CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE APARTMENT, the ladies had breakfast waiting. It couldn’t feed a Chihuahua but I wasn’t complaining. I knew the Doumer’s were giving us their food. Daphne put her French roll on my plate and began biting her nails. She was worried about our meeting with the leader of the Resistance, I could tell. Then she got out of the borrowed robe and into her black number. She fussed with her hair all morning, first trying braids, then a bun, then a roll. Finally she let it hang loose. The whole time she must’ve been hoping we’d see Jack later in the afternoon and that he’d sweep her off her feet. Hairdos are important in scenes like that.
We returned to the Resistance flat with half-an-hour to spare. We knocked but no one answered. We heard the elevator working, and then stomping on the plank floors that led to the flat. I guessed right away that the man was Dédée’s father—the lady who’d invented the Comet Line. Same Roman nose and cat eyes. He didn’t say one word until we were back inside the apartment.
He asked us to call him Paul Moreau, even though his name was really Frédéric De Jongh. I let him know my code name was “The Dauphin” and he liked that. The saleslady came in a few minutes later with a paper bag full of coal. She let me put it in the stove and light the fire. I took a seat on one of the crates and Daphne and Monsieur sat in the two upholstered chairs. The saleslady stood behind a dusty curtain, looking down at the street, on watch for the Gestapo.
“I’m so relieved you’ve found us,” he said. “We assumed that either Paul-Henri hadn’t passed on the package, or that a boy couldn’t decipher the code. We were very concerned when you hadn’t come immediately.”
I looked down at my sneakers. “And Paul-Henri?” I asked.
“Paul-Henri was a good man. He’ll be missed.”
“And what happened to the person we was supposed to meet in Mons—the man carrying bonbons?”
“We don’t know. He’s missing. We fear the agent was betrayed and taken by the Gestapo. Sad business.” He sucked in his lips. “You’re here now and we can proceed with plans to get you to Spain.”
Daphne shook her head wildly and her hairdo had its most dramatic effect. She wasn’t going anywhere without Jack. Dédée’s father held his breath. Right before he exhaled, his cheeks looked like they were stuffed with tennis balls. “And tell me again, Mademoiselle Daphne,” he said. “Why do you think your fiancé is still alive? Did you actually dig up the grave?”
She said, “I admit the thought had crossed my mind, but…”
“If you didn’t dig up your fiancé’s grave, how can you be certain he is not in it?”
I looked at Daphne. She said, “There was no record of Jack being buried in Dunkirk, and then we spoke with Monsignor André—the priest who does the burial ceremonies. The body taken from Jack’s plane was a German’s—he had a swastika tattoo, for heaven’s sake. And a girlfriend name Fräulein Sabine.”
Dédée’s father lit a cigarette, thinking deeply. His eyes squinted like something was coming to him. He tossed the match into an ashtray before speaking. “A man was in contact with us last week—here in Paris—identifying himself as Lieutenant John Mooney of the RAF 121st Eagle Squadron.”
Daphne sat up straight in her chair and clapped her hands. Dédée’s father put his hand on hers, stopping her.
“Listen first,” he said. “The lieutenant was to meet with us again to discuss the details for an evacuation. We made him aware there would be a delay. We were stalling for time. You see—we didn’t trust this man. We were working under the assumption that Lieutenant Mooney had been killed in action and that his body had been taken to Dunkirk.”
“But now you know that it wasn’t Jack’s body your people saw being removed from the Spitfire. So it had to have been Jack who approached you,” said Daphne.
Dédée’s father shook his head sadly. “Let me try to explain. We can’t evacuate these airmen fast enough. Many must remain in safe houses here in Paris and elsewhere along the line. The Germans know this. They know perfectly well that every airman who gets back to Britain will be returning in a Spitfire—or worse for them—in a bomber. That’s why our work is so important. It’s why people are willing to risk their lives.”
“Go on,” said Daphne.
“The man calling himself Lieutenant John Mooney asked to be put in touch with the other Royal Air Force pilots hiding in Paris.”
“My brother is probably lonely—on his own for months now—”
He interrupted me. “When things have gone wrong, men we were shielding—men under our protection—have been exposed and taken by the Gestapo. Some have ended up in German internment camps. A few of our agents as well. Have you heard of Ravensbrück?”
Daphne turned white. “Is Jack in Ravensbrück?”
“You misunderstand me,” he said.
The saleslady went to a porcelain sink that was fastened to the wall and filled a glass with water. When Daphne recovered, Dédée’s father explained everything. Because the Resistance believed Jack was dead, they’d had the lieutenant followed to a townhouse in the 16th arrondissement—Villa Jocelyn, to be exact. The lieutenant entered a building that evening, and the agent staked out the place all night. In the morning the same man left the building, but this time dressed in the uniform of a German Luftwaffe major. The agent was a hundred percent certain it was the same man who claimed to be Jack.
I asked if there could be any mistake.
“No. Absolutely not,” spit out the saleslady. I wondered if she was the agent who’d stalked the man.
“Our agent followed the Luftwaffe major to Paris Orly Aéroport,” said Dédée’s father. “The Germans are using it as a military airfield—fighter command, actually. The agent watched as he was admitted into the base. We now know this man to be Flieger-Stabsingemieur Hans Dorfmann of the German Luftwaffe. Do you know that Hermann Göring commands the Luftwaffe? Some of these men are evil. And think—who could impersonate an RAF pilot better than a pilot himself? Had they succeeded, there would have been deadly consequences—perhaps for many.”
I remembered the pretty town of Arras, where 240 French Resistance members were executed in the citadel. In broad daylight the Nazis lined them up against the church wall and shot them one by one. Their horrified families stood on watching, waiting to collect the bodies.
“Fortunately, Dorfmann failed to get inside of our operation,” said Dédée’s father.
This had me thinking. So what if a Nazi was impersonating my brother? It changed nothing. Jack was out there somewheres and we needed to find him. Monsieur De Jongh interrupted my thoughts: “This is the troubling part,” he said. “We believe the Gestapo knew you were heading to Dunkirk in search of your fiancé’s burial place.”
“Dédée told the missing agent that I was going to Dunkirk?” asked Daphne.
“I’m afraid so. She told him everything. We believe also that this is how they knew Paul-Henri would be at the train station in Mons. The other agent was loyal to the bone, but we worry that under pressure—you understand?” He paused for a moment, rose and filled a glass with water, stood by the sink and drank. He was stalling. Setting the glass on the edge of the sink, he returned to his chair. “You say a priest told you there was a German in your fiancé’s uniform?
“Monsignor André at Église Saint-Éloi Cathedral,” answered Daphne.
“Mademoiselle Daphne. Get used to this simple fact: men can be bought.”
I jumped to defend the Monsignor—he had to be legit because he’d taken my confession.
“I’m not surprised,” said the saleslady. “And what did you tell him?”
Daphne got hysterical. She jumped up and shouted, “What possible reason could he have had to lie to us?” She blinked back tears. The saleslady walked her back to the chair and put a hand on Daphne’s shoulder after she’d sat again.
Dédée’s father said, “It seems you were set up to believe that Lieutenant Mooney was alive—so that you would then r
elay that information to us. This Major Hans Dorfmann—impersonating Lieutenant Mooney—would then approach us and we would have believed him.”
I remembered the ledger book at the cemetery. Jack’s name must’ve been written there and then crossed out right before we arrived. The Monsignor—the dirty rotten—. He’d probably exchanged my dollars so’s he could mail them to the German American Bund. Double-crosser.
“But the plot didn’t work,” I said.
“Because you waited a fortnight to tell us.” I knew what a fortnight was.
“All ’cause I forgot about the crossword puzzle?” I sat there frozen. I couldn’t even move my pinkie finger. So Jack was buried in that cemetery, after all. I’d stood a few feet from his grave and didn’t put flowers on it.
Dédée’s father outlined the plan, but I was having trouble following, feeling like somebody had slipped me a Mickey. I had to ask him to repeat.
“So we proceed with our original mission of getting the two of you back to England. Really, you aren’t safe here. The Gestapo will still be looking for you in connection with the events at the munitions factory. They followed you to Dunkirk, they may have followed you to Paris.”
“What will be done to stop the Luftwaffe major from impersonating Jack,” Daphne asked, anger bubbling up in her. Her nostrils were flaring like a dragon’s.
“We have severed communication with him.”
“But he’ll try to make contact with the Resistance in another way,” I said, my head finally clearing and my eyes focusing again after the shock I’d had.
“You may be right, but now that we are aware of his true identity, we’ll continue to stall him, making excuses and not letting him know we’re onto him. Dorfmann is not only hoping we will introduce him to RAF airmen, but that we’ll take him along the line to Spain. They are hoping to expose the entire Comet Line. Can you imagine?”
“I want to see this Luftwaffe major,” said Daphne.
“Why?” I asked, no fight left in me.
“It’s impossible, mademoiselle. And what could be the point?” said the saleslady.
Dédée’s father suggested we continue to stay at Sophie’s, since we’d already been there for a while without being detected. He warned us to stay inside as much as possible.
We got up to go, but Daphne turned and asked if they could help find Aunt Dalia. Both of them shook their heads no. “Out of our scope, I’m afraid,” said Dédée’s father. “I’m sorry. I know how hard this is for you. We’ve lost so many good people in this war.” He squeezed Daphne’s hand. “Return to this flat in three days time. By then my daughter will have arrived in Paris and she’ll have made arrangements for your evacuation over the Pyrenees Mountains. She may even want to escort you herself. Come at the same hour. Bring all your belongings. But pack light.”
“What a bleeding conundrum,” said Daphne, digging her fingernails into my palm.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I LEFT THE FLAT WITH DAPHNE and followed her down Boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Prés, hoping she’d enter a Metro station and we’d head back to Sophie’s. But we passed several by and kept on walking. We crossed over the river and onto an island. My feet were killing me, but I didn’t say a peep. Soon we stood before a huge church, the largest I’d ever seen in my life—bigger than Saint Pat’s in New York City. Daphne went straight inside, even though she was half-Anglican.
“You sure you’re allowed in?” I said.
“The synagogues have all been closed. Notre-Dame will have to do.”
It was dark inside the church until my eyes adjusted. Even after, the only light came from high-up windows that looked like kaleidoscopes. A million different colors swirled around in the space. Hundreds of chairs were lined in rows and facing the altar, which seemed like a million miles away. I took the seat next to Daphne. She closed her eyes, bent her head, and began to pray. Tears dripped from the tips of her long eyelashes. We stayed like that for ages—Daphne lost to herself, and me looking up at them gorgeous windows, trying hard to hold it together and not be a baby.
The windows made me dizzy, especially when they started gyrating. Faster and faster they spun, until I thought they’d fly out of the window frames and kill us. I imagined a hundred shards of multi-colored glass sticking from Jack’s body. I closed my eyes tight and ducked, waiting for the end. That didn’t help any: colors flashed at the back of my eyelids, pounding on my brain. It only stopped once the sun wasn’t shining through the windows anymore. After that, cold came up from the stone floor and into the holes in my sneakers, sending a shiver through my whole body.
Like a ghost’s voice, I heard my ma weeping. Then my sister Nancy joined in. Next Da began wailing. Last came Mary screeching like chalk on a blackboard. They were driving me crazy and I ordered the voices to stop.
I wanted to talk, but I kept quiet. Everybody knows it’s rude to interupt somebody while they’re praying. But at times like this, thinking is a bad idea: the imagination picks all the sad scenes.
My mind was filled with Jack the last time we were together. He’d come home after flight training in Canada, right before shipping out to England. Crossed the border during a leave—illegally, because he’d lost his American citizenship swearing allegiance to the king. Jack was wearing his Royal Canadian Air Force uniform, with sergeant strips on the sleeves and a duffel bag hung from his shoulder. We went to Jones Beach and all the girls were going mad for Jack, even before he stripped down to his boxers. Two short days and we were seeing him off at the Greyhound station. When the bus pulled in, he grabbed me and whispered in my ear: “Don’t forget me, kid.”
Why’d he think I would?
A man passed by each aisle and handed me two sheets of paper, one for Daphne, in case she decided to sing along. A girl stepped up on a platform near the altar and a spotlight lit up her white robe. On the paper were the words for psalms and the musical notes to go with them. The words were in Latin, which I happened to know. The girl in the robe began singing. She sang like an angel.
Daphne stayed praying. I focused on the girl on stage, looking at the paper, trying to follow the words—not singing myself. It all had to do with how good God was, about hope and about trusting God. I tried to do that but it was too hard. It came to me then: God had let me down. He’d let down my ma and da, my sister Nancy, and even Mary. Even her. I tossed the papers on the ground and poked Daphne—maybe a little too hard.
“Let’s blow this joint,” I said.
She stood to rise and we left the church. It was getting to be pitch dark. Lights were coming on in cafés and in the windows of apartments. Street lamps were coming on, one by one, and the sound was like night.
“What now? I asked Daphne.
“Revenge,” was all she said.
“Do we start with the priest?”
“No, with the Luftwaffe major. Then the priest.”
“How?”
“An arrow to the heart. I told you, I’m an expert archer.”
CHAPTER FORTY
BACK AT SOPHIE’S, Daphne wrapped the bow and arrows in a bedsheet. She looked my way and her eyes gave away what she was about to say. “It’s best you stay here, Thomas.”
“No, Daphne. No.” I stamped my foot hard.
“Bloody hell-O! I’m about to assassinate a Nazi. Thomas, have you any idea what the consequences might be if I’m caught?”
She seen the backbone sticking from my shirt. It told her I was coming with her and there was no way on earth to stop me. “Promise me you’ll run if there’s trouble,” she said. “Promise me you’ll run back here.”
Behind my back I crossed my fingers, then I promised.
Daphne asked Sophie for a map of Paris, not letting on that our plans were to eliminate Flieger-Stabsingemieur Hans Dorfmann. We located the 16th arrondissement, then Villa Jocelyn: a tiny street that ran off of Avenue Victor Hugo, of all places. A street that length couldn’t have many houses on it. If the Luftwaffe major returned to his apartment, we was go
ing to know it.
We told the Doumer family we might be spending a night or two away and not to worry. They looked worried anyway, especially Juliette, who hid my socks so’s I wouldn’t go. That wasn’t enough to stop me.
The Metro took us to the Rue de la Pompe station and a few minutes later on we stood in front of a black iron gate. It blocked the entrance to Villa Jocelyn. I rattled the gate, but it was locked.
“It’s an auteuil, a very exclusive street where fabulously wealthy people dwell,” said Daphne.
“Like a country club on the North Shore of Long Island?”
“I suppose so.”
The gate wasn’t very tall and I climbed over. Daphne tossed her bundle over the fence and then followed it, even though she was wearing a dress. We walked from one end of the street to the other. It took all of two minutes. We picked a position mid-way down the street with a good view of the whole length, just inside a doorway. Daphne unwrapped the bow and arrows.
We waited.
Several times the gate was unlocked and a car came rolling into the auteuil, but the passengers were never in German uniforms. The street was quiet and we picked up voices as people walked from their cars to their front doors. Daphne said that all of them, so far, were French.
We started getting drowsy and I came up with the idea to take turns napping. I let Daphne sleep first. She flopped on the ground and rolled up into a tight ball, getting her new outfit dirty. But she didn’t seem to care.
“I could die right now,” she said before nodding off.
Hours ticked by like this. The French liked to stay out late, and some of the residents arrived home in the wee hours of the morning—drunk as skunks. One lady sang a French song, off key and loud enough to wake the dead. The day began to dawn and still no Luftwaffe officer.
“It’s only a matter of waiting and being patient,” Daphne said.
We perked up when traffic picked up. Noise came from Rue de Victor Hugo—honking cars and other morning sounds: accordion gates opening, garbage men emptying cans, street sweepers, and boys hawking newspapers. A lady strolled by carrying a bag of French bread, which I was sorely tempted to snatch. Daphne went to fetch herself some black coffee. She brought me back a cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows, only it was imitation and tasted like mud.
Telegram For Mrs. Mooney Page 21