The Room on Rue Amélie

by Kristin Harmel

  CHAPTER TEN

  April 1941

  Marcel didn’t come home the night of the stillbirth or the next. Ruby couldn’t get out of bed; she knew she would never forgive herself for not protecting her child, though the Dachers’ kindly doctor friend had told her she wasn’t to blame, that these things sometimes simply happen for no reason at all.

  Charlotte checked on her thrice a day, each time bringing food, which Ruby had no appetite for. “You mustn’t worry, Ruby,” Charlotte said on the second night, when she delivered a watery soup of potatoes and beef. “You will have another baby one day. I know you will.”

  And though Ruby nodded and tried to smile, her heart was breaking. She knew with a dull certainty that there would be no more babies. She’d been deluding herself into thinking that a child would have fixed what was broken in her marriage. Even if Marcel was working for a good cause, he had abandoned her long ago.

  On the third night, Marcel came home just before midnight and found Ruby propped up on pillows on the living room sofa, staring at the wall. “What are you doing awake?” he asked.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, instead of replying.

  “I had work to do. I told you, Ruby, this isn’t something I can talk about.”

  “Were you out with your British friend? Feeling that you were making some sort of difference in this goddamned war?”

  He looked startled. “I am making a difference, Ruby. What are you going on about?”

  She stared at him for a long time. What had she seen in him when their eyes first met across that café in New York? What had made her so sure that he was worth giving up her life for? She could hardly remember anymore. “I lost the baby,” she said.

  “What?” But she knew he had heard her, for there was suddenly a storm of emotions playing out across his face. Sadness. Surprise. Guilt. “Well. I’m very sorry,” he said finally.

  “Are you?”

  “Ruby, maybe it’s for the best.”

  “The best?” He might as well have ripped her heart out with his bare hands. “Our child is dead, Marcel.”

  “A baby is a liability in times like this.”

  “A liability? You believe he would have been a liability?”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “The baby was a boy?”

  “He looked just like you,” she whispered. And then, before he could say anything else, she stood, cradling her empty belly, and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She knew he wouldn’t follow, even if a small part of her hoped he would. A few moments later, the front door of the apartment opened and closed. He was gone.

  AS SPRING ROLLED INTO SUMMER, and the baby’s due date came and went without anyone remembering but Ruby, Marcel became more elusive, more absent, and Ruby found herself worrying less and less about him. Was it because she didn’t care anymore, or because she knew he’d always resurface eventually?

  And while she resented the fact that he wouldn’t give her the chance to understand what he was doing, she felt proud of him on some level. He was doing something to help, but what for? Nothing seemed to loosen the Nazis’ stranglehold on the city, and people were being executed now for crimes as small as distributing anti-Nazi newsletters. Was that the kind of work Marcel was doing?

  Paris had gone dark, even in the midst of a vibrant summer. Electricity had become unreliable—most nights, the city was lit only by moonlight. With so many Parisians still in the countryside, and the ones who stayed muzzled by uncertainty and fear, the quiet felt strange and sinister. Police sirens wailed more loudly than usual, and every time the growl of an airplane engine materialized in the distance, people tensed, ready for the worst.

  In late July, Ruby finally received a letter from her mother, dated mid-May. Dearest Ruby, it said in neat, familiar script.

  Your father and I are fine. We’ve received your letters and gather that ours aren’t making it to you. We are trying again, in hopes that one of our messages will get through. We’re overjoyed to hear that you are having a baby, and we implore you again to consider coming home—if not for your own safety, then for your child’s. We’ve spoken with our congressman’s office, and they might be able to arrange safe passage for you. The news reports from Europe are terrifying, sweetheart. I’m sure Marcel would not only understand, but would agree that this decision is for the best. Perhaps he can even come with you! Please keep writing, and we will do the same. We know we will see you—and our grandchild—very soon. Your father sends his love.

  Ruby folded the note carefully and slipped it back into the envelope, marveling that it had reached her at all. She didn’t realize until her address smeared that she was crying. Her parents were expecting her to come home—and to bring her baby with her. Receiving this letter now, months after it had been sent, was like a window to a past that she could never get back. There was no baby anymore, no chance for escape. Getting out of Paris would take an act of God, and Ruby had begun to wonder if He, like the French government, had deserted the city.

  Ruby dutifully wrote back, telling her mother about the loss of the baby. She sobbed as she wrote, once again seeing her son’s tiny, silent body, feeling the chill of him deep in her heart. She knew she wouldn’t be returning to the States, not while the war still raged, and she told her mother this. Each time she thought of boarding a ship back to America, she thought of the Dachers, and especially Charlotte. Abandoning them now, when they’d been there for her in her greatest hour of need, felt unthinkable.

  Ruby posted the letter and spent the rest of the day wandering the city with no real purpose in mind. It was self-destructive, she knew. If a Nazi soldier questioned her, she wouldn’t be able to explain where she was going, for the truth was, she was going nowhere. She should have been one of the mothers pushing a pram occupied by a cooing infant. Instead, she was alone and as empty as she’d ever been in her life.

  Paris was still Paris, with the lovely flowers of summer and the fresh, sun-drenched air. But the city was a shadow of its former self, and the blossoms and scents that had once been a comfort seemed merely like window dressing. Ruby, too, had become a shadow of the person she used to be. How had she ever giggled with her friends in a dormitory room, swooned over Clark Gable on the big screen, agonized about which dress she’d wear to a party? Now, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed; she hadn’t seen a movie in years; she wouldn’t know how to behave at a social event if she somehow found herself at one.

  “You seem very sad,” Charlotte said that evening when she appeared at Ruby’s door to invite her over for coffee. One of her father’s former customers had managed to get his hands on some real coffee beans, an incredible treat.

  “Oh, I’m all right,” Ruby reassured her. “But you’re very kind to worry, Charlotte.”

  “You know,” the girl said after a moment, “things are never quite as dark as they seem.”

  Ruby smiled. “Is that right?”

  Charlotte nodded confidently. “You see, when you look back on things later in life, it’s sometimes easier to see the purpose. So perhaps for now, it’s best to try your hardest to focus on what lies ahead. The future is still something that can be changed, isn’t it?”

  “It seems to me that that’s very good advice,” Ruby said, her eyes damp. “Thank you.”

  Charlotte looked pleased. “So you will come for coffee? There’s something my parents would like to discuss with you.”

  Curious, Ruby followed Charlotte next door to their corner apartment, where she found Madame and Monsieur Dacher at their table, a beautiful silver coffeepot and three ornate china cups before them. “We had hoped you would join us,” Madame Dacher said, rising to kiss Ruby on both cheeks. “We wanted to share this with you.”

  “How very kind.” As Ruby sat down, Monsieur Dacher began to pour. The heavenly aroma of coffee, so familiar yet so foreign these days, seemed to wrap the room in warmth.

  Madame Dacher emerged from the kitchen a moment later with cho
colates and a small bowl of sugar. “Charlotte, dear, go get ready for bed.”

  “But I’d like some coffee too! And I’d like to visit with Madame Benoit.”

  “We need to have a grown-up conversation,” Madame Dacher said firmly. “Please, my dear. You can visit with her tomorrow.”

  “I’m not a child anymore, you know.” But Charlotte said a terse good night to Ruby and her parents and headed toward the back of the apartment.

  “There is a favor we would like to ask you,” Monsieur Dacher said after all three of them had taken a first sip of coffee and delighted in how wonderful it tasted.

  “Yes, anything.”

  “After this summer, we think that perhaps Charlotte will not return to school. There are—” Monsieur Dacher paused and began again. “There are circumstances that make it difficult now.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Ruby said. The words were woefully inadequate.

  “We are sorry too.” Madame Dacher took over, glancing at her husband. “This is not the France we knew.”

  Ruby nodded, and the three of them shared a moment of silent understanding before Madame Dacher went on. “I will take over her schooling here at home. But we would like for her to learn English, and we were wondering whether we might impose upon you to help.”

  “Of course!” Ruby responded immediately. Not only did she owe the Dachers a debt, but she would actually enjoy the opportunity to spend more time with the girl.

  “We feel that it will be an important language for her to know in the future,” Madame Dacher continued.

  “Britain will help us win this war,” Monsieur Dacher added. “And we would like to know that Charlotte’s future might include working with them.”

  “Also,” Madame Dacher said, locking eyes with her husband, “we do not know what this war will bring for Jews. There are terrible rumors of things happening in the east.”

  The Dachers exchanged looks. “As you may know, Sarah is from Poland,” Monsieur Dacher said. “She came to France as a small child with her parents, but she still has many family members who, until recently, were living near Krakow. We do not know what has become of them. As for me, my father is French, but my mother is from Poland too, and in fact, I was born there when she was on a journey to visit her parents.”

  “I assumed you were both born in France.”

  Monsieur Dacher shook his head. “Some of the reports from Poland in the last months . . .” He trailed off.

  “The Germans are sending Jews to work camps,” Madame Dacher said bluntly, her gaze far away. “And there are rumors that some of them are dying.”

  “But you see, it’s impossible to know the truth, because things are often greatly exaggerated,” Monsieur Dacher said quickly. “In any case, we feel strongly that such a thing would never happen here. The French will not turn on their own. We must endure the restrictions that have been placed upon us, but we will survive this.”

  “Still, we feel that Charlotte knowing English will give her an advantage, whatever the future should bring,” Madame Dacher said. When she looked up, Ruby could see in her eyes that she didn’t share her husband’s optimism.

  The coffee on the table between them was going cold, but Ruby was no longer thinking of what a rare treat it was. What must it be like to fear for your child’s future this way? She had been powerless to protect her own child, but she could be there for Charlotte if it came to that. And that was something.

  There were a thousand things Ruby wanted to say, a hundred promises she wanted to make. But the Dachers were proud, and Ruby knew they weren’t looking for platitudes. They were looking for hope. “It would be my pleasure to help Charlotte learn English,” she said. “When shall we begin?”

  BY MID-AUGUST, THE HEAT WAS sweltering, and the air in Paris seemed strangely still, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Ruby had been working with Charlotte for three weeks, meeting with her every Thursday afternoon. Ruby had never taught a language before, but she had begun to study French when she was just a bit younger than Charlotte was now, so she tried to remember how she had learned. Small words first, the kind you’d teach a young child, followed by pronouns and basic verb conjugations. English seemed more difficult than French, for it drew from so many different languages, but Ruby found Charlotte an apt pupil.

  “Do you miss Monsieur Benoit?” Charlotte asked late one afternoon as their lesson was concluding. Ruby had taught her the numbers that day, all the way up to one hundred, and Charlotte had managed to conjugate a few simple verbs.

  “Miss him?” Ruby was puzzled. “He hasn’t gone anywhere.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I only mean that he’s often away. I wonder if it’s hard for you being alone.”

  Ruby took a deep breath. Charlotte didn’t miss a thing. “In truth, I think it is easier to be by myself than to be with someone who doesn’t seem to trust me.”

  She worried that it was the wrong thing to say to a child, but Charlotte nodded in immediate understanding. “You wish he would not keep secrets from you.”

  Ruby blinked. “Yes.”

  “I wish that too.”

  Later, after Charlotte had gone, Ruby was left wondering what the girl had meant. How had she guessed that Marcel was keeping secrets?

  Marcel surprised Ruby by arriving home at six that evening, toting a fresh chicken wrapped in newspaper. “I’ve brought dinner,” he said.

  “But where did you get it?” Certainly this wasn’t the sort of thing that was easy to come by anymore. Her mouth watered, but she could also feel her stomach twisting with concern.

  He frowned. “Does it matter? I’ve done nothing wrong, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I had hoped you would be as excited as I am about the prospect of a good meal.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Marcel studied her for a minute, then seemed to deflate. “No, I suppose I don’t blame you.”

  He walked into the bedroom without another word, and Ruby began to prepare the chicken to roast. She would use the carcass for broth later and would share some soup with the Dachers.

  She had just slid the chicken into the oven when Marcel reappeared in the kitchen, his tie gone and his shirt loosened at the collar. He looked more relaxed than she’d seen him in months. Handsome, even. “It smells wonderful in here,” he said.

  “Thank you for bringing the chicken.” She felt oddly formal with him, like he was a guest in her home.

  “Thank you for cooking it.” He was being just as proper with her. They had become strangers. “You’ve been well?”

  She nodded and moved across the kitchen to uncork one of the two dozen remaining bottles of wine they had. Marcel had kept a small collection before the war. She poured a glass for him and one for her, and they toasted. “To peace,” she said.

  “To victory.” His reply was immediate. “Peace without victory means nothing.”

  She nodded and turned away, sure he was scolding her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean that as a criticism. I—Sometimes things come out wrong.”

  “It’s all right.” She was surprised to realize she meant it.

  “And I’m sorry, too, about the baby, Ruby. I really am.” The words hung between them, and he waited until she looked up before continuing. “I feel very sorry that he died. You needed me, and I wasn’t there for you. I haven’t been there for you much at all, in fact. But things will be different soon. I promise.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be able to tell me what’s going on? Maybe let me help?”

  His smile faded. “We’ve discussed this, Ruby. It would put you in danger.” He raised his glass again. “But I want to become once again the man you married. I will, Ruby. I will.”

  They toasted, looking into each other’s eyes. And for a long time afterward, as she sipped her wine, Ruby could see the hazy possibility of a different future.

  MARCEL LEFT AFTER DINNER, THANKING Ruby politely for the meal and promising to be back soon.

 
; Two hours later, Ruby had delivered some soup to the Dachers and was just finishing scrubbing dishes when there was a knock at the door, so tentative that at first she wondered if she’d imagined it. But then she heard it again, stronger this time. Ruby’s eyes went to the clock. It was past curfew. A chill ran down her spine as she considered the possibility that it was a Nazi soldier, here to arrest Marcel for whatever he was doing. But when she peered out the peephole, it wasn’t a German uniform she saw; it was what appeared to be a greenish-gray jumpsuit. And the man wearing it—dark blond hair, six feet tall or so—was bent down on one knee in the hall, breathing heavily.

  Ruby backed away from the door, puzzled. A moment later, he knocked again, and when she didn’t answer, there was a pause, and then she heard a series of strange noises from the hall. It took her a few seconds to recognize the sounds as sobs. The man began to mumble to himself, and she inched closer to the door, hoping she could catch a few words. She nearly fell back when she realized he wasn’t speaking French or even German. He was speaking English. “Have to get to . . .” he was muttering. “They said it was here . . .”

  Before she could second-guess herself, she pulled the door open. The man nearly lost his balance, tripping into her apartment before scrambling to his feet and backing away. “Oh, I’m so sorry, miss. I’m sorry. I mean, er, Je suis déso . . .” He trailed off, apparently unable to remember the final syllable in the French apology. “I’m, um, just really sorry, miss. I don’t speak much French.”

  “Who are you?” she asked in English, which seemed to startle him.

  “You—you speak English? Oh, thank heavens. Dexter. My name is Dexter. And, um, forgive me, but I’ve been walking for two days, and I haven’t had anything to eat at all, and I’m afraid that the small wound I have on my shoulder has perhaps gotten a bit infected, so—”

  “You’re British?”

  He nodded again. “And you? You’re not French, are you?”