Ruth’s shoulders slumped. They fear being left behind more than the chance of being killed in an air raid.
Ruth and Jimmie left the shore and went to their abandoned cart, where they recovered Ruth’s bag and a few pieces of clothing that were strewn over the ground. The canteens and the last of their food had been pilfered, but Ruth held no resentment. She felt only pity for the hungry people, struggling to keep their strength until they could be rescued.
“Your hands and arms must be tired,” Jimmie said. “How about I carry your bag?”
An image of applying pressure to Lucette’s wound flashed in her brain, resurrecting a sense of dread, deep in the pit of her stomach. She flexed her hands, filled with ache, and gave her bag to him.
He took off his jacket and stashed it, along with his revolver and items from the pockets of his tunic, in the bag.
“What now?” she asked.
“It’ll be dark in an hour or so. We could get in line and wait until morning for the ships to arrive, but I think it will be safer to get away from the harbor. The Luftwaffe will likely continue raids on the evacuation point.”
Ruth nodded. “Let’s find a shelter away from the masses and return before daylight.”
Jimmie lifted the bag. “Lead the way.”
They left the harbor, made their way through the streets of Saint-Nazaire, and then walked along the shoreline, distancing themselves from the crowds. The sun began to set, and wind gusted in from the ocean, pushing their bodies as they slogged over a sandy dirt path. After twenty minutes of walking, they spotted an isolated fisherman’s shack, absent a boat and any sign of being inhabited.
Ruth knocked on the door and jostled a secured padlock. “Let’s see if there is another opening.”
He nodded.
They walked around to the rear of the shack and discovered a small window. Ruth placed her hands above her eyes and peeked inside. “There’s no one inside—only equipment,” she said, stepping back.
Jimmie, using his elbow, broke a pane of glass. He cleared away shards, undid the lock, and—with Ruth’s help—pried open the sash.
“Any chance you could give me a boost?” Ruth asked. “It’s a bit high for me to get through.”
Jimmie kneeled, and then lowered his back to prop himself on two knees and one hand.
Ruth carefully placed a foot between his shoulder blades, pushed upward, and crawled through the window. She got to her feet, her shoes crunching on broken glass, and faced him.
Jimmie handed her the bag and she helped him to climb inside.
The shack was dimly lit by one window, and the air smelled of old fish and wood. The space contained oars, tarps, a large mound of nets, a folded boat sail, and a pole with a steel hook that was hung above the door. In addition to fishing equipment, the place had a small table with three wood crates as stools, a cast-iron stove, and a weathered cabinet with drawers. On a side wall was a fish cleaning station with an assortment of fillet knives, shelves, and a sink with a corroded spigot.
Ruth approached the sink and turned the valve to the spigot, producing a rust-colored liquid. She waited for the sediment to clear, and then scrubbed away remnants of blood from her hands and fingernails until her skin felt raw. Afterward, she took in gulps of water, quenching her thirst and soothing a burn in her throat.
“The water tastes like iron,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirt, “but it’s drinkable.”
Jimmie lowered his head to the spigot and drank. He cupped water in his hand and splashed it on his face and neck, and then went to the table that held an oil lamp and a box of matches. He checked the fuel and lit a wick, casting a dull glow over the room.
Ruth rummaged through the cabinet and discovered hooks, rolls of string, and tools to mend fishing nets. Upon opening the third drawer, her eyes widened at the sight of three tins of mackerel, a metal twist can opener key, and a half-eaten jar of hazelnuts.
“Food,” she said, holding up a tin.
“Splendid.” Jimmie joined her to search the rest of the drawers and shelves. While inspecting the bottom of the cabinet, he discovered a dust-covered bottle of liquor. “What is Lambig?” he asked, reading the label.
“Bal Tabarin served it—I think it’s brandy made from cider.”
They placed the food and Lambig on the table and sat on crates. She opened the jar and poured nuts onto the table. She tossed one in her mouth and chewed, filling her mouth with a sweet, earthy flavor. “I never knew stale hazelnuts could taste so good.”
Jimmie smiled. He ate a handful of nuts, clamped the bottle of Lambig under his arm, and removed the cork.
Using the metal key, Ruth opened the tins of mackerel and slid one to Jimmie.
He plucked a filet with his fingers and took a bite. “It’s brilliant.”
Ruth chewed a piece of the mackerel, savoring the mild-flavored fish in rich olive oil. She finished off the tin and felt her energy begin to return.
Jimmie slid the bottle of Lambig to Ruth.
She sniffed the top. “Smells strong.”
“Want me to try it first?”
She shook her head and sipped a bit of the brandy, which tasted more like whisky spiced with vanilla. A warmth drifted down her throat and settled into her stomach. She passed the bottle to Jimmie, who took a swig.
For several minutes, they remained silent as they ate their food under the glow of lamplight. Night set in but the sound of guns, coming from many kilometers away, continued to echo over the coast.
“Do you think they’re okay?” Ruth asked, breaking the silence.
“Yes,” he said. “The hospital ship reached the Atlantic, and we didn’t see any Luftwaffe squadrons flying overhead after their departure. I think they’re safe.”
She picked at a piece of hazelnut. “I’m worried about Lucette.”
“Me too,” he said. “I’m sure she’s receiving good medical care.”
