The next morning, with a northwesterly wind at their tails and sunlight sparkling off the Channel, a dozen Blenheim bombers set off for the French coast with an armada of fighters. Thomas was just behind the right wing of the fleet as they crossed over the choppy waters, heading for a green smudge of land in the distance.
As they approached, Thomas rose above the bombing height of 12,000 feet, ducking and weaving through the clouds to check for approaching enemy aircraft. The skies were clear as the harbor of Boulogne came into view, and though there were two dozen German fighters doing practice maneuvers some fifty miles southward, no one had noticed the British incursion yet. Still, Thomas was vibrating with anticipation. Someone could spot them at any moment.
No sooner had the thought crossed Thomas’s mind than the sunny afternoon exploded with whizzing black dots and puffs, anti-aircraft fire from the ground. “Damn it,” Thomas cursed, expecting more. But no German planes appeared from the clouds, and none of the dark bursts hit their marks. A moment later, the Blenheims dropped their bombs into the port. It was hard to see what they’d hit, but from the percussive sounds of explosion and the belches of smoke below, Thomas guessed that they’d found the German vessels snug in the harbor. Well, then, that was something, wasn’t it?
“All right, boys,” the voice came over the radio. “That’s a success. Let’s head back now, shall we?”
Slowly, the Blenheims turned to port and the whole aerial fleet followed them back out over the Channel. In the distance, the British coast gleamed in the sunshine like a beacon welcoming them home.
SEVEN MONTHS LATER, BOMBING RUNS to the mainland were no longer a novelty; they were the pieces that made up Thomas’s life. Each mission was exhilarating in its own way; there were always Huns to look out for, enemy fire to avoid, strategic sites to target. The RAF boys were dogged, determined, undefeatable.
But there were casualties too. In late June, Harry had disappeared over France on a bright, perfect afternoon. It had been a routine mission—escorting bombers in and out—but the Huns had caught them this time, and there had been a dogfight. Thomas had managed to dodge the enemy fire, but he’d heard Harry’s panicked calls over the radio, and he’d seen his friend’s plane corkscrewing toward the earth, its tail breathing fire.
“Harry!” he’d called back as the plane vanished beneath a blanket of clouds. “Harry! Do you read?”
But the sole reply had been a sinister static.
Thomas could only assume his friend—officially listed as missing in action—was dead. He had to be; the way his plane had burned, leaving an ominous shadow of black smoke, had shaken Thomas to the core. There was nothing he could do, and the helplessness was paralyzing.
“This one’s for you, Harry,” he’d said seven weeks later as he engaged in a dogfight with a 109, sending the other aircraft spinning toward the yawning earth. Sometimes, he dedicated his triumphs to Harry; other times it was Oliver; still others it was his own mother, for he was confident that she was up there somewhere, looking down on him and gracing him with a bit of extra luck. How else could he explain the way he seemed invincible?
He taxied in that night and found the flight instructor, Maxwell, waiting for him with a big grin. “You’ll never guess what happened, sir,” Maxwell said as Thomas unfastened his straps.
“I’m a little tired for guessing games,” he said as he climbed from the cockpit.
“Oh, but this one’s worth it. It’s to do with Cormack.”
Thomas looked up, startled. “Harry Cormack?”
“One and the same, sir. He’s back, sir, alive and well. I’d suggest you get over to the mess right away.”
Thomas didn’t believe it until he’d laid eyes on his friend himself five minutes later, after running full tilt across the base. There, just as Maxwell had promised, Thomas found Harry in full dress uniform, gaunter than he’d been seven weeks earlier but otherwise no worse for the wear.
“Harry?” Thomas cried from across the hall, and his friend turned, smiled, and closed the distance between them, pulling Thomas into a bear hug.
“Thomas! You’re a sight for sore eyes, my friend!” Harry’s voice was scratchy but familiar, and Thomas felt as if he were looking at a ghost.
“I was sure you were dead!” Thomas clapped his friend on the back to reassure himself that Harry was actually composed of flesh and bones.
“I thought so too. But I went down near a farmhouse, and the farmer hid me in a storeroom beneath his barn for three days until the Nazis stopped looking.”
“Who was this man?” Thomas asked in awe.
Harry shrugged. “A fellow named Jacques. I never got his surname. He sent me to a butcher in town, who hid me for another four days. And then a third chap put me in the back of his truck and took me to Paris, where they gave me directions to a safe house near a little art shop with sculptures of ballerinas in the window.”
“A safe house?”
“Well, sort of.” Harry chuckled. “It was more like a cupboard, really. It wasn’t far from the Eiffel Tower; I had to stop for a minute and just stare, Thomas. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. The building, it had a huge red door in front, and inside, there was a man up one flight of stairs who hurried me into a sort of hole in the hall. I was there for three days, with just a little sausage and bread to eat, and on the fourth morning, a woman came to take me away.
“They gave me clothes and false papers, and I rode a train filled with Nazi soldiers all the way down to a town near Perpignan in the south. Then—and this is the most unbelievable part, Thomas—I actually walked right over the Pyrenees mountains into Spain.”
Thomas stared at him. “Over the Pyrenees?”
“There’s a mountain pass there, just through a commune called Banyuls-sur-Mer. We made it past the border, and then the man who took us across connected us with railway workers who saw us to Barcelona.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“I wouldn’t believe it either if it hadn’t happened to me.”
“Who are these people who helped you?”
Harry shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. They went by code names, and it all seemed very secretive. But I’ll tell you one thing. They’re helping us win the war, Thomas. Before I was shot down, I rather thought the Brits were in it alone. But there are plenty of ordinary French people who are part of the effort too. They talk about Churchill like he just might be their savior.”
Thomas opened his mouth to reply, to say how astonishing this all was and how glad he was that Harry was home. But he found himself too choked up, so instead, he just smiled and clapped his friend on the back again.
“I’ll never forget any of it,” Harry said after a minute. “And neither should you, Thomas. One of these days, you might be the one falling from the sky.”
“I won’t forget,” Thomas said, though he had no intention of getting shot down over France. “I promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
August 1941
Ruby insisted that Charlotte go home—the longer she stayed, the greater the chance that her parents would awaken and come looking for her—and then as quietly as possible, she moved Dexter into the closet in the hall. She was astonished to find not only that it was large enough to fit a man but that it had been outfitted for just that purpose. There were blankets and a pillow inside, candles and matches, a few tins of food, even some civilian clothes. Marcel had clearly been at this for some time, which made Ruby both furious and proud.
“You’ll be safe here,” she told Dexter. “My husband should be home soon, and he’ll know what to do.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, miss.” He was larger than he had seemed at first, a fact that became quickly apparent as he folded himself into the closet, wincing.
“You can do one thing to thank me.”
“Anything, miss.”
“You can stay alive. I can’t have you dying on my watch, all right?” She was trying to sound confident, but she feared th
at he could hear the tremor in her voice. “We need you back up in the skies as soon as possible. You must promise that you’ll be okay.”
He smiled weakly. “I promise, miss. And I’ve never gone back on my word with a pretty girl.”
She could feel herself blushing as she shut the hidden door. It had been a long time since anyone had called her that.
The next day was awful. It seemed to drag on forever, and though Ruby did her best to go about her normal routine—heading out with her ration tickets to stand in line, sweeping and mopping the apartment, writing to her parents yet again—her mind was on the pilot. Was he okay? There wasn’t a thing she could do while it was light out. And she still had no way to reach Marcel.
She waited until midnight to venture out of her apartment, standing for a long time in the hall to listen for anyone stirring. But the building appeared to be asleep, and so she crept to the closet and opened it by pushing on the panel Charlotte had shown her the night before. When the door swung silently out, the scent of sweat and urine was so strong that it nearly choked her; she took a step back, coughing. Then she held her breath and leaned forward again, searching the darkness.
“Dexter?” she whispered.
“Miss?” The voice was weak, tremulous, but hearing it filled her with a wave of relief.
“You’re okay. Oh, thank God.”
“I made a promise, didn’t I?” She could hear his smile in the darkness.
“Indeed you did. How are you? Can I bring you anything?”
“Oh, I’m doing just great, miss. I suppose a bit of water would be nice, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Of course.” Ruby shut the closet, hurried into her own apartment, and returned a moment later with a full glass. How had she not thought to bring him water earlier? She stood in the hall for a few moments again, listening for movement in the building, before quietly opening the door to the closet, holding her breath, and handing the glass into the darkness.
“Thank you,” Dexter murmured weakly, and then she could hear him drinking in big, grateful gulps. When he handed the glass back seconds later, he added, “And listen, I’m quite sorry about the, er, smell in here.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“That’s awfully kind of you to say, miss. Only I know it’s terrible.”
“It’s really not so bad. How’s the shoulder?”
He hesitated. “Oh, healing up nicely, I think.”
Ruby knew it was a lie. “Look, if my husband isn’t home by tomorrow, I promise I’ll find help.”
“I don’t want to put you in any danger, miss.”
Ruby felt a surge of gratitude and shame. “Dexter, you risked your life because you knew it could make a difference in the war. What kind of a person would I be if I didn’t do the same?”
“You don’t owe me anything, miss. Even this, hiding me at your own risk, is more than I would have expected. You’re very brave.”
“Hardly.” In fact, she felt like a fraud taking any sort of credit for work Marcel had clearly set in motion. “Sit tight, Dexter. You’re going to be okay.”
“Thank you, miss,” he replied softly as she closed the door. “Good night.”
MARCEL CAME HOME TWO HOURS later, just past two in the morning.
“Oh, thank God,” Ruby said, rising to her feet as soon as he walked in. She’d never been so relieved to see him.
He looked startled to see her waiting for him. “Ruby, what is it? Has something happened?”
“When were you going to tell me?” she demanded, instead of answering.
“Tell you what?”
“About the pilots you’ve been hiding.”
Marcel went entirely still for a split second, and then he was at her side, grasping her arm so tightly she knew he’d leave a bruise. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ruby stood her ground. “The hiding space in the hall outside our apartment? The secret late-night meetings? How could you be doing something so dangerous right under my nose without telling me?”
“You can’t say such things, Ruby. It’s careless.”
“I would have helped you, you know. You didn’t give me the chance.”
“Ruby, it’s my job to protect you.”
“Protect me? Marcel, I needed your protection and support when I lost the baby, and you left me entirely alone. This would give me a purpose again. Don’t you see that? If you really want to protect me, you’ll trust me. After all, there’s a pilot in the closet right now, and I’ve managed to keep him safe for a day without you, haven’t I?”
He looked up in surprise. “There’s a pilot in the closet now?”
“He came in last night. He desperately needs medical care, but he’s alive.”
Marcel sat down heavily in an armchair. “The more I tell you, the more danger I put you in.”
“I’m hiding an RAF pilot, Marcel. I think it’s a bit too late for that.”
He sighed and remained silent for what felt like a long time. “I’ve been working with this escape line for more than a year now. We get Allied pilots out through Spain.”
“Through Spain? Who are you working with?”
He shook his head and pressed his lips together. “Better you don’t know.”
Ruby gritted her teeth. “I thought you were going to trust me.”
“Ruby, we only know those who come directly before us or after us on the line. It’s better that way. If any of us is captured by the Nazis, it reduces the number of people we’re capable of giving up.”
“But surely none of you would betray the others.”
“Of course that’s the hope. But the Nazis use torture. Who knows who might break under that kind of pressure? And besides, there’s always the possibility of the line being infiltrated by a spy.”
“If it’s that dangerous, why are you doing it?”
“I have to. I can’t just sit back and let the Germans win.”
Ruby waited until his eyes met hers. “That’s exactly how I feel, Marcel. You must let me help.”
“Let me take care of the pilot first, all right? We can talk in the morning.”
“Is that a promise?”
He held her gaze. “It’s a promise. Now go to bed.”
“Fine.” She had the sense he actually meant what he was saying. And he was right; the squabble between them could wait. Dexter was the priority now. “Please tell him good-bye for me. Good-bye and Godspeed.”
“Who?” Marcel looked puzzled.
“The pilot. Dexter. He’s a nice man, and he deserves to live.”
Marcel nodded, and then he slipped back out the apartment door. Ruby watched through the peephole as he opened the closet and helped Dexter out. As they headed for the stairs, she saw Dexter look back once with the shadow of a smile on his face.
Marcel didn’t look back at all.
THREE DAYS LATER, MARCEL STILL hadn’t returned, and the bad feeling in the pit of Ruby’s stomach was growing worse with every passing hour. He had promised they’d talk the next day, so she knew he had intended to come back. Still, she reminded herself that something could have come up. He could have been forced to hide, or perhaps to take the pilot farther along the escape line than he had anticipated. Ruby didn’t know how it all worked.
When there was a knock at the door just past noon on the third day, Ruby knew it would be about Marcel. She peered into the hallway, saw Aubert standing there, and opened the door slowly.
“Hello, Ruby.” His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes dirty.
“Come in, Aubert,” she said. “Marcel isn’t here.”
“I know.” He followed her inside and waited until she locked the door behind him. “I have some news.”
“Something happened to Marcel, didn’t it?”
Aubert stared at her. “Ruby, he and I were working together on . . . something. Something important.”
“You were helping him with the escape line,” she said softly. It was so obvious now.
<
br /> “He mentioned he’d told you.” Aubert took a deep breath. “I can’t say I approve.”
“Aubert, what happened?”
“Marcel has been—” He stopped abruptly and glanced at Ruby, then at the floor. “Marcel was captured.”
“What?”
“The Germans, Ruby. They caught him escorting the British pilot you kept here. The safe house Marcel took him to had been compromised.”
Neither of them said anything for a moment, and the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall. “All right,” Ruby said finally. “So we’ll get him out. Surely there’s a way.”
“Ruby—”
“And in the meantime, I’ll help. I protected this pilot, didn’t I? I can do it for others until he gets back. Ask him. He’ll tell you.”
“Ruby, I’m afraid you’re misunderstanding me. Marcel isn’t in prison.”
“Oh no. Was he put on one of those transports to the east?” Ruby had just begun to hear about political prisoners being shipped out of France to camps in Germany. It would be harder to retrieve him from there, but she had faith in the network. After all, if they managed to return pilots to Britain, surely they could rescue one of their own.
“No.” Aubert twisted his cap. “They—Ruby, the Germans shot him. He’s dead.”
Silence fell. “Dead?” Ruby whispered. “What about the pilot?”
“What?”
“What happened to the pilot? Is he dead too?”
“Er, no. He’s been sent to Germany. To a POW camp.”
“But they killed Marcel?”
“There are different rules for POWs and those they view as traitors. When Marcel wouldn’t give anything up, they decided to make an example of him. He was a good man, Ruby.”
Ruby looked at the floor for a while, processing what Aubert was telling her. If only she’d figured out something to do with the airman herself. Could she have spared Marcel? Had it been her own inaction that cost him his life?
“Ruby?” Aubert’s voice cut into her thoughts.
She looked up, breathless but suddenly as clearheaded as she’d ever been. “I must help. I must take over Marcel’s work on the line.”
The Room on Rue Amélie Page 8