Thomas had just paused, considering exactly how to frame his words of comfort, when there was a loud knocking. He checked his watch. Nearly midnight. A knot in his stomach, he set down the pen and walked to the door.
“Clarke.” It was Thomas’s CO, his expression weary.
“Sir? Has something happened?”
The CO hesitated for a moment. “It’s your mother, Clarke.”
Thomas’s vision went blurry for an instant. “My mother, sir?”
“Her home was hit,” the CO said, not quite meeting Thomas’s eye. “She didn’t make it. I’ve just received confirmation.”
Thomas’s mouth went dry. “Sir, you’re saying—”
“She died, Clarke. I’m very sorry.”
“No, no, that can’t be.” How many flights had he flown over London? How many plots had he chased off, how many planes had he downed? He had fooled himself into thinking that he could keep his mother safe. After all, there were signs that the RAF was regaining control of the British skies. And every time he soared over the city where he’d been born and raised, every time he saw the dome of St. Paul’s, he imagined that he could see his childhood home below the smoke and clouds. “When?” he asked. “I thought there hadn’t been a major attack since the twenty-ninth of December.”
That was the night the Nazis had dropped more than one hundred thousand bombs on London, pummeling the city’s heart.
His CO hesitated. “She was injured that very night, Clarke. Apparently, her home was hit directly. It took rescuers a long time to sift through the rubble, and she was barely alive when they found her. She never woke up, and it took some time to identify her.”
Thomas wanted to scream, but he was paralyzed. “Do you know—” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Do you know exactly when she died, sir?” What good was he doing in the cockpit if he was powerless to save the person he cared most about in the world?
“Six days ago. I’m very sorry.”
Six days. Six days when he’d been worrying about Oliver’s family. Six days when he’d smiled and laughed and believed everything was normal. She’d been gone that whole time, and he hadn’t felt it. Somehow, this was as hard to bear as the death itself.
“Clarke, you’ll need to take care of arrangements,” the CO said after the silence grew heavy and thick. “I will plan for you to have a few days’ leave.”
“But I should be here. Who will stop the Nazis?”
The CO cracked a tired smile. “There’s a whole squadron of men out there trying to do just that. And many other squadrons across Britain, Clarke. We’ll make it without you for a day or two.”
“I—I can’t.”
“You must.” The CO’s smile faded. “I’m led to believe you’re her only kin.”
“Yes, sir.” It wasn’t until that moment that Thomas realized how very true those words were. He was alone in the world now.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, sir.” Thomas could barely hear his own voice over the rushing sound in his ears. He longed to look into his mother’s eyes, to see her bright smile, to feel her thin, fragile arms around him once more. He could remember her patiently teaching him to read, walking him to his first day of school, smiling as she proudly served a roast for just the two of them nearly every Sunday afternoon of his boyhood. He could see the worry in her eyes the day he told her he was joining the RAF, but also the pride. Be well and safe, Thomas, she had said, cupping her small, worn hands on either side of his face. Just come home to me.
As his CO bid him good night and Thomas closed the door, he realized there was no one else in the world to wait for him now.
CHAPTER NINE
April 1941
When Ruby awoke on an April morning with dawn filtering through the curtains, she was alone for the second day in a row. Marcel had disappeared more than forty-eight hours ago with no indication of when he’d be back.
“One day,” she said to the baby, “this war will be over, and we’ll have a good life, you and I. Your papa will be there too,” she added as an afterthought. “He’s going to love you very much.”
She smiled at the sharp kick that she could see through the wall of her belly, and then, with her stomach rumbling, she got out of bed to begin her day. Ruby often awoke with a drumbeat of movement deep in her womb now, making her feel less alone. She had decided that the baby was a boy, that he would look very much like Marcel, and that when Marcel first laid eyes upon him, it would change everything. Perhaps she was as naïve as he accused her of being, but she preferred to think of it as hopeful.
She had just put on her dress–one of three empire-waist cotton maternity dresses she’d sewed from a pattern—when there was a knock at the door. She answered and found a small, bald, middle-aged man with thick glasses standing there, clutching his hat to his chest. He stared at her for a moment, and she at him. His clothes were rumpled, but there was something about his posture and bearing that hinted at a dignified station in life. “Can I help you?” she asked.
He glanced from her face to her belly and back again before clearing his throat. “I’m looking for the man of the house,” he said, his flawless French inflected by an accent that Ruby couldn’t quite place.
“He’s not here right now,” Ruby said. “Perhaps I can assist you with something.”
The man hesitated. “I hadn’t realized Monsieur Benoit had a wife.”
“May I ask how you know him?” The man’s repeated glances at her belly were making her uneasy.
“You are expecting a child, I see?”
“You are quite observant,” Ruby said.
When the man looked up, apparently startled by her tone, she thought she saw something like kindness in his eyes for an instant, but then it was gone. “He should have informed us.”
“Who are you?” Ruby demanded. When the man didn’t answer, she added, “You are not French.”
“Of course I am.” The man was already backing away.
“Wait! Won’t you tell me who you are?”
But the man had already turned and was hurrying down the stairs. The last thing she saw before he disappeared out the front door was one final concerned glance at her belly, as if she was concealing a bomb that could explode at any moment, destroying them all.
BY THE TIME MARCEL RETURNED, late that night, Ruby had gone over the strange encounter again and again in her head, and with each repetition, she’d felt more unsettled. The man’s accent had been hard on the consonants, a bit like the way Nazi soldiers spoke when they were barking orders. My God, she thought, her stomach turning. What if Marcel is helping the Germans?
And suddenly, the pieces were falling into place, and Ruby felt ill. His long absences. His lack of regard for the German regulations, as if they didn’t apply to him. The war of morals she could see going on inside him. It all made sense. But how could he do such a thing? To collaborate would be unconscionable.
“You had a visitor today,” she said when he slipped in the door. He visibly startled; he hadn’t expected to find her glaring at him from the dining table.
“What are you doing out of bed?” It wasn’t the reply of an innocent man.
“Waiting for you.”
He stared at her across the flickering darkness. “What do you mean I had a visitor?”
“A man,” she said slowly. “A man who seemed stunned to realize I existed.”
As Marcel opened and closed his mouth like a fish, she could feel her heart hardening. He had put them in danger, Ruby and the baby, and he had the gall to stand there looking affronted.
“Well, who was it?”
Ruby looked him straight in the eye. “Your handler, I assume.”
“What?”
“Or perhaps that’s not the right term. Der Meister, is it? Is that not how they say it in German?”
His face turned white. “Der . . . what? The man who came here was German?”
Ruby stood slowly, her hands cradling her belly. “You’re going
to deny it, Marcel?”
He blinked rapidly. “How do you know he was German, Ruby? What did you tell him?”
“What did I tell him? Nothing. He just seemed appalled that you had a pregnant wife. I’m sorry if I’m getting in the way of your Nazi scheming. How inconvenient.”
Marcel stared for another moment before moving toward her. She took a step back, putting her hand protectively on her belly, and he halted. “I’m not going to hurt you, Ruby.” He sounded suddenly weary. He took a seat at the table and gestured to the chair she’d just vacated. “I would never, ever hurt you. Sit. Please.”
Ruby moved the chair away from the table, putting some distance between them. “What could you possibly have to say that would make this all right?”
“I’m not helping the Germans. I would sooner die, Ruby.”
“Don’t lie to me. He certainly wasn’t French.”
He bit his lip. “You must take me at my word. I need to leave you out of this. For your own safety.”
“It’s hard to feel safe with Germans at our door.”
“He wasn’t German. For the love of God, Ruby!”
“Then who was he? What was he doing here?”
Marcel didn’t answer right away. He stood and began to pace. “You’re speaking of a man who’s a little shorter than I? Bald? Glasses?”
“Yes.”
He was silent for a long time. “He goes by Neville, although I assume that’s not his real name. He’s British intelligence.”
“What?”
“I’ve been working with him. For him.”
“But—” Was he telling the truth? And if he was, how had she read him so wrong?
“He shouldn’t have come here. But now you know.”
“I don’t understand. You’re working for the Allies? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you’re in danger now, don’t you see that? You weren’t supposed to be involved in any of this, ever. It’s my risk, not yours.”
“But I’m your wife. And if you get caught—”
“I’m not going to get caught!”
Ruby took a few deep breaths to calm herself. The baby was kicking again. “I understand the stakes, Marcel.”
“Do you?” His face twisted into a sneer. “As far as I know, you’ll be telling the neighbor’s girl in no time.”
“I would never do that! You don’t think I know how important this is? How dangerous?”
He looked balefully at her belly. “You don’t understand things the way I do, Ruby. That much is clear.”
“How can you say that, Marcel? I’m not the fool you’ve decided I am! I’m your wife, and I’m carrying your child. We’re all in this together, whether you like it or not!”
He looked at her for a long time before his expression darkened. He smashed his fist against the wall with such force that he left a mark.
“I’m—” Marcel began, looking down at her. She was sure he was about to apologize for his temper, but then he stopped. “You will stay out of this,” he said once more firmly. “That isn’t a request.” And then he strode across the apartment, slamming the front door behind him.
BY THE TIME RUBY MANAGED to fall asleep a few hours later, she knew in her gut that Marcel was telling the truth; she had played and replayed the visit from the bald man in her head, and she had to admit, his accent had sounded British. But wasn’t Marcel’s decision to work for the Allies—without telling Ruby—a betrayal too?
She awoke just before dawn with an intense pain in her lower back. She cried out and rolled to her left, looking for her husband. But his side of the bed was cold and empty, as it so often was these days. She struggled to sit upright, a hand on her belly, as if she could protect the baby from whatever was happening. “It’s okay,” she murmured, as much to the child as to herself. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
But then there was a searing pain in her abdomen, and she doubled over, nearly falling out of bed. She grabbed the edge of the mattress to steady herself and pushed herself onto the floor. She needed help. She needed to make it to the Dachers’ apartment. They would know what to do. She collapsed at the bedroom door as her body was racked by another wave of agony.
Her cotton nightgown was soaked with sweat by the time she made it down the hall. She cried out and fell to her knees at the Dachers’ doorway, but she managed to knock once and then again more insistently until she heard hurried footsteps approaching. The door swung open, and she looked up to see Monsieur Dacher standing there, white-faced, a candlestick hefted like a weapon. His fierce expression softened when he saw her.
“Madame Benoit, what has happened?” He put a hand under her elbow to help her up.
She was startled to realize she was crying. “I don’t . . .” she attempted, trailing off. “I can’t . . .”
“Sarah!” Monsieur Dacher called into the darkness of his apartment. “Come quickly! It’s Madame Benoit!”
A moment later, Ruby looked up to see a bathrobe-clad Madame Dacher rushing down the hall, tailed by a stricken-looking Charlotte.
“I’m okay, Charlotte,” Ruby managed. “Don’t worry. Go back to bed.”
Madame Dacher turned and said something to the girl, and although Charlotte looked worried, she retreated into the apartment, leaving the three adults alone.
“Madame Benoit?” As Madame Dacher bent down beside Ruby and placed a cool hand on her cheek, her voice was soft and comforting, the way Ruby imagined a mother would speak to a child. She would speak to her own child that way, Ruby decided. Reassuring, gentle, firm. It was perfect. “What is it? Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” Ruby managed. “It’s just . . . Something is wrong with my belly.”
Another sharp pain crackled through her, radiating out from the center of her body, and she moaned again. When she looked up, something had changed in Madame Dacher’s face. “Oh, my dear,” her neighbor said in that same soothing tone. “Let’s get you up, shall we? Yes, that’s right. Hold on.”
Ruby couldn’t seem to feel her legs, so she wasn’t quite sure how she got to the couch, the ornate, gold-legged one in the Dachers’ living room that she’d admired on the one occasion she’d been invited inside. But there was Madame Dacher beside her, placing a cool, damp washcloth on her forehead and murmuring for her to lie back. “What’s wrong with me?” Ruby managed. “Is the baby all right?”
“Oh, dear,” Madame Dacher said, kneeling beside Ruby and squeezing her hand. “I’m afraid your baby might be coming just now. My husband has gone for a doctor.”
“Coming now?” Ruby repeated in disbelief, struggling to sit up. “No, no, it’s too early. Far too early. I’m only six months along. And what about Marcel? Marcel should be here.”
“Shhhh,” Madame Dacher whispered, her voice soft and songlike. “We’ll find Monsieur Benoit, dear. Everything is going to be all right. You just relax.”
Ruby was about to answer, but this time, when the pain in her belly returned, it was so blinding that she lost consciousness, slipping into a silent, jagged darkness.
WHEN RUBY AWOKE, THERE WAS sunlight streaming through the window. It took her a few seconds to get her bearings, to remember the terror and the pain that had brought her here. The baby!
“Madame Dacher!” she cried out, sitting up with great effort. Her whole body ached, and she was still on the couch, covered in a white sheet and a faded blue blanket someone had knitted. “Madame Dacher?”
It was Charlotte who emerged from the kitchen instead, her face pale. “Ruby! Are you all right?”
“I—I don’t know. What happened?”
“I—” Charlotte seemed at a loss for words. “I’m going to go get my mother, okay?”
“Charlotte?” Ruby felt suddenly shaky, unsure. “Is everything okay with the baby?” She began to reach for her belly, but Charlotte thrust a cup of tea into her hands instead.
“Here, drink this. I’ll go get Maman.”
By the time Charlotte returned w
ith her mother in tow, Ruby already knew. She had felt the contours of her deflated belly through the blanket, sensed the emptiness in the space where life had grown. “I lost the baby, didn’t I?” she asked in a whisper, her vision blurred by tears.
Madame Dacher waved Charlotte away, and as the girl disappeared down the hall, Madame Dacher sat down beside Ruby and took her hands. “My dear, I am so sorry. The baby was stillborn.”
“No,” Ruby whispered.
“The doctor arrived soon after you lost consciousness and gave you something for the pain. The baby was already coming. He—he never breathed. He didn’t cry. He didn’t feel a thing.”
“It was a boy,” Ruby said dully. It was just like she’d imagined, a boy in Marcel’s image. He was gone before he’d ever lived.
Madame Dacher nodded, squeezing Ruby’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“May I see him?”
Madame Dacher looked surprised. “Oh, I’m sure you don’t want to—”
Ruby cut her off. “Please. I must see my baby.”
Madame Dacher looked at her before nodding slowly and rising. She returned clutching something swaddled that looked far too small to be a baby. When she put the bundle in Ruby’s arms, Ruby gasped. Here, no larger than a child’s doll, was her own son, his tiny face blue-tinged and still.
“No,” she breathed. She bent to kiss his forehead, startled, despite herself, to find it so cold. “No,” she whispered again. “You must come back.” The baby had Marcel’s nose, the shape of his mouth. Ruby wondered what his eyes looked like, but they were already closed forever. His ears were tiny and freezing; his hair was downy, his chin no wider than the tip of Ruby’s thumb. “How did I let you die?”
“My dear,” Madame Dacher said, gently taking the baby from Ruby’s grasp when her tears had finally stopped falling. “It is not your fault. Sometimes all the love in the world can’t protect a person against his fate.”
The Room on Rue Amélie Page 5