“Britain has no intention of releasing France from our agreement,” Churchill said. “When our countries declared war, we pledged that we would not seek separate peace agreements.”
“But we are defeated,” Reynaud said, his voice sounding desperate. “We can do no more. We’ve given everything—our soldiers—our people—our blood.”
“I understand and sympathize with France’s predicament,” Churchill said. “We have no intention to pursue recriminations, however, Britain is not prepared to release France from its promise not to make a separate agreement with Germany.” He looked into Reynaud’s eyes, filled with defeat. “Britain will wage war until we are victorious.”
Reynaud took out a cigarette but made no effort to light it. “Perhaps this is an appropriate time for us to take a brief recess to reflect on the matters we’ve discussed.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes.”
The French and British delegations rose from their chairs, and Churchill and his military advisors adjourned to a garden. While their group walked the flower-covered grounds, a fervid argument between Reynaud and his military staff emanated from the building.
“It sounds like they are not unified in their position to surrender,” General Ismay said, walking beside the prime minister.
Churchill glanced at a hotel window. “Perhaps the generals are displeased with Reynaud for failing to convince us to agree to their request for an armistice.”
“Either way,” Ismay said, “I think our work is done here for today. Regardless of what you say, they will remain intent on pursuing negotiations with Hitler. We must be prepared for France to seek an agreement with, or without, our mutual consent.”
Churchill paused, contemplating his chief military advisor’s recommendation. In the last war, our soldiers fought valiantly—side by side in the muddy trenches—to defeat the enemy. Even in the darkest times of the conflict, our countries remained united while forging ahead toward victory. A deep disappointment and regret festered in his heart. He turned to Ismay and nodded.
Churchill and his group meandered through a labyrinth of rosebushes, until the robust arguments amongst their French counterparts subsided. Upon returning to the dining room, Churchill briefly reiterated his position, promised to keep Reynaud informed on any response from US President Roosevelt, and bid them farewell.
They returned to the airfield and got into their plane. The engines grumbled to life and the buzz of propellers filled the cabin. An angst grew inside Churchill and he looked at Ismay, seated next to him.
“We must prepare for the fate of the French fleet,” Churchill said. “We cannot allow a single vessel to fall into the hands of Germany, even if we must sink them ourselves.”
Ismay’s face turned somber, and he smoothed his neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper mustache. “I concur.”
The plane rumbled down a runway, passed within several meters of a bomb crater, and flew sharply into the air. Soon, the aircraft reached cruising altitude and leveled off. Churchill lit a cigar and puffed on the tip, taking smoke into his lungs. He peered through a window at the verdant terrain, thousands of feet below the plane. He analyzed the discussions of the meeting in his brain, unaware that it would be four years until he would again set foot on French soil.
CHAPTER 36
SAVENAY, FRANCE—JUNE 16, 1940
Shortly before sunrise, Ruth was awakened by the squeak of door hinges. She sat up, rubbed sleep from her eyes, and scanned the interior of a barn. Twilight, coming from gaps in the wood siding, dimly illuminated the space with dozens of refugees who were asleep on the ground. A few inches away, Jimmie was slumbering with his head on his bundled flight jacket. On the opposite side of Ruth was an empty space next to Lucette, whose diaphragm slowly rose and fell as she slept. Where’s Aline?
Ruth drew a deep breath, bringing in recycled air that smelled of old manure, earth, and sweat. She carefully stood—her legs achy and stiff—and navigated her way through the barn by stepping over people who were curled on blankets and mounds of straw. Outside, a predawn chorus of chirping sparrows decorated a row of birch trees. She walked a short distance and spotted Aline at a stone well. A wrought-iron wheel grinded as she reeled in rope that was threaded through a pulley. Tension eased from Ruth’s shoulders.
“You’re up early,” Ruth said, approaching her.
Aline turned. “I thought I would fill our canteens before the crowds set in.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Non.”
Ruth helped her to raise the rope, attached to a wooden bucket.
Aline submerged an open canteen into the water-filled bucket and paused, watching bubbles stream to the surface. She filled three canteens, screwed on the caps, and placed them next to the well.
Ruth glanced at the barn. “Everyone is still asleep. Rather than risk waking them, how about we rest here for a bit?”
Aline nodded. She sat, leaning her back against the well.
Ruth sat beside her and wrapped her arms around her skirt-covered knees. She looked at Aline, her hair tangled and her eyes surrounded in dark circles. “You could use a little more rest. How about taking a nap before we get on the road.”
“I don’t want to sleep.”
“Did you have another bad dream?”
“Oui.”
“I’m sorry,” Ruth said.
Aline plucked a blade of dry grass and held it between her fingers. “I miss him.”
“Me too.”
They’d buried Pierre in a cemetery in Vaiges. Several refugees, who were traveling through the village, had helped them with digging and filling the grave with the use of a shovel they’d found in a groundskeeper’s shed. With no rabbi to perform a service, Ruth presided over an ad hoc ceremony where she, Aline, Lucette, and Jimmie took turns saying a few words about Pierre and what he meant to them. With tear-filled eyes, they placed handfuls of wildflowers over his plot and left the cemetery. For Aline, there was no sitting shiva to provide her with emotional healing. Her time to grieve was stolen by the Luftwaffe, whose air raids continued to drive them and millions of refugees across the French countryside.
For the past three days, they carried their sorrow while making their way toward the coast. Initially, Aline barely spoke and she refused to eat. At water breaks, Ruth and the others prodded her to consume the little amount of food that remained in their bags. As the days passed, Aline gradually began to talk about her grandpapa, as if the arduous trek had jolted open a door between her head and heart.
“I loved him so much,” Aline had sobbed, standing at a roadside.
Hundreds of refugees had passed them by while Ruth, Jimmie, and Lucette consoled Aline. But the girl’s tears were cut short by a drone of German aircraft, flying high over the area, which compelled the group to gather their bags and carry on their journey.
In addition to Aline’s heartbreak, Ruth was saddened and tormented by Pierre’s death. The time on the road allowed her to ponder if there was anything she could have done to change the course of events. If I had convinced him to stay in Paris with my family, he might still be alive. I should have made him stop more often to rest. Why didn’t I try to get an extra supply of medicine from Uncle Julian? But most of all, she questioned her resuscitation technique, the Holger Nielsen method, which she and Lucette had learned by observing medics at the front. She wondered, most often at night when the others were asleep, if her timing of compressions had been off, or if she’d performed the arm lifts incorrectly. Ruth had administered first aid under the most horrible of circumstances, but it was different with Pierre. Unlike the injured soldiers whom she didn’t know, Pierre had become a dear friend whom she considered to be like family.
“Your grandpapa adored you,” Ruth said, leaning her back against the well. “He was so proud of you.”
“Merci.” Aline fiddled with her blade of grass, then tied it into a knot and dropped it on the ground. “How long do people hurt when someone they love dies?”
