The Room on Rue Amélie(83)

“No,” Ruby said firmly. “We have the perfect setup here with Monsieur Savatier looking out for us and with the hidden closet in my bedroom wall. We just need to hang on a little longer, and the Allies will be here. We’re nearly at the end. I can feel it.”

Within a few weeks, Ruby was escorting pilots on foot to the Montparnasse station. Though it put her out in the open, it just made sense now that Laure was unavailable; it lessened the traffic in and out of her apartment, nearly eliminated her contact with others on the escape line, and allowed her to see the pilots safely off on the next step of their journey.

In fact, Ruby wondered why she hadn’t started doing this sooner. Fewer people involved in the line meant fewer chances for something to go wrong. And now that the threat of Allied invasion was looming, the German troops in Paris seemed distracted anyhow. Surely they wouldn’t notice a woman who was simply out for a stroll on a spring afternoon.

Her charge the second week of April was an American pilot named Christopher. He had graduated from the University of Florida before joining the Army, and he was as clever as he was friendly. When he’d first shown up at her door, two days earlier, Ruby had assumed that he was French, because he had somehow managed to acquire a set of worn clothes that fit perfectly, as well as a Frenchman’s particular way of holding a cigarette. He’d even greeted her in French, and it had taken several seconds for her to notice his American accent. Perhaps that was why, as she strolled down the rue Letellier on a bright morning, trailed by Christopher a half block behind, she hadn’t thought to worry. Some pilots were more foolhardy than others; some resisted listening to a woman’s counsel; some were simply clumsy and nervous. But Christopher was a model guest, and Ruby was sure she’d have him to his train in no time.

She was so confident, in fact, that when a large black car drew to an abrupt halt beside her, she hardly noticed. But then three men jumped out, all dressed in the uniform of the German police, and Ruby’s heart shot into her throat. Surely they weren’t here for Christopher. She reminded herself to continue walking, to keep her head down. But two of the men stepped directly into her path, and the other cut off her only potential route of escape by coming up behind her. “Identity papers,” said the broader of the two men in front of her. He had a nasty scar across his cheek and a short, dark mustache that made him look like Hitler.

“Yes, of course,” Ruby said, trying to sound calm. From the corner of her eye, she could see Christopher turn down a side street behind her. The police didn’t seem to notice him, which filled her with some relief—but it was short-lived. Why were they stopping her if it wasn’t because of the pilot?

She rummaged in her purse and withdrew her papers—she carried only her real ones now, the ones that identified her as Ruby Benoit. She was sure that even if the Germans had something on her, they wouldn’t execute her for fear of reprisal from the U.S. government. It was her trump card, but perhaps she was being overly optimistic.

“This says you were born in the United States,” the mustached officer said, glaring at her. “What are you doing here?”

“I am French by marriage.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just out for a stroll.” She could tell by the look on his face that it was the wrong answer. “I needed to stretch my legs.”

He frowned. “What is your address?”

“Twenty-four, rue Amélie.” She gave him the old address without hesitation, because she didn’t want anything to lead to the new apartment. Charlotte was there, and Ruby wouldn’t put her in danger.

“Most people out for a stroll would walk toward the river,” the officer said.

“I wanted to be alone,” she replied. “There are crowds near the river on a beautiful day like today.”

“So you were not going to the Montparnasse station,” he said with a smirk, “to aid in the escape of Allied pilots.”

Ruby could feel her mouth go dry, but she forced a neutral expression. “What? Of course not.”

“And you’re certain that’s the story you want to stick with?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

He grabbed her handbag and began to rifle through. Her mind spun as she wondered whether she’d mistakenly left anything incriminating in it. She didn’t think so, but a moment later, he withdrew a bundle of ration tickets.

“You live with your husband?” His expression told her he already knew that Marcel was dead.

“No. He died in 1941.”

“Yes. I am aware. The traitor Marcel Benoit.”

Ruby swallowed hard. So she hadn’t been stopped on a whim. They had sought her out. This was much worse. “My husband wasn’t a traitor. The evidence against him was false.”

The officer guffawed. “Madame, we do not make mistakes. But you, it seems, have made a serious one. Why do you have so many ration tickets if you live alone?”

She thought quickly. “I offered to pick up some supplies for neighbors.”

“Ah. And these neighbors—as you call them—are not Allied pilots trying to escape from France?”

“Of course not!” Ruby tried to appear indignant.

“Ah yes, I’d nearly forgotten. You’re merely out for a walk.” He grabbed her by the arm and shoved her toward the car. The other officer, who’d been in front of her, took her other arm, while the man who’d been behind her walked around to the driver’s seat.