A wave of anger surged through Ruth.
“The hospital has run out of rooms,” Colette said. “We’re putting patients on gurneys in the hallways.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Colette placed a hand to her cheek. “You’ve done your part. Go home and rest.”
“What about you?”
“I have more to do,” Colette said, slipping her hand away. “Julian is still in surgery. We should be home by morning, assuming there is not another attack.”
“Maybe I could do something to help,” Ruth said. “I know how to apply bandages and—”
“Non. You’ve done enough.”
A child’s cry grew from a hallway.
“I need to go.” Colette touched a hand to her lips and darted away.
Ruth reluctantly left the hospital. Outside, the streets were dark due to the blackout rules. Some refugees continued their southward journey through the city, while others, mostly the elderly and young women with babies, camped in cemeteries and parks for the night. As she continued her walk, visions of injured children on gurneys echoed in her head. An image of a crushed man pulled from rubble flashed in her mind. A profound feeling of sadness twisted inside her, and she wished she had the means to save them all.
CHAPTER 31
PARIS, FRANCE—JUNE 4, 1940
Ruth reached the apartment building, its windows covered with heavy curtains to prevent the escape of light. She entered the front door to a silent foyer. No radios. No creaks of floorboards. No voices drifting from apartments. To Ruth, it was as if the residents were either asleep or had fled the city, or a combination of both. She climbed the stairs using the handrails to ease the weight on her leg muscles, tired and riddled with ache. At the landing, she reached into her uniform jacket and searched for the key. Before she could find it, a lock clicked and the door swung open. Ruth looked up, and her breath stalled in her chest at the sight of Jimmie. She shot forward and wrapped her arms around him.
“You’re still here,” she said.
“I couldn’t leave.” Jimmie, using his good arm, held her tight. “Are you all right?”
I am now. She released him and nodded. “Why didn’t you go?”
“I needed to speak with you.” He helped her inside and shut the door.
“What about?”
Jimmie looked at Ruth, her face smeared with soot and her clothes soiled. “It can wait. Let’s take care of you first. How about some food and rest?”
“I don’t think I can eat anything,” she said, “but I need something to drink.”
They went to the kitchen and Jimmie, using one hand, poured her a glass of water from a faucet and handed it to her.
She gulped water, soothing a dry burn in her throat. “Where are Pierre and Aline?” she asked, setting down her glass.
“They’re asleep in their room.”
“How are they?”
“Well,” he said. “The rest has given Pierre renewed energy, and Aline’s spirit is better. She’s quite a resilient girl.”
Ruth, feeling relieved, drained her water. She refilled the glass and gulped it down. “Sorry. I’m a little dehydrated.”
“It’s all right. I’m happy you’re safe.”
“You too.” She turned to him. “How’s the arm?”
He smoothed a hand over his sling. “Getting better each day.”
“I’m glad.” She set her glass on the counter. “I’m going to wash and change, and then I want you to tell me why you’re still here.”
He nodded.
Ruth went to the washroom and filled the bathtub. Using a greenish-hued chunk of Marseille soap, she washed her hair and scrubbed away the dirt embedded in her skin and under her nails. The water turned brown, so she refilled the tub and bathed a second time. She brushed tangles from her towel-dried hair, and she put on an old gray skirt and white blouse that she hadn’t used since she joined the ambulance corps. She looked at her reflection in a mirror above the washbasin and saw a stranger. Dark circles surrounded her eyes. She’d lost a good deal of weight, and her cheeks were sunken and her clavicles protruded from the neckline of her blouse. I look awful, she thought, but her self-pity was soon erased by a wave of sorrow. I’m alive, unlike so many Parisians who perished in the bombing raid. She shook away her thoughts and left the washroom.
Ruth entered the kitchen to the aroma of brewed coffee. “Smells good.”
“Have a seat,” Jimmie said, placing a steaming cup on the table. “I must warn you, I guessed at the measurements. I’m more skilled at preparing tea.”
“Merci.” She took a drink, savoring the coffee’s warm bitterness.
He sat next to her.
She turned her chair to face him. “Okay. Tell me why you’re still here.”
Jimmie paused, adjusting his sling. He leaned forward and, for several minutes, he told her about what he’d learned from the embassy interpreter—the troops that were evacuated across the Channel, the lack of Allied forces to protect Paris, and the speculation that naval operations were being planned to save military personnel who didn’t make it out of Dunkirk.
The color drained from Ruth’s face. “Are you sure about this?”
