The Room on Rue Amélie(18)
“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?”