Chamberlain took a sip of tea. “I received word that US President Roosevelt has been in communication with you,” he said, as if eager to change the conversation.
“A congratulatory note on my appointment to First Lord of the Admiralty,” Churchill said, “and to share his willingness to personally keep in touch.”
Chamberlain lightly tapped the rim of his cup.
“An escalation of war is unavoidable,” Churchill said, leaning forward in his chair.
“I will continue to pursue tactics of diplomacy,” Chamberlain said firmly. “In the meantime, I trust that you’ll have the Royal Navy ready to be called upon, if needed.”
“Of course, Prime Minister.”
Chamberlain looked at him. “It’s difficult not to like you, Winston, despite that you’re usually mistaken and quite difficult to deal with.”
Churchill, maintaining his composure, tamped out his cigar.
“I expect that you’ll refrain from sending me more garrulous letters.” Chamberlain refilled his cup with milk and tea. “That will be all. Good day, Winston.”
Churchill stood and left the Cabinet Room. As he exited 10 Downing Street, determination burned inside his chest. He quickened his pace and made mental notes on war strategy to include in his next correspondence to the prime minister.
CHAPTER 4
PARIS, FRANCE—SEPTEMBER 21, 1939
There was no burial service for Ruth’s cousin, Marceau. His body was not returned from the front, and the French Army provided no further explanation on how he perished. Newspapers reported that a French invasion of Saarland, Germany, had taken place during the week of September 7th but gave few details on the military offensive. Two days earlier, Ruth’s aunt Colette and uncle Julian received a handwritten letter from a soldier named Léon, who had befriended Marceau. He informed them that Marceau fought valiantly and was among nine men of the 32nd Infantry Regiment who were killed during the siege of the German town of Brenschelbach. Although Léon’s letter was brief and nondescript concerning Marceau’s death, he did say that his regiment was ordered to retreat from the heavily mined German territory, and that he deeply regretted not being able to return Marceau to France.
Ruth had grieved with Aunt Colette and Uncle Julian for shiva, the Jewish seven-day mourning period. Neighbors and members of their synagogue congregated in the apartment to console them, and Ruth’s friend Lucette—a non-practicing Catholic—stayed with them throughout each day, until she had to go to work at Bal Tabarin. Ruth was grateful for the comfort of her family and Lucette, but the week of mourning did little to relieve her sorrow.
After shiva was over, Ruth reluctantly dressed for her first day back to work from taking a bereavement leave from Bal Tabarin. She left her room and paused in the hallway near Marceau’s closed bedroom door. An image of a land mine explosion flashed in her head, tears welled up in her eyes, and she prayed that Marceau did not suffer.
A door lock clicked and Colette and Julian, who’d finished their shift at the hospital, entered the apartment and hung up their coats.
Ruth wiped her eyes and gathered her composure.
“Bonjour,” Julian said.
Ruth forced a smile. “How was work?”
“Bien,” he said.
Colette approached Ruth. She looked into her eyes and gently placed a hand to Ruth’s cheek. “I cried today, too.”
“I miss him,” Ruth said.
Colette hugged her. “Me too.”
Julian wrapped his arms around his wife and Ruth. He held them tight and gradually relaxed his embrace.
Ruth slipped away. “May I make you coffee before I leave for work?”
“Oui,” Colette said. “I’d like that very much.”
Colette and Julian sat at the kitchen table while Ruth lit the stove and prepared a pot of coffee.
“Have you eaten?” Ruth asked, retrieving cups.
“Non,” Julian said.
“I’ll prepare something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” Colette said.
“The coffee will sit better in your stomach if you have some food,” Ruth said. Her aunt had consumed little nourishment in the past several days, and she’d lost weight. Her dress hung loosely over her thin frame, and her once silky gray hair had begun to turn dry and brittle.
Julian clasped his wife’s hand. “A meal will be good for us.”
Colette squeezed his fingers. “I’ll try to eat.”
Ruth sliced the remains of a two-day-old baguette and slathered it with a bit of apricot jam to hide the bread’s staleness. She served cups of steaming coffee and placed the plate of baguette slices in the center of the table.
Julian took a sip. “Merci. Your coffee always tastes better than mine.”
Ruth nodded, feeling grateful for her uncle’s efforts to make her feel special and distract them from their grief. She sipped her coffee, hot and bitter, and looked at her aunt and uncle. The wrinkles on their faces appeared deeper, as if the passing of days since Marceau’s death had accelerated the aging process.
“Your maman sent me another telegram,” Colette said, picking at a piece of bread.
“I’m glad,” Ruth said.
“She wishes that she and your dad could be here.”
