The Room on Rue Amélie(29)

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.