The Betrayal

by Kate Furnivall

  She dodged between the planes, brushing against the new Tiger Moth from England, and entered the storeroom, Martel limping at her heels. She stopped. Her mind spinning. In front of her the table that usually stood in the centre had been pushed to one side and a trapdoor raised. Never before had she seen it. It must have been hidden under the scrap of old carpet that usually lay there. Two men with dark terrified eyes were scrambling down a ladder into a space below, barely larger than a coffin. Jules was sliding down after them, so that just his head rose above the wooden floorboards.

  ‘It’s the boy,’ Jules said with anger, ‘the Arab boy that cleans up here. Samir.’ He spat on the floor. ‘He betrayed them because they are Jews. Now close the hatch.’

  Romy helped Martel lower the trapdoor and push the rug and table into place. He checked the room, then switched off the light. They were plunged into darkness.

  ‘You hide Jews here?’ Romy whispered.

  ‘They escape from Germany and come here illegally with no papers.’ They were moving quickly to the small door that would take them outside. ‘I arrange a flight out for them.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘To England.’

  ‘Who flies them?’

  ‘My brother Charles. The one I told you about who is a pilot in England.’

  The noises were louder now. The police heading closer. Drawing near to the hangar. Martel opened the door a hair’s breadth. Torches raked the darkness outside but not yet down this side of the hangar.

  ‘We must hide, Léo.’ She gripped his good arm. ‘In one of the planes.’

  ‘No, Romy. Trust me.’

  She felt something in him so compelling that not for one second did she consider not trusting him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Müller has used the excuse of finding German Jews to come after you and me using the sledgehammer of the French police. He will have them search every plane on the airfield. Don’t underestimate that man.’

  Romy felt sick in her stomach. ‘We could get in your car and try to drive through the perimeter fence.’

  He kissed her forehead. ‘We would be mown down before we got anywhere near it.’

  ‘So we go out together.’

  ‘Romy, there is one plane already fuelled and ready to fly.’

  ‘Léo, we can’t reach the aeroplanes out there. As you said, the police are all over them, searching each one. We would be shot before we even jumped up on the wing.’

  She didn’t say it. But he knew what she was thinking. That he was slow and clumsy at manoeuvring himself into a cockpit. With a broken shoulder blade, even worse.

  An explosion ripped through the night, tearing it apart and sending chills through Romy. But hidden in the doorway, she held Martel, binding them together.

  ‘A hand grenade,’ Martel muttered. ‘In one of the other hangars. Come, we must run. To the plane.’

  ‘Which plane?’

  ‘The Percival Gull. It’s parked on its own, fifty metres from here.’ He spoke quickly. ‘The Gull is ready to go. My brother was flying in here tonight in another Moth but was going to fly back to England in our Gull because it has two passenger seats. For the Jews. But he won’t be coming in tonight, not now. Not with all this mayhem going on.’

  The moon slipped free of the clouds and silhouetted the Percival Gull in the distance. It made Romy’s heart gallop. Hope spread its fingers.

  ‘They will see us,’ she whispered.

  ‘Not if you’re quick.’

  She gripped the edge of his sling. As if it were a piece of him. ‘Not if we’re quick.’

  ‘You go for the cockpit. I’ll swing the prop.’

  ‘One-handed?’

  ‘Yes, I can do it.’

  She believed him.

  He wrapped his muscular palm around her chin and held it tight. ‘I can’t climb into the cockpit fast enough, Romy. We both know that. You have to go without me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, we go together.’

  Tears were rolling down her cheeks. He kissed them. His eyes were hooded as he let go of her.

  ‘Be quick,’ he said.

  The police search had reached the row of planes parked nearby.

  ‘We go together,’ she said. ‘Or not at all. But what we need is a distraction.’

  Romy chose the Dragon Rapide. It was constructed of wood and fabric. It would go up like a torch. She chose it because the fuselage was big enough to put on a good show that would set the night on fire for quite some time.

  She stole around the corner of the hangar and willed the moon to dive behind a cloud but it lingered. The sight of the police crawling like rats over everything made her want to turn and run, but she waited. Her heart at her throat. And just when she knew she could wait no longer, the moon sidled into a black cloud that switched off its light.

  The darkness would be brief.

  Suddenly she was running. Ducking under wings, dodging behind an undercarriage, slipping out of the path of a torch beam heading her way.

  She crouched under the Dragon Rapide. Two quick breaths. Forcing herself to swallow. She stood up and emptied the petrol can in her hand over the wing and tail fin of the plane, whispered an apology to it, and touched Martel’s lighter to the canvas. It roared up in flames so high that they knocked her back and singed her eyebrows.

  Shouts and screams echoed around her. Boots raced in her direction. Cries for buckets of water. Müller’s stern voice swearing vengeance. A raging, roaring furnace that leaped to neighbouring planes and set the night sky on fire.

  But Romy was not there to watch the chaos. She hurtled across the grass away from the inferno, jinking in the direction of the Percival Gull where Martel was standing ready to swing the two-bladed propeller. She had almost reached it when a two-headed shadow fell across her path and she came to an abrupt halt.

  The explosion of a fuel tank rattled her eardrums and sent a ball of fire glowing above them. The shadow vanished. In its place stood Florence. Chloé lay in her arms.

  ‘Take her.’

  ‘Florence, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I came over the fence.’

  ‘You could have been killed. Shot at any moment.’

  ‘I came to find you.’

  Chloé clung to her mother in the darkness, her blue eyes huge and terrified by the monstrous noise and explosions. Another tank caught fire. White heat streaked through the air.

  ‘For God’s sake, Florence, go home.’

  ‘I can’t. Not with Chloé.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Martel’s shout reached her above the noise. ‘Romy, hurry!’

  ‘You’re escaping,’ Florence stated.

  Romy didn’t deny it.

  ‘Take Chloé. Please, Romy.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  But in a sudden flare from the fires Romy saw her sister’s face clearly. It was bone white. Her lips moved but no sound came out.

  ‘They are coming for me,’ Florence said finally in a voice cracking at the edges. ‘They have Roland already.’ She stepped forward and thrust the child into her sister’s arms. Chloé started to cry silently when Florence turned away.

  Horror swept into Romy’s chest. She reached out, seized her sister’s hand and held on to it. ‘Florence, don’t. This is crazy. Come with us. We can put you and Chloé in the second passenger seat.’ She tried to pull her sister forward. ‘Quickly, before—’

  ‘No.’ Florence snatched her hand away. ‘I have to go back for Roland.’

  ‘Don’t, Florence. Come with us.’

  Romy clasped Chloé tight as if by doing so she could keep Florence at her side. For a minute she thought she had succeeded because her sister stepped forward, her arms outstretched. She wrapped them around Romy and Chloé, kissed first one, then the other, and then retreated.

  ‘No, Maman,’ Chloé cried, her young body shaking.

  ‘Why?’ Romy shouted after her. ‘Why go back for Roland?’
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  Already half merged with the darkness, as though the sister Romy knew was fading into something that Romy could never reach, Florence turned to face her.

  ‘Because I love him.’

  ‘I thought you married him to get him to lie for me.’

  A smile touched Florence’s lips. ‘Oh, Romy, I love you, my sister. But I love Roland more than my life.’

  Darkness descended on the spot where she had stood.

  Romy helped Chloé on to the wing. Bundled her into the cockpit. The hinged cockpit cover was tilted back and the child slid into the rear passenger seat, nerves jumping each time a flare of flame shot into the sky.

  ‘I’ll keep you safe, Chloé,’ Romy promised.

  Her fingers hurried to fasten the safety harness and wrap a blanket around the small shivering child. Chloé’s teeth clamped together. She didn’t utter a sound. Quickly Romy took the pilot’s seat, heart thumping as she watched Martel spin the blade.

  ‘Contact!’

  The Cirrus Major engine roared into life. It would be their lifeblood tonight. But the sound of it cut through the crack and hiss of the flames and suddenly heads turned their way. Away from the hangar and still in shadow, there was a moment’s doubt among the searchers and in that moment Martel leaped for the wing. He hauled himself up with one hand, threw himself into the cockpit’s empty seat.

  That was when the first rifle shot rang out. Romy abandoned the pre-flight checks and let the years of flying knowledge in her hands take over. The Percival Gull started to rumble across the airfield. Bullets whistled around the cockpit, and Romy felt a handful of them smack into the fuselage. She pushed the plane harder, faster, racing down the runway, and prayed that nothing vital had been hit. The Gull was larger and heavier than the Tiger Moth but had a faster rate of climb. When it finally dragged itself off the ground, she could feel its power as it rose into the air. It came alive.

  Below her the fires still raged. Müller marched, while Paris slept.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  FLORENCE

  Blood thumps through my veins. Maman has asked for roses. I am in the garden kissing with Roland behind the yew hedge and his fingers are like firebrands on my breasts. I pass the roses to Maman through the kitchen window and Papa summons me to his study.

  I know why.

  He wants me to marry the German, Horst Baumeister. He wants a bridge between them and us. I am to be that bridge. I understand. Really. I understand.

  When I see Horst my body wants him, he is so beautiful. Tall, well-muscled, skin that I want to caress. Hair almost white, it is so blond. Eyes that are bluer than a summer’s sky at first, but I know if I peel away their surface, each layer will reveal a darker and darker pool. I stand in my father’s study and cannot take my gaze off this German.

  Words grow hot in the room. My father and Herr Müller argue over the best plan to assassinate Théodore Steeg, the leader of the Radical Socialist Party. I only half listen. If Papa says it is right to remove this man, then I believe him. Death of an individual is not important. It is the end result that matters. Communism must be stopped. By whatever means. We all agree on that.

  And then you go and destroy everything, Romaine. You end our world.

  Suddenly you are here in the room with us and I can feel your rage at Papa hot on my face. In your anger you are so pure, you shine with light, but Romaine you are so wrong. I want you to stop. Stop. Right now. But you will not. You instruct Papa on the immorality of his plan and you swear you will go to the police unless he abandons his treacherous plotting with the Germans. You are righteous in your rage.

  Righteous. And foolish.

  My heart dies when Müller draws out his gun and aims it at your chest.

  Papa, stop him! I step closer to you.

  You will not lie down, even now. You snatch up the paperknife. A knife against a gun. You threaten Herr Müller and he laughs at you, mocks you, raising the muzzle of the gun until it points straight at your face. Your precious face. Papa moves between you and Müller, and your knife is almost at his throat.

  ‘Are you going to kill me, your own father?’

  And all this time Horst stands to one side, his face like stone, watching but doing nothing to restrain his German master. And in that second I learn to hate him. I know I cannot marry him. Not even for Papa.

  The air trembles. Or is it me? The four of us come together in a violent quivering clash. I seize the brass paperweight from the desk and swing it at Müller, but it goes wrong, all wrong. You leap for his gun and the brass pyramid slams into your head instead. At the same moment I snatch the paperknife from your hand.

  But your hand goes limp. You are crumpling to the floor. Why don’t you try to hold on to the knife, Romaine? Why don’t you resist? Your eyes roll up in your head and you let the knife fly from your hand. It is all over so fast, before my next heartbeat, as my hand clutching the silver blade accelerates before I can halt it. If you had resisted, Romaine, it would not have shot through the air so fast, right into the mottled flesh of my father’s throat. Before he hits the floor, I know he is dead. I stare in terror. Blood swims across his shirt front.

  ‘Scheisse!’ Müller shouts.

  He moves over to your limp form and puts the gun to your temple.

  ‘No!’ I scream. I throw myself on my knees beside you.

  He grimaces. ‘She will have me arrested for accessory to murder and for stealing military secrets. Go away, Florence.’

  My throat is jammed. I have to force the words out. ‘No, Herr Müller, no. Romaine will say nothing. She knows that if she does, I will be tried for murder and guillotined. She won’t say a word, I promise.’

  I am shaking, my heart is torn to shreds, everything in me is coming apart. But I look up into Müller’s cold grey eyes and I steal a scrap of his calmness for myself.

  ‘You can trust us,’ I say. ‘Both of us. To stay silent.’

  For the first time Horst speaks. ‘I believe her, Herr Müller.’

  Too little. Too late.

  Müller nods at me and my relief is so strong I am almost sick. ‘I trust you, Florence. You understand that what we are doing and planning is for the good of France, as well as Germany. But your sister . . .’ Slowly he shakes his head. ‘I can never trust her. She will always be a danger to me.’

  ‘No.’ I stand up. God knows how. My legs are not connected to my body. All the pain seems to have sunk down into them. And then I say them, the words that will change your life, Romaine. ‘There is no need to kill her, Herr Müller. I will tell her that she stabbed my father just before she lost consciousness and that she can’t go to the police without incriminating herself. She won’t want to face the guillotine, I swear to you.’

  He smiles.

  I force my lips to smile back at him.

  ‘I like you, Florence, you are clever.’

  He puts away his gun. ‘What about the police?’

  ‘I will deal with them.’

  Horst Baumeister is staring at me the way you stare at a snake.

  ‘Aufwiedersehen, Fräulein,’ Müller says and walks out.

  Horst lingers for two seconds. ‘Your sister will have a terrible mountain to climb.’

  Then he too is gone. I am alone. With the smell of blood. And my betrayal. I walk slowly over to my father and kneel down beside him. No tears. No outpouring of the grief in my chest. But I hold his hand in mine.

  I enter the apartment on Avenue Kléber, Cupid returning for one last execution. The hall smells of blood. Not of roses. I am quiet. On silent feet I walk past the bodies of Müller’s two men and step over the guard on the floor outside the salon door. The one I shot before I left.

  I open the door to the salon and find what I expect. Three men. And Roland. And the smell of blood. The three men are startled and guns fly into their hands. They fail to shoot me on the spot because I am a woman, that is the only reason. If I were a man, I would be dead by now.

  ‘I have come to say goodbye to my
husband,’ I announce.

  Only then do I look at Roland. A blackness swoops down at the back of my eyes and I have to blink twice to clear it. He is tied to a chair. He still has all his fingers, that is the best I can say. His face is blackened and swollen. His teeth are smashed, his nose is broken, half of one ear is cut off. Blood weeps down from his forehead. But when his bloodshot eyes see me, they shine. They shine with love and pride, the way they did the day I married him.

  He knew I would come.

  In the two seconds I have before my husband’s torturer reacts – the one with the killer’s eyes who was driving my sister away in a car earlier tonight – I stoop and kiss Roland’s ragged mouth. The men are swearing at me but I do not hear them. I inhale my husband’s breath deep inside me.

  ‘Goodbye, my love,’ I whisper against his lips. I taste his blood.

  My gun is in my hand before the men can move a muscle, my bullet slams into Roland’s brain. His head slumps down on his chest. It is then that the men’s hands come at me, but each flicker of time has stretched, so I see them as slow and clumsy. I am too fast for them. The gun is in my mouth. My finger squeezes the trigger.

  Darkness reaches up for me and I fall at the feet of my husband.

  Goodbye, my love.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The darkness opened up as Romy soared through the night sky. She felt the joy of it burn away the fear that had gripped her on the ground. The clouds had moved away to the east, unveiling the stars, pin-sharp in the vast sweep of the black canopy. The wind was light and from the south-west, aiding her speed, and the bright moonlight turned her wings to solid silver. She was cruising at 200 kph, her course set for England.

  With Chloé in the plane. As well as Léo Martel. She could scarcely believe it. As her hands adjusted the controls and guided the plane in the direction of Croydon Airport, she was overwhelmed by a rush of gratitude to her sister. They both loved Chloé with a fierce protective love and yet Florence had given Romy the chance to start her new life with this beautiful child at her side, to watch her grow and blossom into a fine young woman.

  ‘Thank you, Florence,’ she whispered into the night.

  Behind her, Martel had been soothing Chloé and finally she had fallen into a fretful sleep. He was good with the child, sensitive to her, the way he was to planes. He reached forward and rested his hand on the back of Romy’s neck. She was cold without her flying suit but at least it was a closed cockpit and she had a blanket around her. His touch was warm. It melted a part of her.