a WAAF superior to arrange for her absence.
Fifteen minutes after leaving Marylebone station, she arrived at 64 Baker Street, the address given to her by Bodington. She paused at the entrance of the six-story, stone building with no signage. She smoothed her tunic and walked inside.
“Hello,” Ruth said, greeting a silver-haired male receptionist, who was seated behind a desk. “My name is Ruth Lacroix. I’m here to meet with Nicolas Bodington.”
The receptionist looked at a list of names. “He’s expecting you. Third floor—room thirty-three.”
“Thank you.”
Ruth climbed the stairs and stopped on the third-floor landing to catch her breath. She located the room and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a man’s voice said.
She entered, closed the door, and turned to a bespectacled military officer in his mid-thirties who was wearing an olive-colored uniform. “Hello, sir.”
“Good day.” The man stood from his desk and shook her hand. “Nicolas Bodington.”
“Ruth Lacroix.”
He gestured to a wooden chair beside his desk. “Have a seat.”
Ruth sat and placed her hands on her lap. She suddenly felt awkward and wished that she had brought a clipboard and something to write with.
Bodington took his seat and removed an engraved metal case from his pocket. “Cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
Bodington placed a cigarette to his lips, lit it, and put away the case. He took a drag, flaring the ember. “I suspect that you’re wondering what this is about.”
“I am,” Ruth said.
“Consider this to be an interview,” Bodington said.
Ruth shifted in her seat. “What is the role?”
“First, let’s proceed with some questions. If I’m satisfied that you meet the qualifications, I’ll tell you about it.” Bodington rested his cigarette on an ashtray and retrieved a file and pen from his desk.
“All right,” Ruth said. “Ask away.”
The interview began with basic questions—place of birth, education, work experience, and language skills. But soon, Bodington’s queries turned personal.
“I understand that you lived with your aunt and uncle in Paris while you worked at Bal Tabarin cabaret.”
She straightened her spine. How does he know this? Maybe it’s in my WAAF record. “Yes.”
“What is the political party affiliation of your aunt and uncle?”
“I don’t know. They rarely spoke of politics.”
“How about your parents?”
An ache grew in her stomach. “I’m not sure, but I do know that they voted for FDR to be president.”
Bodington wrote on his paper. “Which areas of France are you familiar with?”
“I know Paris and the surrounding areas quite well. Also, my role as an ambulance driver required me to spend a good deal of time in many towns near France’s border with Belgium.”
He scribbled and retrieved a new piece of paper. “Have you ever gotten into a fight?”
She raised her brow. “What kind of fight?”
“The physical kind.”
“Not since kindergarten,” she said, feeling confused and annoyed.
Bodington puffed on his cigarette. “If you were confronted by a Nazi soldier, could you kill him?”
Ruth gripped her thighs. “Why are you asking me this?”
He flicked ash into a tray. “Merely answer the question.”
