The girl glanced at Ruth. “Grandpapa needs his medicine.” She reached into the man’s jacket and removed a brown bottle.
The old man’s hand trembled as he reached for the bottle.
“I’ll do it.” The girl unscrewed the cap and placed a small tablet into his mouth.
Ruth, Jimmie, and Lucette gathered around them.
The man’s breathing gradually slowed, and he placed a hand to his granddaughter’s cheek. “Merci, my little cabbage,” he said in a deep yet sweet baritone voice.
The girl nodded and slipped the medicine bottle into the man’s jacket.
“Do you need to find a doctor?” Ruth asked.
“Non,” the man said. “There is nothing a doctor can do for my angina. I have my nitroglycerin pills, and I’ll be better after a few minutes of rest.”
“I’m Ruth.” She gestured with her hand. “This is Lucette and Jimmie.”
“Pierre.” The man slipped a navy beret from his head, revealing mussed, gray hair. He patted the girl’s arm. “My granddaughter, Aline.”
“Bonjour,” Aline said. The girl was approximately nine years of age, give or take a year, with curly, sandy blond hair and eyes the color of burnt caramel. She wore a gray wool cardigan over a blue plaid dress, scuffed black shoes with ankle-length white socks, and a brown leather book bag that was strapped to her back.
Tank fire erupted from several kilometers away, sending thunder-like echoes over the landscape. Refugees turned their heads but continued their migration.
“We must keep moving.” Pierre took a deep breath. “Ready, Aline?”
“Oui,” the girl said.
Jimmie stepped to the man and extended his good arm.
Pierre clasped Jimmie’s hand and rose to his feet.
“Where are you headed to?” Jimmie asked.
“Any place that is free of cannonade.” Pierre picked up his suitcase.
He’s not well and needs to get off his feet, Ruth thought. He’ll struggle to stay ahead of the German Army, and I can’t leave him here. A decision stirred inside her. “How about coming with us? We have room for you and Aline in our ambulance. We’re going to an Allied military airfield in Reims, assuming we have enough fuel to get there.”
Pierre’s eyes brightened.
“Oui,” Lucette said. “You should come with us.”
Pierre smiled. “Merci beaucoup. Our vehicle broke down last night, and we’ve been walking since dawn.” He looked at his granddaughter. “How does a ride sound to you?”
“Bien, Grandpapa,” Aline said. “You need to rest.”
Pierre patted Aline’s head. “You too, my little cabbage.”
Together, they walked to the ambulance. Lucette took over as driver with Jimmie in the passenger seat, and Ruth sat with Pierre and Aline on the cots in the back of the vehicle.
“Where are you from?” Ruth asked as the ambulance pulled away.
“Lille,” Pierre said.
“Do you have family elsewhere?”
“Non.”
“Any friends you can stay with in the south of France?”
Pierre shook his head. “It’s only the two of us. Aline’s father—my son, Leopold—is a soldier in the army.” He placed his arm around his granddaughter. “Her mother was killed in a German air raid.”
Ruth felt sick to her stomach. “I’m so sorry.”
Aline’s bottom lip quivered.
Pierre told Ruth that his wife, Zelia, died six years earlier from cancer, and that their only child was Leopold, the father of Aline. He also explained that Aline had no other living blood relatives. Her mother was raised in an orphanage, and Aline’s only living family members were him and her papa.
“It’s Aline and I, until Leopold returns from the war,” Pierre said.
A wave of sadness washed over Ruth.
Aline rubbed her eyes, as if fending off tears. “Would you like to see a picture of our family?”
“Oui,” Ruth said.
Aline slipped off her backpack, undid a buckle, and removed a weathered photograph. “This is us when I was a baby.”
Ruth looked at the image of an attractive woman, holding a swaddled baby while sitting on a piano bench next to a young man. Pierre and his late wife stood on opposite sides of the couple. “You have a beautiful family. What is the name of your maman?”
