Monsieur Faure asked a nun if we could visit with the Monsignor, and within a few minutes we got whooshed into a Bible-filled office.
A man rose from behind a colossal wood desk. One of his hands leaned on the desk and one reached for an ivory-handled cane. His face was like a prune, only friendlier. He wore a purple-trimmed black cassock with a purple sash around his waist, meaning he was in tight with the Pope. Stepping from around the desk to greet us, I noticed his cassock smelled like mothballs and frankincense.
He hugged Madame Faure, making kissing motions toward her two cheeks. That would never happen at Saint Brendan’s. Not in a billion Sundays.
The Faures talked in rapid-fire French. I could catch enough to know they were telling the priest our story. When Madame Faure talked about my brother’s crash in Belgium, the priest stuck his chin out, wrinkling his mouth and clicking his tongue. She mentioned my brother’s name and the priest’s eyes flew open and he motioned for us to take a seat.
The Monsignor turned to Daphne and said, “Madame Faure tells me you are looking for your fiancé. And your name isn’t Sabine, by any chance?”
“No,” said Daphne, “why ever would you think it was?”
The Monsignor cracked a smile. “There are so many airmen killed in action being brought to us, that by now, it’s hard for me to remember all of their names. Your Lieutenant Mooney, however, stands out in my memory. You see, there was quite an uproar concerning that particular body.”
Body. I took Daphne’s hand in mine and squeezed hard.
He waited a beat, looking at Daphne the whole time. “Oui, mademoiselle, I remember that body very well. Gunshot wound to through the right temple.”
We stared at the Monsignor dumbstruck.
His finger touched the left side of his neck. “I’m assuming your fiancé doesn’t have a small swastika tattooed on the side of his neck? Think carefully—a very crude job, a homemade tattoo. Something he received, perhaps, while intoxicated?”
My eyeballs were going to pop out of their sockets. It could be he was senile. That happened to my great-great aunt Sinéad, who before she died, insisted that I was her long-lost childhood sweetheart.
“I thought not,” said the Monsignor, pulling on his chin, looking from Daphne to me. “A body was brought to the cemetery, dressed in the flight uniform of an RAF pilot—Royal Canadian Air Force insignia, if my memory is serving me. Around his neck were the dog tags of a Lieutenant John Mooney. Your fiancé’s identification, no doubt, and yet clearly not your fiancé’s body. I happened to be at the cemetery when the German medics arrived with the corpse. They’d come directly from the crash site. Of course, the Germans had searched the body on the journey to Dunkirk—they always do—looking for items of value: a wedding ring, money, or pocket watch. Why, they’ll steal the gold out of a filling.”
“Ratfinks,” I said with my teeth clinched.
“They’d spotted the gunshot wound—they would have, the moment the flight helmet was removed. And yet the helmet was undamaged. Naturally, this raised all sorts of questions. The deceased was brought into the building and the caretaker ordered to strip him. We could all see that his underclothing were German military issue. Then the tattoos became visible.” He stabbed the air with his finger. “That’s how we knew that the deceased, you see, had a girlfriend named Sabine—a very Germanic name.”
“Why would a German be wearing my brother’s uniform and dog tags?”
“Precisely what the Germans wanted to know. They swore they’d seen the body removed from the Spitfire with their own eyes. While they argued, I stood at the back of the room in quiet reflection and prayer. Within no time I reached the conclusion that your lieutenant must have escaped wearing the uniform of a German. Mon Dieu! A switch! A very ingenious idea.”
“Jack is alive!” said Daphne, pinching my arm. “I always said as much.”
“Ouch,” I cried.
“Calls were made,” the Monsignor said, continuing the story. “It seemed a Gestapo agent was missing—the very agent who had gone to investigate the crash site. He must have been careless.” The Monsignor shrugged a shoulder, using his cane as a prop. “Sad for poor Sabine,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I LEFT THE CHURCH AND FOUND Daphne and the Faures waiting for me across the street at a monument. Even Madame Faure was giggling. Daphne and her were already buddies and had their arms wrapped around each other’s waists and were kissing each other on the cheeks. Like schoolgirls just named homecoming queen. Feeling pretty good myself, I jumped up onto a water fountain and splashed Monsieur Faure and he splashed back.
On top of everything, I’d been absolved. In a private meeting with the Monsignor, I poured out my confession. When I owned up to taking from the collection plate, he had the idea that I give over the leftover dollars, which he would return to The Holy Mother Church. In exchange he gave me a stack of French francs from his own pocket. “Now consider this a donation to your mission and we’re even,” he said. For about $30 US, I got 150 francs. Not a bad deal.
Wanting to make what they call a “proper act of contrition,” I mentioned the biplane and the Congobar I’d bought using collection money. I went to hand back some of the francs, but the Monsignor waved them off and said for me to consider it a gift from God. Then he offered me a short homily: “But don’t take from the plate again. Put something in next time.”
“Oui, oui,” I said, which sounds like wee-wee but means “double yes.”
When I confessed to hating Sister Bridget at Saint Brendan’s, he gave me his own story: “When I was a boy, I had a nasty nun for a teacher. We boys called her Robespierre. She tormented me every day for an entire school year. I dreaded going to class. I was an exceptional student, but my grades began falling under her tutelage. She preferred the iron rod to a soft encouragement. I lived in fear of her wooden chalkboard pointer. She might have used the guillotine had there been one available.”
“So what did you do?” I asked, hoping for advice. Sister Bridget had whacked me more than once with a chalkboard pointer.
“As you see, I became a priest. Upon ordination, I asked to be assigned to the same school I had attended as a boy.”
With a sideways, eyes-half-closed look, I asked if he was suggesting I become a priest. A split-second later and I was sorry I’d asked. If he said yes, I wasn’t sure I could refuse. Although it sure was a good way to get back at Sister Bridget, and one I’d never considered.
“Only if the Lord calls you,” he said.
Well, my options were still wide-open. I wanted to be an Egyptologist and dig up mummies and ancient treasures. Be the Howard Carter of my generation—if not that, than a racecar driver. I asked what he done about Sister Robespierre.
“I put in a request she be relocated.”
“Where to?” I asked.
“To Tikai, a small remote island in the French Polynesian archipelago. It wasn’t far enough, to my mind. And I made a specific recommendation that she never be allowed near children again.”
Now I was worried for the natives of Tikai. They’d have no way of getting away, what with ocean on four sides. Hopefully they were better swimmers than me. My fears were soon put to rest:
“She chose to retire instead,” he said. “To a convent, as I had hoped.”
I asked for the moral of the story, because there’s always one in a homily, guaranteed. The Monsignor laughed though and waved his hand. For once I was spared. “You are absolved,” he said, making a sign of the cross above my head. “Go in peace, first saying four Hail Marie’s and the Our Père for your other sins: stealing the speedboat and lying to your mother, in particular.”
With a wad of French francs in my pocket, I wanted to celebrate. I was never one for saving. I’d gotten a piggy bank for my 10th birthday, but that pig was starving. My ma said she was certain I had a hole in my pocket but had trouble locating it when she done the mending. My motto was: Why spend tomorrow, what you can spend today?
The Faures walked us over to a café a few streets away. Daphne said, “Champagne for everyone. Even a sip for you, Thomas.” The Faures helped decode the menu and I ordered everything strange: frog legs and snails in butter—which they called escargot. There was no shortage of them, even in wartime. I ordered something called Kig ha farz, just for the sound of it. It ended up being nothing but boiled pork with dumplings, something my ma made all the time. They didn’t have champagne, because the Germans were drinking it all, but Daphne ordered an entire bottle of the fizzy water. When I took a sip, the bubbles went up my nose. I was having the time of my life.
Until the bill came.
How could a bunch of snails cost so much? In America we try to get rid of them by leaving bowls of beer, which they jump into, drown and then dissolve. The Faures seen the panic on my face and insisted on throwing in.
Daphne and me were invited to spend the night above the tobacco shop and we headed home. Even though we passed German soldiers, they weren’t able to put a damper on our good moods. We stopped at an ice-cream cart, which was attached to a tricycle. The boy served up shaved ice, with more ice than syrup. Daphne passed. Said she had to mind her figure now that she’d be seeing Jack again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Somewhere in German-occupied France
THE SUN IS ABOUT TO RISE after a cool night. There’s mist in the air but this is clearing. Imagine you’re looking at a gatepost and above the post is a sign, hanging crookedly: PARIS ORLY AÉROPORT.
A few years earlier, you might have come to pick up a friend who’d flown in from Algiers. But it’s early autumn 1942, and there hasn’t been a commercial flight arriving to this airport in quite a while.
A Nazi flag snaps in a gust of wind.
Tilting his cap toward his left eyebrow, an officer of the German Luftwaffe idles his motorcycle at the gatepost. After taking a drag from his cigarette, he lets it dangle from the corner of his mouth. Reaching into his overcoat pocket, he removes his identity papers from a billfold, handing them over to the soldier on guard duty.
The soldier is standing at attention but relaxes as he examines the papers. “Flieger-Stabsingemieur Hans Dorfmann?”
The Luftwaffe officer nods and says, “Ja wohl.” He returns his papers to the billfold and rides into the air base, in the direction of the aerodrome.
Looking into the window of the operations shack, he sees several pilots lounging in chairs and one curled up on a small sofa. One has his feet propped up on a wooden table that takes up much of the room. He’s reading a book that the officer sees is We by Charles Lindbergh, who flew from Long Island, New York to Paris in 1927, making the first trans-Atlantic solo flight and becoming a hero to his fellow Americans. Now he’s also a hero to the Luftwaffe, having visited Germany at the invitation of Hermann Göring.
The pilots are tired after a long night in their flying machines and are catching a few winks before their replacements arrive and they go to their barracks and rest properly.
A parachute harness hangs from a hook outside the shack and the man puts it on while walking toward the airfield. A Messerschmitt awaits—his very favorite. With his flight boot, he kicks the blocks out from in front of the wheels, jumps up on the left wing and slides the canopy open. Looking at the gauges, he is pleased to see that the tank is nearly full, so is the battery.
He jumps into the cockpit, strapping the harness to a parachute already placed on the seat. The oxygen mask goes on his face—the tank snuggly beside his leg. Flicking a switch, the motor springs to life. He looks through the Plexiglas. The morning sunrise—which is now hovering at the horizon—glares off the windshield and blinds him momentarily. The plane rolls forward and trundles to the airstrip.
The Messerschmitt lifts itself from the ground, flying over a field where black cows graze on gentle undulating hills. When the ignition switch is moved down, the drop in revolutions is barely noticeable. The engine hums monotonously. The oil temperature begins to rise, remaining steady. The needle stops comfortably below the red mark.
The pilot levels at 3000 meters, heading into the sun, which is now throwing orange rays over the French countryside.
He banks his Messerschmitt to the right. And as Luftwaffe pilots do every day, he heads north toward the English Channel. Sometimes he wishes he were a bomber pilot. They do more damage, that’s for sure. But after few spins, dives, and a flick roll, he reminds himself that being a fighter pilot is so much more fun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
FROM THAT MOMENT IN DUNKIRK, when we were certain my brother was alive, Daphne began talking more about her time with Jack before he went missing. She’d been superstitious keeping these stories to herself. Like in the back of her mind she worried they’d be the only things left of Jack and she didn’t want to give them away.
“Whenever there’s a moment of quiet between sweeps,” she said, “the pilots make up crazy games which we girls join in on. One is called Mayday. We play it in a former ballroom, where the boys are barracked. The floor is the English Channel, touch it and you’re in trouble. Downed pilots—and that’s all of us—escape by jumping to furniture, carpets, tables, and cushions, which we imagine to be life rafts. We swing from curtains and chandeliers, trying to land safely on an island or into a boat. Sometimes, when there’s an attractive WAAF—short for Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, don’t you know—one of the pilots will play the part of a shark. Everyone knows there are sharks in the English Channel.”
“Sharks?” I said gulping, thinking how I’d tried to talk her into swimming over to Belgium.
“And if one need parachute from a Spitfire?” she said, getting my attention. “One must do so by jumping from the fireplace mantel. Ripping fun during the winter when there’s a fire roaring below.”
“Ripping!” I said. “I wanna play Mayday!”
“Only once did one of us get seriously injured playing the game—knocked unconscious when he fell from a chandelier and hit his head on a metal drinks trolley. His face was cut up by broken glass. When he came to in the medic tent, we were all there to award him with the Distinguished Flying Cross. I played the part of the queen.”
No wonder Daphne never told me about the game. As long as there was the ghost of a chance that Jack died in the crash, it wouldn’t of been funny.
Daphne kept the stories coming, as we drove the next weekend to Paris. We were driving there in the Faure’s car. It was their wedding anniversary and we were getting a lift to what they called, “The City of Love.” The description made me squeamish, but I had no choice but to head in that direction myself.
We knew the escape route from Belgium to Spain went through Paris. It made sense because Paris was a big city and a good place for a pilot to hide in. We figured Jack might know about this escape route; he had friends who had evaded capture. Made sense he’d head to Paris and make contact with the French Resistance. Anyway, Paris was as good a guess as any place.
Besides, Daphne insisted we go. She was crazy for Paris and all excited about seeing Great-Aunt Dalia again. We’d have somewheres to stay while we combed the city, that’s all I cared about. And we’d eat good, too; because the aunt was buddy-buddy with all the chefs, one of the perks of being a food critic. Daphne said her aunt “favored” cream sauces, ate Hollandaise sauce on her eggs, and knew the best way to roast a quail. She promised we’d be eating truffles before long. Truffles were subterranean fungus, she told me, hunted by pigs. Sounded interesting. My eyes closed and I dreamed about ham sandwiches. With mayo.
“Your aunt must be fat, huh?” I asked, when Daphne woke up from a snooze. Her cheek had an indent from where she’d rested against a strip of seat piping. “And how old is she, anyway?”
“Hmm…good question,” she said yawning. “She’s my grandmother’s elder sister. So she must be 70, at least. Yet she doesn’t act it. Such a hoot!” (Daphne hooted.) “And the way she dresses! I’m telling you—straight out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.”
“A pre-what?”
“You know: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Edward Burne-Jones, John William Waterhouse. Oh, it was all the rage amongst late 19th century English painters. Do you mean to tell me you haven’t seen The Lady of Shallot at the Tate Gallery?” The blank look on my face made her shove me and say: “Philistine.”
Before we left Dunkirk, the Faures managed to get us travel papers, issued by the Germans and required for passage on French roads. Monsieur Faure’s sister—using her identity papers—got a pass for Daphne. Madame Faure used Jacques-Yves’ birth certificate to get a pass for me.
We should’ve reached Paris in three hours, but there were roadblocks. A couple times, Germans searched the car, while they made us cool our heels on the side of the road. They were looking for concealed weapons, smuggled Jewish folks, runaway airmen, and contraband food. Not once did they question me about my bow and arrows, pocketknife, or about the slingshot Daphne had in her valise.
I was warned to keep my trap shut if they questioned us. No matter how tempted, I was not to speak German with the soldiers. “And no name calling,” said Daphne. “If asked a direct question, bust out crying and cling to Madame Faure. Do. Not. Speak.” Humiliating, if you ask me. At every checkpoint, the Germans asked for our papers and fired all their questions to Monsieur Faure. They always ogled Daphne, ignoring me completely.
“Funny,” said Daphne as we pulled away from a checkpoint, “but growing up in England, I’d often hide the fact that I was Jewish—you know, from schoolmates and the like. Trying to fit in, I suppose; trying to blend. And yet here in German-occupied France, now when it makes sense to conceal it—life and death, rather—well, I suddenly don’t wish to. There’s this longing welling up inside me to shout it out for all the world to hear.”
Telegram For Mrs. Mooney Page 17