Helen had apparently read Ruth’s mind. “Am I embarrassing your beau, sweetheart?” she asked with a half smile.
Ruth resisted informing her grandmother that Paul wasn’t her anything, especially not her beau. They’d had one lovely dinner together, but now their political differences seemed to have overtaken them.
“I apologize, Paul.” Helen briefly touched his hand, which rested on the table. “When I first saw you—” She stopped abruptly. “You resemble someone I knew many years ago.”
“Where, Grandma?” Ruth asked.
“In France, during the war.”
“You were in France during World War II?” Ruth couldn’t quite hide her shock.
Helen turned to her. “I haven’t spoken much about those days, but now, toward the end of my life, I think about them more and more.” She pushed back her chair and stood.
Ruth stood, too, thinking her grandmother was about to carry in their empty plates and serve the pie.
Helen motioned her to sit. “Stay here. There’s something I want you to see. I think perhaps it’s time.”
When her grandmother had left them, Ruth looked at Paul and shrugged. “I have no idea what’s going on.”
Paul had been wonderful with her grandmother, thoughtful and attentive. He’d asked a number of questions during the meal—about Cedar Cove, about her life with Sam—and listened intently when she responded. Ruth knew his interest was genuine. Together they cleared the table and returned the dishes to the kitchen, then waited for Helen at the patio table.
It was at least five minutes before she came back. She held a rolled-up paper that appeared to be some kind of poster, old enough to have yellowed with age. Carefully she opened it and laid it flat on the cleared table. Ruth saw that the writing was French. In the center of the poster, which measured about eighteen inches by twenty-four, was a pencil sketch of two faces: a man and a woman, whose names she didn’t recognize. Jean and Marie Brulotte.
“Who’s that?” Ruth asked, pointing to the female.
Her grandmother smiled calmly. “I am that woman.”
Ruth frowned. Helen had obviously used a false name, and although she’d seen photographs of her grandmother as a young woman, this sketch barely resembled the woman she knew. The man in the drawing, however, seemed familiar. Gazing at the sketch for a minute, she realized the face was vaguely like Paul’s. Not so much in any similarity of features as in a quality of...character, she supposed.
“And the man?”
“That was Jean-Claude,” Helen whispered, her voice full of pain.
Paul turned to Ruth, but she was at a complete loss and didn’t know what to tell him. Her grandfather’s name was Sam and she’d never heard of this Jean or Jean-Claude. Certainly her father had never mentioned another man in his mother’s life.
“This is a wanted poster,” Paul remarked. “I speak some French—studied it in school.”
“Yes. The Germans offered a reward of one million francs to anyone who turned us in.”
“You were in France during the war and you were wanted?” This was more than Ruth could assimilate. She sat back down; so did her grandmother. Paul remained standing for a moment longer as he studied the poster.
“But...it said Marie. Marie Brulotte.”
“I went by my middle name in those days. Marie. You may not be aware that it was part of my name because I haven’t used it since.”
“But...”
“You and Jean-Claude were part of the French Resistance?” Paul asked. It was more statement than question.
“We were.” Her grandmother seemed to have difficulty speaking. “Jean-Claude was my husband. We married during the war, and I took his name with pride. He was my everything, strong and handsome and brave. His laughter filled a room. Sometimes, still, I think I can hear him.” Her eyes grew teary and she dabbed at them with her linen handkerchief. “That was many years ago now and, as I said, I think perhaps it’s time I spoke of it.”
Ruth was grateful. She couldn’t let her grandmother leave the story untold. She suspected her father hadn’t heard any of this, and she wanted to learn whatever she could about this unknown episode in their family history before it was forever lost.
“What were you doing in France?” Ruth asked. She couldn’t comprehend that the woman she’d always known as a warm and loving grandmother, who baked cookies and knit socks for Christmas, had been a freedom fighter in a foreign country.
“I was attending the Sorbonne when the Germans invaded. You may recall that my mother was born in France, but her own parents were long dead. I was studying French literature. My parents were frantic for me to book my passage home, but like so many others in France, I didn’t believe the country would fall. I assured my mother I’d leave when I felt it was no longer safe. Being young and foolish, I thought she was overreacting. Besides, I was in love. Jean-Claude had asked me to marry him, and what woman in love wishes to leave her lover over rumors of war?” She laughed lightly, shaking her head. “France seemed invincible. We were convinced the Germans wouldn’t invade, convinced they’d suffer a humiliating defeat if they tried.”
“So when it happened you were trapped,” Paul said.
Her grandmother drew in a deep breath. “There was the Blitzkrieg.... People were demoralized and defeated when France surrendered after only a few days of fighting. We were aghast that such a thing could happen. Jean-Claude and a few of his friends decided to resist the occupation. I decided I would, too, so we were married right away. My parents knew nothing of this.”
“How did you join the Resistance?” Paul asked as Ruth looked at her grandmother with fresh eyes.
“Join,” she repeated scornfully. “There was no place to join, no place to sign up and be handed
