“Didn’t you worry about what could hap pen?” Ruth asked, unable to grasp how her grand mother could ever shoot an other human being.
“No,” Helen answered flatly. “I knew what would happen. We all did. We didn’t have a chance of surviving, none of us. My parents would never have discovered my fate—I would simply have disappeared. They didn’t even know I’d married Jean-Claude or changed my name.” She stared out at the water. “I don’t understand why I lived. It makes no sense that God would spare me when all my friends, all those I loved, were killed.”
“Jean-Claude, too?”
Her eyes filled and she slowly nodded.
“Where was he when you were taken by the policeman?” Paul asked.
Her grand mother’s mouth trembled. “By then, Jean-Claude had been captured.”
“The French police?”
“No,” she said in the thin nest of whispers. “Jean-Claude was being held by the Gestapo. That was the first time they got him—but not the last.”
Ruth had heard about the notorious German soldiers and their cruelty.
Helen straightened, and her back went rigid. “I could only imagine how those monsters were torturing my husband.” Con tempt hardened her voice.
“What did you do?” Ruth glanced at Paul, whose gaze remained riveted on her grand mother.
At first Helen didn’t answer. “What else could I do? I had to rescue him.”
“You?” Paul asked this with the same shock Ruth felt.
“Yes, me and…” Helen’s smile was fleeting. “I was very clever about it, too.” The sad ness re turned with such intensity that it brought tears to Ruth’s eyes.
“They eventually killed him, didn’t they?” she asked, hardly able to listen to her grand mother’s response.
“No,” Helen said as she turned to face Ruth. “I did.”
Five
“You killed Jean-Claude?” Ruth repeated incredulously.
Tears rolling down her cheeks, Helen nodded. “God for give me, but I had no choice. I couldn’t allow him to be tortured any longer. He begged me to do it, begged me to end his suffering. That was the second time he was captured, and they were more determined than ever to break him. He knew far too much.”
“You’d better start at the beginning. You went into Gestapo head quarters?” Paul moved closer as if he didn’t want to risk missing even one word. “Was that the first time or the second?”
“Both. The first time, in April 1943, I rescued him. I pre tended I was pregnant and brought a priest to the house the Gestapo had taken over. I insisted with great bravado that they force Jean-Claude to marry me and give my baby a name. I didn’t care if they killed him, I said, but before he died I wanted him to give my baby his name.” She paused. “I was very convincing.”
“So you weren’t really pregnant?” Ruth asked.
“No, of course not,” her grand mother replied. “It was a ploy to get into the house.”
“Was the priest a real priest?”
“Yes. He didn’t know I was using him, but I had no alternative. I was des per ate to get Jean-Claude out alive.”
“The priest knew nothing,” Ruth said, meeting Paul’s eyes, astounded by her grand mother’s nerve and cunning.
“The Father knew nothing,” the older woman concurred, smiling grimly. “But I needed him, so I used him. Thank fully the Gestapo believed me, and be cause they wanted to keep relations with the Church as smooth as possible, they brought Jean-Claude into the room.”
Ruth could picture the scene, but she didn’t know if she’d ever possess that kind of bravery.
“Jean-Claude was in terrible pain, but he nearly laughed out loud when the priest asked him if he was the father of my child. Fortunately he didn’t have to answer be cause our friends had arranged a distraction out side the house. A firebomb was tossed into a parked vehicle, which exploded. All but two Gestapo left the room. I shot them both right in front of the priest, and then Jean-Claude and I escaped through a back window.”
“Where did you find the courage?” Ruth asked breathlessly.
“Courage?” her grand mother echoed. “That wasn’t courage. That was fear. I would do any thing to save my husband’s life—and I did. Then, only a few weeks later, I was the one who killed him. What took courage was finding the will to live after Jean-Claude died. That was courage, and I would never have man aged if it hadn’t been for the American soldier who saved my life. If it hadn’t been for Sam.”
“He was my grand father,” Ruth explained to Paul.
“I want to know more about Jean-Claude,” Paul said, placing his arm around Ruth’s shoulders. It felt good to be held by him and she leaned into his strength, his solid warmth.
Her grand mother’s eyes grew weary and she shook her head. “Per haps an other day. I’m tired now, too tired to speak anymore.”
“We should go,” Paul whispered.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Ruth insisted.
“Non sense. You should leave now,” Helen said. “You have better things to do than talk to an old lady.”
“But we want to talk to you,” Ruth told her.
“You will.” Helen look ed even more drawn. “Soon, but not right now.”
“You’ll finish the story?”
“Yes,” the old woman said hoarsely. “I promise I’ll tell you everything.”
While her grand mother went to her room to rest, Ruth and Paul cleaned up the kitchen. At first they worked in silence, as if they weren’t quite sure what to say to each other. Ruth put the food away while Paul rinsed the dishes and set them in side the dish washer.
“You didn’t know any of this before today?” he asked, prop ping him self against the counter.
“Not a single de tail.”
“Your father never mentioned it?”
“Never.” Ruth wondered again how much her father actually knew about his mother’s wartime adventures. “I’m sure you were the one who prompted her.”
“Me?” Paul asked. “How?”
“More than any thing, I think you re minded her of Jean-Claude.” Ruth tilted her head to one side. “It’s as if this woman I’ve known all my life has suddenly become a stranger.” Ruth finished wiping down the counters. She knew they’d need to leave soon if they were going to catch the ferry.
“Maybe you’d better check on her before we go,” Paul said.
She agreed and hurried out of the kitchen. Her grandmother’s eyes opened briefly when Ruth entered the cool, silent room. Reaching for an afghan at the foot of the bed, Ruth covered her with it and kissed the papery skin of her cheek. She’d al ways loved Helen, but she had an entirely new respect for her now.
“I’ll be back soon,” Ruth promised.
“Bring your young man.”
“I will.”
Helen’s response was low, and at first Ruth didn’t under stand her and strained to hear. Grad u ally her voice drifted off. Ruth waited until Helen was asleep before she slipped out of the room.
“She’s sleeping?” Paul asked, set ting aside the magazine he was reading when Ruth re turned to the kitchen.
Ruth nodded. “She started talking to me in French. I so badly wish I knew what she said.”
They left a few minutes later. Absorbed in her own thoughts, Ruth walked down the hill be side Paul, neither of them speaking as they approached the foot ferry that would take them from Cedar Cove to Bremerton.
Once they were aboard, Paul went to get them coffee from the concession stand. While he was gone, Ruth decided she had to find out how much her family knew about her grand mother’s war exploits. She opened her purse and rummaged for her cell phone.
Paul brought the coffee and set her plastic cup on the table.
Ruth glanced up long enough to thank him with a smile. “I’m calling my parents.” Paul nodded, tentatively sip ping hot coffee. Then, in an obvious effort to give her some privacy, he moved to stand by the rail, gazing out at the water.
Her fathe
r answered on the third ring. “Dad, it’s Ruth,” she said in a rush.
“Ruthie! It’s nice to hear from you.”
Her father had never enjoyed telephone conversations and generally handed the phone off to Ruth’s mother.
“Wait—I need to talk to you,” Ruth said.
“What’s up?”
That was her dad, too. He didn’t like chit chat and wanted to get to the point as quickly as possible.
“I went over to see Grandma this afternoon.”
“How is she? We’ve been meaning to get up there and see her and you. I don’t know where the time goes. Thanksgiving was our last visit.”
How is she? Ruth wasn’t sure what to say. Her grandmother seemed fragile and old, and Ruth had never thought of her as either. “I don’t know, Dad. She’s the same, except—well, except she might have lost a few pounds.” Ruth looked over at Paul and bit her lip. “I…brought a friend along with me.”
“Your room mate? What’s her name again?”
“Lynn Blumenthal. No, this is a male friend.”
That caught her father’s attention. “Some one from school?”
“No, we met sort of…by accident. His name is Paul Gordon and he’s a sergeant in the marines. We’ve been corresponding for the past four months. But Paul isn’t the reason I’m phoning.”
“All right, then. What is?”
Ruth dragged in a deep breath. “Like I said before, I was visiting Grandma.”
“With this marine you’re seeing,” he reiterated.
“Yes.” Ruth didn’t dare look at Paul a second time. Nervously, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned for ward, lowering her voice. “Grandma was in France during World War II. Did you know that?”
Her father paused. “Yes, I did.”
“Were you aware that she was a member of the French Resistance?”
Again he paused. “My father said something shortly before he died, but I never got any more information.”
“Didn’t you ask your mother?”
“I tried, but she re fused to talk about it. She said somethings were better left buried and deflected all my questions. Do you mean to say she told you about this?”
“Yes, and, Dad, the stories were incredible! Did you know Grandma was married before she met Grandpa Sam?”
“What?”
“Her husband’s name was Jean-Claude.”
“A French man?”
“Yes.” She tried to re call his surname from the poster. “Jean-Claude…Brulotte. That’s it. He was part of the movement, too, and Grandma, your mother, went into a Gestapo head quarters and man aged to get him out.”
“My mother?” The question was loud enough for Paul to hear from several feet away, be cause his eye brows shot up as their eyes met. “Yes, Dad, your mother. I was des per ate to learn more, but she got tired all of a sudden, and neither Paul nor I wanted to over tax her. She’s taking a nap now, and Paul and I are on the ferry back to Seattle.”
Ruth heard her father take a long, ragged breath.
“All these years and she’s never said a word to me. My dad did, as I told you, but he didn’t give me any de tails, and I never believed Mom’s involvement amounted to much—more along the lines of moral support, I al ways figured. My dad was over there and we knew that’s where he met Mom.”
“Did they ever go back to France?” Ruth asked.
“No. They did some traveling, but mostly in North America—Florida, Mexico, Quebec…”
“I guess she re ally was keeping the past buried,” Ruth said.
“She must realize she’s get ting near the end of her life,” her father went on, apparently thinking out loud. “And she wants us to know. I’m grateful she was willing to share this with you. Still, it’s pretty hard to take in. My mother…part of the French Resistance. She told me she was in school over there.”
“She was.” Ruth didn’t want her father to think Helen had lied to him.
“Then how in heaven’s name did she get involved in that?”
“It’s a long story.”
“What made her start talking about it now?” her father asked.
“I think it’s be cause she knows she’s get ting old, as you suggested,” Ruth said. “And be cause of Paul.”
“Ah, yes, this young man you’re with.”
“Yeah.”
Her father hesitated. “I know you can’t discuss this with Paul there, so give us a call later, will you? Your mother’s going to want to hear about this young man.”
“Yes, Daddy,” she said, thinking with some amusement that she sounded like an obedient child.
“I’ll call Mom this evening,” her father said. “We need to set up a visit our selves, possibly for the Memorial Day week end.”
After a quick fare well, she clicked off the phone and put it back in her purse.
Paul, still sip ping his coffee, approached her again. She picked up her own cup as he sat down be side her.
“I haven’t enjoyed an afternoon more in years,” Paul said. “Not in years,” he added emphatically.
Ruth grinned, then drank some of her cooling coffee. “I’d like to believe it was my company that was so engaging, but I know you’re enthralled with my grandmother.”
“And her grand daughter,” Paul murmured, but he said it as if he felt wary of the fact that he found her appealing.
Ruth took his hand. “We haven’t settled any thing,” he re minded her, tightening his hold on her fingers.
“Do we have to right this minute?”
He didn’t answer.
“I want to see you again,” she told him, moving closer.
“That’s the problem. I want to see you again, too.”
“I’m glad.” Ruth didn’t hide her relief.
Paul’s responding smile was brief. “Fine. We’ll do this your way—one day at a time. But remember, I only have two weeks’ leave.”
She could sense already that these would be the shortest two weeks of her life.
“By the time I ship out, we should know how we feel. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
He nodded solemnly. “Do you own a pair of in-line skates?” he asked unexpectedly.
“Sure, but I don’t have them in Seattle. I can easily rent a pair, though.”
“Want to go skating?”
“When?”
“Now?”
Ruth laughed. “I’d love to, with one stipulation.”
“What’s that?”
Ruth hated to admit how clumsy she was on skates. “If I fall down, promise you’ll help me up.”
“I can do that.”
“If I get hurt…”
“If you get hurt,” Paul said, “I promise to kiss you and make it better.”
Ruth had the distinct feeling that she wasn’t going to mind falling, not one little bit.
Six
Helen Shelton
5-B Poppy Lane
Cedar Cove, Washing ton
April 23
Dearest Charlotte,
Forgive me for writing rather than calling. It must seem odd, since we’re neighbors as well as friends. It’s just that sometimes writing things out makes it easier to think them through….
I have some news, by the way. You haven’t met my granddaughter, Ruth, but you’ve heard me speak of her. Well, she was over last week with a soldier she’s been writing to, who’s on leave from Afghanistan. He’s a delightful young man and it was easy to see that her feelings for him are quite in tense. His name is Paul Gordon. When Ruth first introduced us, I’m afraid I embarrassed us both by staring at him. Paul could’ve been Jean-Claude’s grand son, the resemblance is that striking.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been remembering and dreaming about my war experiences. You’ve encouraged me for years to write them down. I’ve tried, but couldn’t make my self do it. How ever… I don’t know if this was wise but I told Ruth and her young man some of what happened to me in France. I know I shocked
them both.
My son phoned later the same day, and John was quite upset with me, especially since I’d told Ruth and not him. I tried to ex plain that these were memories I’ve spent most of my life trying to for get. I do hope he understands. But Pandora’s box is open now, and my family wants to learn everything they can. I’ve agreed to allow Ruth to tape our conversations, which satisfies everyone. I’m afraid you’re right, my dear friend—I should’ve told my children long ago.
Do take care of your self and Ben. I hope to see you soon.
Bless you, dear Charlotte,
Your friend al ways,
Helen
“I want you to meet my family,” Paul said a little more than a week after their first date. They’d spent every available moment together; they’d been to the Seattle Center and the Space Needle, rowing on Lake Washing ton, out to dinner and had seen a couple of movies. Sitting on the campus lawn, he’d been waiting for Ruth after her last class of the day. He stood when she reached him, and Ruth saw that he wasn’t smiling as he is sued the invitation.
“When?”
“Mom and Dad are at the house.”
“You mean you want me to meet them now?” Ruth asked as they strolled across the lush green grass to ward the visitors’ parking lot. If she’d known she was meeting Paul’s parents she would’ve been better pre pared. She would’ve done something about her hair and worn a different out fit and…
“Yeah,” Paul muttered.
Ruth stopped and he walked for ward two or three steps before he noticed. Frowning, he glanced back.
“What’s going on here?” she asked, clutching her books to her chest.
Paul looked every where but at her. “My parents feel they should meet you, since I’m spending most of my time in your company. The way they figure it, you must be some one important in my life.”