The Room on Rue Amélie Page 9

  “No, Ruby. That’s impossible. I can’t put you in that sort of danger.”

  “Marcel said he’d let me help. Before he left.”

  “No. Absolutely not. I couldn’t put you in danger. I can’t do that to Marcel.”

  “Marcel is dead,” Ruby said, more sharply than she intended.

  Guilt flickered across Aubert’s face. “I’m still his friend. And he would want me to protect you.”

  “It’s not Marcel’s choice. Or yours.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ruby. You’re an American. You already stand out here. You’d only be a liability to us.”

  “But—”

  “No.” His tone was firm now. “You should try to get out. I hear there are still some ships leaving for America from the Free Zone. Contact your embassy in the south and get some help there. You can find me in the back of the bakery on the rue de la Comète if you need anything in the meantime, but there’s nothing for you here anymore.”

  Aubert was gone before she could say anything more. Ruby stared after him before shutting the door to her apartment. She stood motionless for a few minutes, and then she crumpled to the floor and let the tears come.

  Marcel was dead. Shot by the Germans. He’d been a better man than she’d given him credit for. If he’d lived, would he have let her help, as he promised? Would they have fallen back in love once he was no longer hiding from her?

  She’d never have the chance to know.

  TWO DAYS LATER, JUST PAST dawn, there was a sharp knock at the door.

  “Marcel?” Ruby cried, springing awake, and then she was hit by a fresh wave of guilt and pain. She’d barely gotten out of bed since Aubert’s visit; she’d been caught off guard by the depth of her grief. After all, there’d been a gulf between Marcel and her for more than a year; they hadn’t made love since before she’d lost the baby; and she’d had the growing sense that they would divorce at the war’s end. But realizing that he had risked his life to save Allied pilots, and knowing that he had died because of it, made her look at everything differently. Certainly he hadn’t been the husband she had hoped for, but would things have been different if the war hadn’t come?

  Maybe much of it was her fault, in fact. She should have been more prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, to see him as the person she’d fallen in love with. Had it been her own restlessness that had made her turn away so easily?

  The knock came again, and Ruby threw on a dressing gown and hurried to answer. What if it was Aubert, here to tell her he had reconsidered, that he needed her on the line? Instead, when she pulled the door open, she found herself face-to-face with two French police officers—and two Germans in full dress uniform, one fair-haired, the other darker.

  She blinked at them in stunned panic before she realized that she hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, except for hiding Dexter, but she doubted they knew about that. Even if they’d tortured him, surely he wouldn’t have given her up; it would have been much easier to leave her out of the story altogether and explain that it had been Marcel sheltering him.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

  “You are Madame Benoit?” the shorter of the two French gendarmes asked. The buttons that ran the length of his uniform were spotless and shiny, his small hat on perfectly straight. His eyes gleamed as bright as his buttons; he was clearly pleased to be part of whatever this was.

  “I am.” She pulled her dressing gown a bit tighter.

  “We will need to see your papers.” Behind the little gendarme, the German officers were silent, their eyes boring into hers. The other French policeman looked uneasy, his eyes roving over the interior of her apartment.

  “Yes, of course.” She left the door ajar as she went to retrieve her papers from her handbag. The French officer inspected them first and then handed them to the Germans, who read them over. The dark-haired one snorted and handed them back.

  “American?” he asked in thickly accented French. “What are you doing here?”

  She explained that she’d married a Frenchman before the war, that she’d decided to stay. The German pursed his lips and muttered something to the other officer, who nodded.

  “This is very suspicious, you see,” he said, fixing Ruby with a steely gaze. His eyes were beady and empty, like a snake’s. His French was impeccable. “Why didn’t you return to the United States?”

  “I wished to remain at my husband’s side.”

  “To help him with his traitorous work on the escape line?” the little French officer sneered.

  “Oh, no, but surely those accusations against him were not true.” She forced her eyes wide and wrung her hands. “Surely the French police made a mistake.”

  “We do not make mistakes, madame,” the little officer said tightly. Behind him, the fair-haired German rolled his eyes, and the other French officer coughed.

  “Oh, I’m sure you don’t,” Ruby said quickly. “I only mean that perhaps someone falsely informed on him.” She batted her eyes. “It’s impossible for me to believe that my husband could have been doing something so sinister right under my nose.”

  “We will need to search your apartment,” the fair-haired German said, and Ruby nodded. She suspected that was why they had come, and she prayed that Marcel hadn’t hidden anything here. If only she had used the last two days to search the place herself from top to bottom!

  “Of course, gentlemen, won’t you come in?” She fought to keep her tone even. “I’m certain you’ll find nothing suspicious. In fact, if you had searched our home before my husband was executed, he might have been saved!”

  The Germans pushed past the little Frenchman, barreling through the doorway. After a moment, the little Frenchman followed, muttering to himself. The other gendarme stayed beside her. “I’m sorry, madame,” he said softly, and she nodded, understanding that some of the people collaborating with the Germans had no choice. She was surprised by the pang of sympathy she felt for him.

  She watched as the Germans carefully opened every drawer and cupboard, and as the little Frenchman tore through her dresser, flinging clothing and undergarments dramatically into the air. When he reached the wardrobe, where she’d briefly hidden Dexter, she held her breath, but he passed through quickly, ripping her dresses from their hangers and throwing them to the floor.

  It took them fifteen minutes to complete their search, and when they were done, they returned to the doorway.

  “It appears you are telling the truth,” the fair-haired German said. “But we will have our eye on you.”

  “Of course, sir. I understand.”

  “If you’re hiding anything, we’ll find it,” the little Frenchman said, but this time, the dark-haired German placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “That’s enough. I’m sure she knows that no one can hide from us forever.” He nodded to her crisply and turned on his heel. The others followed, and Ruby watched until they’d disappeared down the stairs. Only then did she allow herself to collapse, shaking, to the floor.

  As she pulled herself up shortly thereafter, though, using the door for support, she felt a surge of hope. Marcel had spent so much time making her feel useless that it was easier than she’d expected to behave as if she was. Perhaps he had helped her after all. Perhaps the foolishness he had projected on her was the perfect cover.

  Now she just had to figure out how to convince Aubert that she could use that to her advantage.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  October 1941

  It was early fall when Thomas was sent up just before dawn to fly rear cover. The bombers were to drop their loads on two German-controlled factories a hundred miles north of Paris, and then Thomas and the boys were meant to patrol the sky as their fleet returned to England, intercepting and engaging German fighters on their tail.

  Missions like this had become fairly routine, the RAF in and out before the Germans had time to scramble their fighters. This morning, as they flew east, Thomas
’s mind was wandering. The clouds looked strange and heavenly, as if lit from within. We’re lucky, he thought. Most people don’t get to see the sky like this. He made a vow never to forget it as long as he lived.

  “This morning’s a beaut, isn’t it?” a pilot named Lewis radioed, and Thomas smiled. It was just what he’d been thinking; there was something undeniably magical about seeing the birth of a new day from the heavens.

  “Peaceful up here,” Thomas agreed, making the turn back to the west just as ribbons of light began to filter over the eastern horizon. Sixty miles ahead lay the edge of the French coast and beyond it, a narrow strip of Channel leading to the White Cliffs of Dover, always a sight for sore eyes, even when they’d been gone for only a few hours. The cliffs meant safety, and this morning, they’d be glistening in the soft sunlight, welcoming the RAF boys home.

  That’s what Thomas was thinking about when a swarm of German 109s rose from the mist at the squadron’s tail. Thomas’s heart jumped to his throat when he spotted them. “Behind us!” he managed to shout over the radio before diving into the clouds in an evasive maneuver.

  “Hold on, boys!” someone shouted back, and then there were bullets whizzing everywhere, a whole swarm of them, buzzing and hissing. Thomas struggled to turn in to the approaching 109s, so as to gain a bit of an advantage, but it was useless. His squadron was heavily outnumbered; there were at least three 109s on his tail. He pulled back on the throttle and pushed the Spit as hard as she would go, but then there was a great clanging followed by a jerking so severe that it felt as if Thomas’s spine had been jarred loose from his body. He cursed, knowing he’d been hit.

  He quickly evaluated the situation, trying not to panic. Could he still glide? After all, he wasn’t far from the coast. If he wasn’t losing much altitude, or dropping fuel, making it back over the Channel might just be possible. But the clouds below were coming closer, and a quick look at his altimeter confirmed that he was falling rapidly.

  “Lewis, looks like I’ve been hit,” he radioed, but there was no reply, only the static of empty sky. Had the others gone on and left him? Had they seen him plunge into the clouds and assumed he was done for? All right, then, Thomas, he said to himself as he continued to fall. Stay calm. If Harry could survive a mess like this, you can too.

  But his forced serenity was shattered as another volley of bullets came at him, this time pinging off his engine. His windscreen was immediately black with oil, and thick smoke surrounded him on all sides. “Damn it!” he cursed. There was no saving the plane now; he had to bail out before he got any lower. And so, praying that he could make it, he ejected and found himself alone in the sky for a frozen, terrifying moment, as his Spit, belching black smoke, hurtled toward the ground without him. In the midst of his panic, he felt a surge of sadness for the plane, but there was no time to mourn a charred lump of metal. No, he was falling, and fast. He tugged the release on his chute and felt a bone-crunching jerk as it opened. Now there was nothing to do but float from the sky, feeling as if a bull’s-eye had been painted on him. He braced himself for the gunshots he knew would come, but the air fight went on above him. Below, the earth was strangely silent.

  Thomas took a deep breath and forced himself to focus, to survey the surroundings as he drifted. He was coming into a heavily wooded area. The nearest road was at least three quarters of a mile to the east, which meant that it would be a little while before the Germans could reach him—if anyone had seen him fall. The clouds were thick, and he had ejected right in the midst of them; it was possible that it had appeared to the Germans as if he’d gone down with the plane.

  Time slowed as he glided in for a rough landing, narrowly missing a cluster of huge trees and touching down in a small clearing. The moment his feet hit the ground and he found himself in one piece, he hurried to pull his parachute down so that it wouldn’t call attention to his location. He wound it into a ball, dug a hole in the dirt, and shoved it in. He kicked the dirt back over it and pulled some felled branches on top of the freshly turned earth until it appeared there was nothing there.

  Next, he peeled off his Sidcot and turned it inside out, concealing the markings of the RAF. He hurriedly pulled it back on and lowered himself to his knees in the dirt. He rolled around a bit, until the flight suit was sufficiently scuffed, and then he added a bit of grime to his face for good measure. There; at a quick glance now, he might just pass for a French farmhand—at least until someone looked closely, spotted his flight boots, or tried to engage him in conversation. Though he spoke near-fluent French thanks to his schooling, his British accent would surely betray him.

  Thanking God for the preparedness of the RAF, Thomas took out the escape kit that had been sewn into his uniform—a clear acetate pouch containing survival supplies such as matches, water purification tablets, and energy pills—and withdrew the tiny compass he knew he would find there. He studied it for a moment and then set off toward the south. Unless he’d drifted off course in the dogfight, he was almost due north of Paris, and though it would take a few days to get there by foot, it was the best alternative he could think of. He could still hear Harry talking about the apartment building with the red door beside the ballet-themed gallery, where there was a man ready and willing to help pilots like him. If he could make it there without getting caught, he’d have a chance of returning to England alive.

  BY THAT EVENING, THOMAS WAS exhausted. He had figured that walking for a few days wouldn’t be too taxing, but with his adrenaline surging earlier, he’d failed to notice that his left ankle had been twisted upon landing. It didn’t bother him much at first, but as he made his way up and down hills in the direction the compass pointed, his pace grew slower and slower. Finally, just as darkness was falling, he found a stream, and he stopped to get a bit of water. He knew that soon, he’d have to find a safe place to spend the night.

  He sat down on a fallen log and closed his eyes for a moment, just to catch his breath, and the next thing he knew, there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. A man with a deep voice was saying something, and Thomas jumped up, backing away. The forest was cloaked in darkness now, and he was alone in the clearing with a man holding a lantern.

  “I said, Are you all right?” the man asked again, and it took a second for Thomas to register that the words were in French instead of German. A bit of relief washed over him, but he was still on guard. There was no way to know if this man was friend or foe.

  “Yes, thank you,” Thomas grunted in French, trying to imitate a French accent and hoping that his brevity would conceal the British edge to his words.

  “You are English,” the man said calmly, and Thomas’s heart sank. Apparently, he hadn’t been as clever as he’d hoped.

  “No,” he said in a clipped tone, taking another step back and considering his escape route. If the man didn’t have a gun, or if he wasn’t a particularly good shot, Thomas could make a break for it. But how far would his bum ankle carry him, especially in dark terrain he didn’t know?

  The man didn’t advance though. “Relax,” he said in French. “I am not one of them.”

  “One of who?”

  “A collaborator. A Nazi lover.” The man spat loudly. “I am French, and to me, anyone who is here trying to help us is a friend.”

  Thomas hesitated. He wasn’t sure whether to believe the man, but he didn’t have much of a choice. “All right. I’m trying to get to Paris.”

  The man didn’t ask why. “Well, you are not going to get there tonight, are you? And you will be in need of a good night’s rest before you continue on. Come with me.”

  Thomas stayed rooted to the spot. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “I suppose you do not. But the closer you get to Paris dressed like that, the more danger you will be in. So you can take your chances with me, or you can continue on dressed in an inside-out flight suit.”

  Thomas’s stomach dropped. “You can tell what I’m wearing?”

  “Your boots do not help
your cause. Come, you can sleep for a bit and be on your way at first light.” The man began walking without waiting for an answer. When Thomas didn’t follow, the man called over his shoulder, “I am not going to beg. But this would be in your best interest.”

  Seconds later, Thomas followed after the man, both of them sticking to the shadows until they got to the edge of a field.

  “Well, come on, then,” the man said. “The longer you linger out here, the more chance you are giving the Germans to spot you, friend. And then I will have to deny that I have ever seen you.”

  The man began to cross the field, which was planted with what looked in the darkness like potatoes. But Thomas knew that the French were suffering from huge food shortages, just like the British, so he wondered how much of the field had been rendered fallow by Germans more concerned with starving their enemies than feeding themselves.

  The man led him to a modest farmhouse and held the door open. Inside, candlelight flickered, and Thomas hesitated a moment before entering. “There now,” the man said, shutting the door behind him. “Was that so hard?”

  Thomas looked around him, taking in the surroundings. The place was sparsely furnished, but it looked homey and warm.

  “Claude?” A woman emerged from the back of the home wearing a housecoat. She was young—perhaps in her early twenties—and pretty. In the candlelight, Thomas could finally see the face of the man who’d brought him home too, and he was surprised to realize that he was not much older than Thomas himself.

  “Henriette, I have brought a guest,” the man said. “Do we have any food for him?”

  “Yes, of course,” she murmured, studying Thomas for a few seconds before hurrying out of the room.

  “That is my wife, Henriette,” the man said, turning back to Thomas. “I am called Claude. And you are?”

  “Thomas.” He paused, considered giving his last name, and decided against it. “And thank you. You and your wife are very kind to help me.”