“Oui.” Ruth steadied her hand. “A small case of collywobbles. I’ll be fine once I’m onstage.”
Lucette adjusted her seamed stockings and put on a red-feathered hat. “What’s that saying in America before a performer goes onstage?”
“Break a leg.”
“I like it for a singer, but Parisian dancers will always say merde.”
It made sense, to Ruth, that it would not be a good idea to say something to a dancer about fracturing a limb. But she wondered, although briefly, why French dancers—before going onstage—preferred an expression that translated to “shit,” and it struck her that Lucette might have brought it up to lighten her spirits.
Ruth read over a list of three songs that she was scheduled to perform, all of which she had sung dozens of times. Soon, the doors to the hall opened and guests began to fill the seats. Waitresses served cocktails and fluted glasses of champagne, while the orchestra warmed the crowd with cabaret music. The dance hall lights dimmed, and the dancers began to exit the dressing room.
Ruth nudged Lucette. “Merde.”
Lucette smiled. “Break a leg.”
Ruth sat on a stool and listened to the opening can-can dance performance. The vibrant music and cheering of the crowd did little to brighten her mood. Usually, the beginning of the show sparked her enthusiasm to perform, even if it came with a few butterflies fluttering in her stomach. But everything had changed. Marceau, who was like a brother to her, was dead. French soldiers had perished in a short-lived invasion of Germany, and the Polish people were fighting to survive their invasion by Hitler’s military. Despite rumors of a peace agreement, her gut told her that the conflict would get worse before it was over. Her mind drifted to her conversation with Aunt Colette and Uncle Julian. I need to do more for the war effort—not less. Muscles tightened in her shoulders.
A knock came from the door and the stage manager peeked his head inside the dressing room. “Ruth—you’re on in two minutes.”
Ruth nodded. She put on a faux pearl necklace and a pair of white gloves, and made her way to the curtained entrance to the stage. As the dancers gave their bows, her heart thumped against her rib cage. She took in deep breaths, attempting to calm her nerves.
The dancers, shaking their can-can skirts layered with colorful ruffles, exited the stage.
“You’ll be great,” Lucette whispered as she passed by Ruth.
“Oui,” she breathed, despite that—perhaps for the first time in her life—she had no desire to sing.
The emcee stepped onto the stage and removed his top hat. “Mesdames et messieurs! Please welcome Bal Tabarin’s international, Franco-American songstress—Ruth Lacroix!”
The crowd cheered.
Ruth put on a fake smile and walked onto the stage. The orchestra conductor gestured with his baton and a pianist and violinist began to play the introduction to a beautiful ballad, “Parlez-moi d’amour” (“Tell Me about Love”).
The audience grew silent.
Ruth clasped the standing microphone and her eyes were drawn to a bit of engine grime on her fingernails. She discreetly placed her hands behind her back and gazed over the well-dressed patrons holding glasses of champagne and smoldering cigarettes. How can we celebrate when men have given their lives for France? Why are so many Parisians oblivious to the war? A childhood memory of Marceau, picking apples at her family’s orchard, flashed in her head. Her mouth turned dry. She struggled to concentrate and missed her entrance to the song.
The conductor glanced at Ruth and guided the orchestra to repeat the introduction.
A cold chill ran through her body. She made her introduction on time and sang the piece, all the while struggling to hide her heartbreak. Her voice quavered during the high notes of the chorus, and she forgot the words of the last verse. She ended her performance with patrons whispering to their neighbors and a lackluster round of applause.
Between the dancing act intermissions, Ruth willed herself to sing her songs. Her last performance was not much better than her first piece, and she exited the stage with mild clapping, as well as some hisses and jeers, from the crowd. After the show, she washed off her makeup and changed into her casual clothes.
Lucette buttoned her blouse and approached Ruth. “It’ll get better.”
“Someday it will,” Ruth said, “but for now, my heart is telling me I need to make a change.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to do this—not when there’s a war and people are dying.” She swallowed. “On the way here, I met two soldiers who told me that the army is seeking women volunteers.”
“Nurses?”
“Non. Ambulance drivers.”
Lucette’s eyes widened.
The door to the dressing room swung open and banged against the wall. The casting director named Fermin—a hulking man with slicked-back hair, a manicured mustache, and fingers the size of sausages—entered the room.
The air turned silent. Partially dressed dancers stepped aside and covered themselves with their arms and pieces of clothing.
Fermin glared at Ruth. “What the hell happened out there?”
“I performed poorly,” Ruth said.
“You’ve had over a week off from work to get things in order.” He folded his arms. “If you sing like that again, I will terminate you from the show.”
“There’s no need.” Ruth swallowed. “I quit.”
Lucette’s jaw dropped open. Eyes of the dancers fell upon Ruth.
The lines on Fermin’s face hardened. “I know every casting director in Paris. If they know you worked here, they’ll come to me for a referral. Who do you think is going to hire you?”
Ruth gathered her confidence. “The army.”
He laughed.
“They’re recruiting volunteer ambulance drivers,” she said. “I have experience driving a truck, and I think I can be of value to the ambulance corps.”
