“You speak like a Parisian,” he said.
“My maman is from Paris.” She glanced at him. “Was the truck having problems before it stopped working?”
“It usually takes several tries to start and, on the trip here, it began to lose power.”
Ruth examined the connections to the spark plugs. “One of the cables is loose,” she said, pointing.
“Is that it?”
She removed the connections. “No. The spark plugs are in bad shape and need to be replaced. I’m surprised you got here, considering the amount of gunk on them.”
“Damn it.”
The driver got out of the vehicle and joined them.
The soldier looked at his comrade. “We need to ring the base.”
The driver frowned. “All right.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t get you back on the road,” Ruth said. “Give me five minutes, then make your call.”
She reached into her purse and removed a handkerchief and a small nail file. She wiped each of the spark plug heads with her handkerchief to remove as much grime as she could. Then, using her nail file, she gently scraped away soot from the heads of the spark plugs.
“Are you sure this will work?” the soldier asked.
“No, but it can’t hurt.” Ruth replaced each of the spark plug caps, making sure that they were securely connected. She tossed her nail file into her purse and wiped her hands, which were covered with oily residue. “Try starting it.”
The driver got into the truck and turned the ignition.
The engine coughed and roared to life.
“You’re a genius,” the soldier said.
“Non,” she said, closing the hood of the truck. “I’m a farm gal who knows a thing or two about keeping an old truck on the road.”
The driver exited the vehicle and shook Ruth’s hand. “Merci beaucoup.”
“Je vous en prie,” she said.
“You should be a mechanic,” the soldier said.
She shook her head. “I would rather drive a truck than fix it.”
“Then you should consider joining the army,” the soldier said. “They’re recruiting civilian volunteers to serve as ambulance drivers.”
She tilted her head. “Women drivers?”
“Oui,” the driver said. “Near our base, there’s a corps of women ambulance drivers stationed at a field hospital.”
She stashed her dirty handkerchief into her purse. “If I didn’t have a job to go to, I’d be first in line at the recruiting office.”
The driver grinned. “May I ask your name and what you do for a living, mademoiselle?”
“Ruth. I’m a singer at Bal Tabarin.”
“I’m Édouard.” The driver gestured to his comrade. “And this is Yann. We receive a military leave in a couple of weeks and will pay a visit to Bal Tabarin. It would be a pleasure to hear you sing.”
“I’ll look for you.” She glanced at her watch. “I better go or I’ll be late for work.”
“We’d give you a lift,” Yann said, “but it’s against regulations to allow civilians as passengers.”
She nodded. “Au revoir.”
The men climbed into the truck and pulled away. She watched the vehicle disappear around the corner and began her trek to Bal Tabarin. For the first time in over a week, her mind was distracted from the loss of Marceau, and she felt like she’d done something, albeit small, that supported France’s fight for Europe’s freedom.
CHAPTER 5
PARIS, FRANCE—SEPTEMBER 21, 1939
Ruth entered the backstage dressing room and was greeted with warm welcomes and hugs from the dancers who were putting on costumes for the show. A bouquet of white tulips, bundled together with pink ribbon and paper, had been placed on her makeup table.
Ruth picked up the flowers and held them to her nose, taking in a citrus, honey-like scent. She turned to Lucette. “Thank you for the tulips. They’re lovely.”
“You’re welcome. It’s from the dancers and musicians.” Lucette adjusted her multilayered can-can skirt. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me too,” Ruth said, despite a strange apprehension stirring within her. She changed into a black evening gown and put on makeup. Her hand trembled as she attempted to apply lipstick.
“Are you feeling up to this?” Lucette asked.
