The Room on Rue Amélie(69)
“I’m okay,” she mumbled.
He pulled her into his arms. “It’s all right not to be.”
“I want to be strong,” she whispered. But pressed against his solid chest now, breathing in the impossibly woodsy scent of him, all she could think about was what she’d lost.
“You are strong,” he said gently, pulling her even closer. “What is it?”
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“With me?” he asked, beginning to push away a little.
“No,” she said, holding on. “No. That’s not what I meant. I meant that my parents are probably dead. And somehow, I’ve survived. I don’t know how to live with that.”
He sighed and eased her onto the bed. For a moment, she was sure that he was about to kiss her. But instead, he simply lay down beside her, his body pressed against hers. “You have to live with it,” he said after a while. “Because if you’re not alive, I don’t want to be alive.”
“But I let them take my parents . . .” She was sobbing again, and she was grateful for the darkness in the room, because she knew her tears weren’t pretty.
“There’s nothing you could have done.”
“How can I ever forgive myself?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. Surely your parents’ greatest wish would have been to know that you were free.”
After that, there were no more words to say. Charlotte didn’t know how to believe what Lucien was telling her, but she wanted to. She wanted to forgive herself. She wanted to hope. And maybe someday, she could. But for now, the warm comfort of his body was enough. He held her and stroked her hair as she faded into sleep. The last thing she was aware of was his kiss on her forehead, lingering, comforting, telling her silently that despite everything, it was all going to be okay in the end.
CHAPTER THIRTY
November 1943
It was a brisk fall morning, and Thomas’s mission was to help escort twelve Douglas A-20 Boston bombers to their target forty miles south of Dunkirk, France. What was unusual about the mission was that in addition to escorting the bombers, Thomas and the other Spitfire pilots were tasked with flying close to enemy fighter bases in Saint-Omer for the purpose of eliciting a response that would draw attention away from the bombers’ mission. The idea was that the Huns would be so busy chasing down the fighters they’d miss the bombs being dropped on German-run munitions factories in northern France until it was too late.
“It’s dangerous, lads,” the briefing officer had told them in no uncertain terms. “Chances are that at least one of you will be shot down today. If you are, it is your duty to try to evade capture.”
Thomas knew all this, of course. And in fact, it didn’t need to be stated; it was basic self-preservation. But he also knew the escape line that had once shepherded him safely out of the country and across the Pyrenees was no longer operating as efficiently; the British embassy in Spain had sent word months ago about the breach of the network. He worried every day that Ruby had been caught up in the stings that had followed the arrests in Urrugne.
But what could he do beyond continuing to fight for the Allies? The sooner they could weaken the Nazi stranglehold on France, the safer she would be. Would it be too late, though? He couldn’t let himself consider that option.
He stood in line upon leaving the briefing room to get his standard-issue survival pack, which was more advanced than the one he’d had when he parachuted into the French wilderness. It contained a map of France printed on a silk handkerchief, some francs, some food tablets and water purification tablets, and two trouser buttons that could be assembled into a compass.
The pack was supposed to make the pilots feel prepared, but Thomas knew that once you were on the ground, if you were lucky enough to survive your plane going down in the first place, all bets were off.
They set out at midday in formations of three, joining up with three other squadrons over Britain and then climbing above 11,000 feet once they had cleared the Dover coast. Over Calais, Thomas and a few others broke away from the main group to head toward Saint-Omer. Thomas was just preparing for possible air combat—unlocking the catches on the armament, tightening his safety harness, going through a mental checklist of evasive maneuvers—when a terse voice came over the VHF. “Bandits three o’clock below.”
Thomas cursed as at least a dozen Nazi 109s materialized from the clouds.
“Attack in sections!” yelled the CO over the radio.
Thomas took a deep breath and peeled off to the right, initiating a dive. It should have been routine, but suddenly, his cockpit was on fire. He hadn’t even realized he’d been hit, but there was the attacking plane behind him, lining up to come at him again.
It turned out that wasn’t necessary. The flames were advancing quickly; the fuel tanks were less than a minute away from igniting and blowing up the plane in midair. Thomas had to get out.
He ripped off his oxygen mask and radio plug and pulled back the canopy hood. “Please, God,” he found himself murmuring as he detached his safety harness and pulled the cord to open his parachute. In an instant, he was watching his flaming jet peel away from him, trailing smoke, a Nazi fighter still on its tail.
The drift to the ground seemed to take forever. He came down in the middle of an empty field, not a soul around. Quickly, he bundled his parachute, his life jacket, his helmet, his goggles, and his gloves and buried them in the dirt, then he struggled out of his flight suit, turning it inside out like he did last time. There was still no sign he’d been noticed, so he pulled out the silk map and determined that Paris was some 140 miles away. A three-day journey if he could keep up a brisk pace. He took a deep breath, snapped his compass together, and began to walk south. To Paris. To Ruby. To the future.