The sound of music and clacking of high-heeled shoes grew from Bal Tabarin’s stage.
A stout, middle-aged man named Serge, who was the show’s stage manager, entered the dressing room and removed a cigarette from his lips. “Ruth, you’re on in two minutes.”
Ruth nodded. She applied red lipstick and made her way to a backstage curtain. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. The can-can music stopped, the audience cheered, and dancers exited the stage.
“Good luck,” Lucette said, brushing past Ruth.
Ruth smiled.
As clapping faded, a barrel-chested emcee wearing a tuxedo and top hat walked onto the stage. “Mesdames et messieurs! I give you Bal Tabarin’s international, Franco-American songstress—Ruth Lacroix!”
The music conductor waved his baton, striking up the orchestra. The audience applauded and the emcee left the stage.
Ruth, her adrenaline surging, gracefully walked to a standing microphone. A scent of stale champagne and cigarette smoke filled her nose. Applause dwindled away and was replaced by a tender musical introduction, composed of a clarinet, xylophone, violin, and muted trumpet. She gazed over the crowd, most of whom were affluent, older men and women. The young men have gone to war, she thought, conjuring the mood of the piece. She drew a breath and sang the first verse of “J’attendrai” (“I will wait”).
The song, inspired by the Humming Chorus of Puccini’s opera Madame Butterfly, was a new addition to her repertoire. The lyrics of the piece depicted the yearning for a beloved to return home. Nearly every Parisian had a friend, darling, or family member who’d gone away to war, and Ruth—determined to give patrons hope of reuniting with loved ones—had convinced the show director to include the piece in her performance. As she progressed through the heartfelt lyrics, the faces of guests turned somber. Several women dabbed tears from their eyes with handkerchiefs. And as she finished the song, the crowd rose to their feet and applauded.
“Vive la France!” a man shouted.
Cheers erupted from the audience. The clapping grew louder.
A wave of pride surged through Ruth. She took a bow and left the stage.
Two hours later, after the dancers performed a patriotic finale in which they wore military-style uniforms with shiny metal helmets, the show ended with a standing ovation. The curtain closed and the dancers, as well as Ruth, made their way to the dressing room where they hung up their costumes, washed makeup from their faces, and changed into casual attire. Long after the patrons had left, Ruth and Lucette exited the Bal Tabarin to a dark Rue Victor-Massé with few pedestrians. The streetlights of Paris had been turned off as a measure against potential Luftwaffe air raids. Under a starlit sky, they walked together on the way to their apartments.
“I enjoyed your new song,” Lucette said, her shoes clicking over the sidewalk. “You lifted the spirit of the crowd.”
“Merci,” Ruth said.
“Pierre should allow you to sing it for each show until our men come home.”
Ruth smiled, feeling grateful for her friend’s kind words. She buttoned her coat and turned her thoughts to Lucette’s fiancé, who’d joined the French Army’s 503rd Combat Tank Regiment. “How’s Paul?”
“I received a letter from him yesterday,” Lucette said. “He’s well, and he informed me that there have been little, if any, skirmishes at the front. He thinks it’s because most of the German military is focused on combating Poland.”
Ruth felt horrible for the Polish people, struggling to survive Hitler’s onslaught.
“Paul believes that the Maginot Line will deter any invasion by Germany.”
“My uncle Julian told me the same thing,” Ruth said, envisioning the massive concrete fortification along the French border. “He thinks that it’s impenetrable to attack.”
Lucette slowed her pace and clasped her arms. “Some of the dancers say that the war isn’t real, and that it will all be settled soon. Even so, I can’t stop worrying about Paul.”
“I feel the same way about my cousin, Marceau.” Ruth placed a hand on Lucette’s shoulder. “We must have faith that the war will end, and they’ll come home.”
“Oui.” Lucette blinked her eyes, as if she were fighting back tears.
For the remainder of their walk, they discussed nothing of the war. They spoke in English, allowing Lucette to practice her excellent language skills, and they talked about Ruth’s offer, partly in jest, to give her singing lessons. Reaching the 4th arrondissement, the pair said goodbye. Lucette crossed the Pont d’Arcole bridge over the Seine River toward her apartment in the Latin Quarter, and Ruth continued her path through Le Marais.
Minutes later, Ruth entered a narrow, Lutetian limestone building next to a Jewish bakery. She climbed the stairs, the weathered floorboards creaking under her weight, to a third-floor landing. As she removed her key, her eyes were drawn to a glimmer of light from under the apartment door. They’re awake, Ruth thought, feeling excited to tell Aunt Colette and Uncle Julian about her performance. She entered the apartment, hung up her coat and purse, and then went to the kitchen and froze.
Colette and Julian—with red, swollen eyes and disheveled, gray hair—rose from their seats at the table.
Ruth swallowed. “What’s wrong?”
Tears fell from Colette’s cheeks. “Marceau is dead.”
Ruth stepped back. “Non—he can’t be!”
Julian’s lips quivered and he began to cry.
Colette, her hand trembling, pointed to a torn envelope and piece of paper on the table.
Ruth shuffled forward, and her breath stalled in her lungs as the words of the telegram came into focus.
It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has this day been received from the War Office notifying of the death of Corporal Marceau Bloch, 32nd Infantry Regiment, which occurred at the German town of Brenschelbach on 12th of September 1939, and I am to express to you the sympathy and regret of the Superior Council of War at your loss. The cause of death was killed in action.
Your obedient servant,
M. S. Toussaint
Officer in Charge of Infantry Records, No. 2 District
A wave of nausea rose from Ruth’s stomach, producing the urge to vomit. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she crumpled to the floor.
Colette and Julian kneeled and wrapped their arms around her. Ruth sobbed. Together, they wept until no more tears could be shed.
CHAPTER 2
