I fled France for England, and I am safe. Colette and Julian remained in Paris to care for patients at Saint-Antoine Hospital. I will write you a letter soon. I love and miss you, more than you will ever know.
Ruth
Ruth handed the pencil and postcard to the woman. “I was separated from my friends during the evacuation. Do you know how I would go about trying to locate them?”
The woman pointed to a gray-haired woman with a clipboard. “Talk to Ivy. She’s in charge of the women who are working to track down civilians and military service members.”
“Thank you,” Ruth said.
She left her spot and met with the woman named Ivy, who took down information on Lucette and Aline.
“They came in on a hospital ship,” Ruth said.
Ivy nodded and adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Is there anyone else?”
“Yes,” Ruth said, her heart breaking. “Flying Officer Jimmie Quill of the Seventy-Three Squadron RAF.” Ruth glanced at the navy officers on the gangway and folded her arms.
Ivy scribbled on her clipboard. She took out a piece of paper, wrote down information for the Red Cross, and gave it to Ruth. “We don’t know where you will be, so you’ll need to check in with us. The list of people who are trying to reunite with others is quite long. Inquire in a week or two. In the meantime, I suggest checking the hospitals and docks in Plymouth, Southampton, and Falmouth—where most of the evacuees came into port.”
“Thank you.”
“Take care,” Ivy said.
Along the dock, military evacuees gave three cheers to the trawler’s crew, and Ruth joined a group of female evacuees who were led by a Salvation Army woman to a nearby naval barracks. Inside, they were taken to a communal shower room with galvanized metal wash tubs. The women were instructed to undress, place their ruined clothing in a wheelbarrow, and bathe. Ruth unbuttoned her tunic and removed Piglet, stained with oil, from a pocket. It was her only possession that survived the sea, mainly due to the protection of her life jacket, which had covered the pocket and pressed securely around her torso. She blinked away tears, removed her clothing, and stood in a tub with calf-deep, lukewarm water.
She scrubbed, using laundry detergent flakes and a bath brush, until her skin turned raw. Even after washing her hair several times, it remained oily and smelled of petroleum. She replaced the water and bathed again, and again. Using a palmful of detergent, she carefully laundered Piglet but stopped short of removing all the black stains when a seam on his back began to tear. Rather than risk further damage, she rinsed him in a washbowl and squeezed out excess water.
The women dried with towels and were taken to a room with piles of old undergarments, clothing, and shoes. Ruth, her hair damp and tangled, picked out pieces and got dressed. The blue housedress with pockets was several sizes too big, and one of her shoes had a hole in the sole, but she was grateful to wear anything that didn’t stink of oil. As the women exited the barracks, they were given a bit of money for a train ticket, and were told that they could sleep the night in a shelter, a ten-minute walk away.
Most of the women opted to go to the shelter or train station, but Ruth returned to the port. She sat near the harbor and watched a rescue vessel, packed with survivors of the Lancastria, pull into the dock. One by one, the evacuees disembarked through the naval officers who were giving orders of silence. Refusing to give up hope, she scanned the passengers for Jimmie until everyone had left the gangway.
When the sun began to set, and no more vessels could be seen approaching the port, Ruth left the dock. She spoke with a Red Cross volunteer, who gave her directions to Prince of Wales Hospital. Thirty minutes later, she arrived at a large stone building on Chapel Street and entered a waiting room that was packed with people. She waited in line and gradually worked her way forward to speak with a woman at a front desk.
“May I help you?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” Ruth said. “I’m looking for two French evacuees—a woman ambulance driver and a nine-year-old girl.”
“Names.”
Ruth gave her the information.
The woman thumbed through an admissions list and shook her head.
Ruth slumped her shoulders. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Are you certain they came to Plymouth?”
“No. They were on a hospital ship that should have arrived in England yesterday.”
“Try Plymouth City Hospital.”
“Where is it located?”
“Other side of town.” The woman wrote down directions on a piece of paper and gave it to her. “If they’re not there, try the hospitals in Southampton and Falmouth. I overheard an ambulance driver say that lots of civilian refugees disembarked in Falmouth.”
“Thank you.”
Ruth exited the building and walked through the dark streets of Plymouth, its citizens abiding by blackout rules, much like the people of Paris. An hour later, she entered Plymouth City Hospital, an old three-story Victorian brick building. Although the medical center was smaller and older than the last hospital, it was far more congested. The waiting area was filled, elbow to elbow, with people searching for loved ones, and the main corridor was lined with patients on gurneys.
They’ve run out of rooms, Ruth thought, getting in line to speak with an attendant.
After forty minutes of waiting in line, Ruth reached a window counter with a gray-haired woman wearing a nurse uniform and cap. She provided information on Lucette and Aline, and gripped the edge of the counter as the woman searched through a registry.
“Lucette is here,” the woman said, looking at Ruth.
“Thank goodness,” Ruth said, feeling relieved. “What about Aline?”
“There’s no one here by that name.”
“Could you check again. Her last name is Cadieux.”
The woman sighed and thumbed through her records. “Like I said—she’s not here.”
Ruth folded her arms. “May I see Lucette.”
“Visiting hours are over. You can come back at nine tomorrow morning.”
“Could you tell me her room number?”
