It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought as she descended the spiral staircase at the back of the café. Especially with Marcel, and especially in Paris. Hadn’t Gertrude Stein commanded respect here? Zelda Fitzgerald had run the town in the twenties, and now, it was common knowledge that a woman—the Comtesse Hélène de Portes—was pulling the strings of Reynaud’s government. Ruby had met her; she was a shrill, irascible person known as much for her temper tantrums as for her extravagant parties. If someone like that could wield such power, what was Ruby doing wrong? Should she be speaking up more? Standing up for herself when Marcel intimated that she was incapable of grasping the truth? Or would that only drive him further away?

She touched up her lipstick and stared into the mirror. There were dark circles under her eyes, evidence of her lack of sleep. Her curls were loose and frizzy from the heat, something she would have fixed if she cared more. But it was impossible to think about things like that with the invasion on the horizon. What horrors would come with it? What would happen to the people she loved? To her?

She splashed water on her face and pinched her cheeks to restore some color. She smoothed her hair, gave her reflection one last resolute look, and headed back upstairs.

When she returned to the table, Marcel and Aubert were whispering, their heads bent together. As she approached, they pulled back and flashed her identical smiles. Was it her imagination that they looked almost guilty?

“What is it?” she asked.

“Just discussing the Germans,” Marcel said. “Those bastards.”

Unease crawled under Ruby’s skin. “You two mustn’t do anything foolish.”

“Foolish?” Marcel’s eyes locked on hers.

“It’s best to keep our heads down until we figure out what the occupation will mean for us.”

Marcel’s face darkened. “We should just lie down like dogs?” he demanded. Aubert was smirking, as if she was proving him right.

“I just don’t want you to do anything reckless.”

“So you do think I’m powerless to fight for my country.” Marcel looked triumphant and wounded at the same time.

“No!”

His eyes blazed, and they stared at each other until the silence became uncomfortable.

“Well, we are certainly not going to solve the problems of France this afternoon,” Aubert said, cutting through the discomfort. He raised his glass and glanced from Ruby to Marcel. “To France. And what is to come.”

“To France,” Marcel and Ruby muttered in unison, raising their glasses.

But the tension lingered, and as they drank their champagne, no one spoke again. Ruby stared down the deserted Avenue Rapp toward the river. Though the Germans were still miles from Paris, she could already see them coming. She could feel the city changing. And though he was just inches away, she could feel Marcel drifting further from her by the day. All the champagne in the world couldn’t turn back the clock.

CHAPTER SIX

October 1940

By October, it was clear that Paris had forever changed. The Germans had gotten comfortable, their officers settling into swanky accommodations at the Crillon, the Meurice, the George V, the Ritz. The French government had long ago decamped to Vichy, replacing the proud French motto of Liberté, egalité, fraternité with the Germanic Travail, famille, patrie: Work, family, fatherland. Huge German street signs had been erected, directing traffic to the Zentra-Kraft on the Champs-élysées or the local village hospital in the Orts Lazarett Suresnes. German soldiers relaxed in cafés, dined at restaurants, and toured the monuments and museums as if they were on holiday.

The colder weather moved in, accompanied by a growing sense of unease. Ruby queued each morning to receive rationed portions of foods and supplies. She learned, along with the rest of Paris, to make fuel from wood and charcoal, oil from grape seeds, and cigarettes for Marcel from a strange mixture of Jerusalem artichokes, sunflowers, maize, and a small amount of tobacco. At first, it had seemed that food would still be readily available during the Occupation, but now that winter was approaching, it was clear that had been a clever mirage, affected by the Nazis to lull Parisians into a false feeling of normalcy.

There was a sense throughout the city that there might be a light at the end of the tunnel, though. A little-known general named Charles de Gaulle had emerged as a leader over the summer, stirring the pot of Resistance through a series of radio broadcasts from England. “Somewhere must shine and burn the flame of French resistance,” he said, and so it began, simply at first, with Vs for victory appearing throughout Paris, scrawled in lipstick or crayon or coal on German cars, German flyers, and visible spots throughout the city.

Early one autumn afternoon, Ruby was returning to the apartment after waiting in line for more than two hours for bread when she encountered Charlotte’s mother standing in the first-floor hallway of their building crying. Her dress was wrinkled, as if she’d given up on ironing, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

“Madame Dacher?” Ruby asked hesitantly, approaching the older woman and putting a hand on her shoulder.

Madame Dacher whirled around, her eyes wild and wet. She blinked a few times, and her expression softened. “Oh, I’m very sorry, Madame Benoit. I’m terribly embarrassed. I thought I was alone. I didn’t hear you approach.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Madame Dacher. Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. I just don’t want to upset Charlotte. I was trying to calm myself before going inside.”

“What’s happened?”

Madame Dacher sighed. “Have you heard about the Jewish statutes?”

Ruby nodded, her heart heavy. The Statut des Juifs, passed two weeks earlier, banned Jews from positions in academia, medicine, law, and government. Jews were to ride in the last car on the Métro, relinquish their radios and bicycles, and stay out of cinemas, museums, libraries, and cafés. It was appalling. Ruby had tried to talk to Marcel about what might be done to fight the new rules, but he’d laughed at her, accusing her of coming to her senses about the Germans far too late. “You were the one who wanted me to keep my head down,” he’d snapped, as if the oppressive new restrictions were her fault.

“We had to register, you see,” Madame Dacher went on, tears coursing down her face now. “Just after Rosh Hashanah. We obeyed, of course. But my husband believes that something terrible is going to happen now. There is talk of Jews losing their businesses too.”

“Surely that won’t happen to you,” Ruby said. Monsieur Dacher was a successful and well-respected furrier, a pillar of the community. “The French government won’t allow things to go that far.”

“But you see, it isn’t the France we know anymore. As the weeks pass, I feel less and less in control of my own life.”

“We’ve all lost control to the Germans, Madame Dacher,” Ruby said, trying to reassure her.

Madame Dacher’s expression was dazed as she looked up. “It’s different for us, Madame Benoit. Surely you see that.”

Ruby felt a strange gnawing in the pit of her stomach. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

“You must make me a promise,” Madame Dacher said, suddenly reaching for Ruby’s hands and squeezing so tightly that Ruby’s fingers felt like bones in a sack. “If something happens to my husband and myself, you will look after Charlotte.”

“But surely nothing will happen.”

“Please. Give me your word.”

Ruby felt a surge of hope, a sense that perhaps she could do something to help after all, even if only to assuage her neighbor’s fears. “Of course. You have my word.”

“Thank you,” Madame Dacher said, releasing Ruby’s hands and stepping away. She turned and disappeared into her own apartment, leaving Ruby alone in the hallway, breathless and uneasy.

RUBY WAS SITTING IN THE darkness that night, just past eight o’clock, turning Madame Dacher’s words over in her head, when Marcel’s key clicked in the lock.

“Hello, darling,” he said, his words slightly slurred as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “How are you?”

“Marcel?” He was so uncharacteristically cheerful that Ruby was confused for a moment. “Are you all right?”

“All right?” he repeated with a grin. He lit a candle and sat down across from her in the kitchen. “Of course, my dear. And you?”

“I’m fine,” she answered cautiously. “Where have you been?” She hated that it sounded like an accusation, for she hadn’t meant it that way. She braced herself for one of his moods, but he merely smiled at her.

“I’ve had some drinks with a few friends at the Ritz, you see. Right under the noses of the Germans! They even bought us a round, with no idea that we are their enemies!”

“Marcel! How could you take such a risk?”

“You think that is risky? Toasting with the enemy? Oh, Ruby, how little you understand.”

She clenched her fists. “I hate this occupation as much as you do, Marcel. You have to stop speaking to me as if I’m an uneducated fool.”

“I know you’re educated.” He raked a hand through his thick, dark hair and gave her a perplexed look. “But you must admit that as an American, you lack a certain perspective.”

“It’s always about me being an American, isn’t it? My God, Marcel, why did you marry me if you felt I was so inferior?”

“Inferior?” The confusion on his face deepened. “I’ve never thought you inferior, Ruby. I admire you. I admire your intelligence, your wit.”