The Room on Rue Amélie(40)

He hesitated only a moment longer before slipping quietly out of Ruby’s apartment into the dim hall. He felt exposed, but he couldn’t go back now. It would be unconscionable to turn his back on a child who needed his help. Drawing a deep breath and hoping for the best, he knocked lightly on the door of the girl’s apartment.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


October 1941

Charlotte was in a panic. She and Maman had been in the kitchen, chopping a few precious potatoes to make a soup, when her mother suddenly collapsed in a heap, striking the counter on her way down. Now, Charlotte couldn’t wake her, and the blood pouring from her forehead was forming a small, frightening pool. She had tried everything she could think of—shaking her mother, talking loudly to her, placing a cool cloth on her forehead—but Maman hadn’t even stirred. And her father likely wouldn’t be home for hours; he had disappeared early this morning for a meeting with a few other men Charlotte knew from the synagogue.

Charlotte had tried Ruby’s apartment, but no one had come to the door. The other neighbors, well, some of them had made clear their feelings about Jews. And she certainly didn’t want to enlist the help of anyone who hated her family. Who knew what could happen? She couldn’t call a doctor for help either; the one who had delivered Ruby’s stillborn baby had left for the Free Zone weeks ago, and she didn’t know another. Her father had spoken sternly to her several times about how there was no way to know whom to trust anymore.

Charlotte bent to her mother’s side again. “Please wake up, Maman. Please! I don’t know what to do!” But her mother still didn’t stir.

Just then, there was a light knock at the door. Heart thudding, Charlotte crept to the peephole and looked out. There was a man she didn’t know in the hallway, dressed in pants and a shirt too small for him. “I’m the pilot, mademoiselle,” he said softly in accented French. “I’m here to help.”

She recognized him now, though he was clean-shaven and looked much different than he had the day he arrived. She took a deep breath and opened the door. “Hello, monsieur.” She looked him up and down. He had broad shoulders, dark hair, and bright blue eyes, the kind that looked like they would crinkle at the corners when he smiled. “Please, come in.”

“Something happened to your mother?” He was already moving into her apartment.

“Yes.” Charlotte swallowed hard, scrambling after him. She could see him looking around quickly, and she wondered fleetingly what he was seeing. Did he notice the Star of David quilt her grandmother had sewn, now lying folded over a chair? Did he see the threadbare sofa, the worn rug, the things Maman was ashamed of? “She fell while we were chopping potatoes. I—I can’t wake her up.”

Charlotte could feel tears streaming down her face, and she was embarrassed. She wasn’t a baby; why was she crying? But the pilot didn’t seem to notice. He was already kneeling beside her mother, placing two fingers on her neck, and bending his ear toward her mouth.

“Is she breathing?” Charlotte asked, trying not to sound as frantic as she felt.

“She is. Do you have a clean towel you can bring me?” he asked without turning around. “And a jug of cool water, please?”

“Of course.” Charlotte raced into the bathroom, where she grabbed a fresh towel. She handed it to the pilot, who was still bent over her mother, then she quickly got him a large pitcher of water. “Is she going to be all right?”

“Yes. I think she just fainted. Look, she’s already regaining consciousness.”

Charlotte peered over his shoulder at her mother, whose eyelids were indeed beginning to flutter. “Oh, thank God. Maman? Maman? Are you all right?”

Her mother mumbled something unintelligible and closed her eyes again.

“She’ll be okay,” the pilot said. “We’ll just need to check and see how badly she hit her head. Had she been ill?”

“Not that I know of.” Charlotte felt like a terrible daughter. How could she not have noticed that there was something wrong with her mother?

“Don’t worry,” the pilot said, apparently reading her thoughts. “Sometimes these things just happen. And you acted quickly to get her help. You showed great presence of mind.”

“But I risked exposing you.” She realized suddenly how foolish she’d been. “If someone had seen—”

“But no one did. Besides, when one’s mother is ill, it’s impossible to think clearly, isn’t it?”

Charlotte nodded. “Do you—do you have a mother?” She knew the question was silly as soon as it was out of her mouth. Of course he had a mother!

“Yes, I did. She was a wonderful woman.” He hesitated. “Now, let’s get your mum over to the couch so that we can prop her head up a bit, shall we?”

Charlotte nodded, and as the pilot scooped her mother effortlessly into his arms, she grabbed the bloodied towel and the water and followed him to where he laid her down gently. Maman’s eyelids were fluttering again, and she was trying to say something. “What is it, Maman?” Charlotte asked, leaning in.

“The man,” her mother rasped weakly. “Who is the man?”

The pilot smiled and stepped back as Charlotte squeezed Maman’s hand. “A friend, Maman. He’s a friend.”