The Room on Rue Amélie(98)

He radioed Ramatuelle with a distress call. “Can you hear me? I’m losing altitude. Need to attempt emergency landing.” The only response was a faint crackle. He could see the coastline, but he wouldn’t reach it, not at the rate he was falling. His mind spun as the plane continued to descend. Could he save the aircraft? To lose a Spitfire now, on an errand like this, seemed foolish.

On the other hand, if he couldn’t bring her in closer to the coast, he was out of luck. Spits weren’t designed to float, and neither were the pilots enclosed in their cockpits. So that was it. He’d have to eject. The Spit was headed for the sea, and he didn’t want to go with her.

Quickly, fighting a wave of disappointment, he went into survival mode, ripping off his oxygen mask and radio plug and detaching his safety harness. For a frozen second, he thought of the last time he’d gone down over France, when he’d parachuted in over Saint-Omer. He thought of the things that had happened after that, the way Ruby had felt in his arms, the sense that he was living his destiny, the feeling that his life was forever tied to hers.

And then, he reached for the release toggle, but nothing happened. The canopy hood didn’t open. He tried again, desperately, and when the switch remained stuck, he began to claw at the hood, doing his best to force it open.

But the hood was jammed, and as the sickening realization hit, Thomas’s heart sank. His only option was reaching the small strip of sandy, rocky beach that he could see in the distance, but he knew that it was impossible. He’d been flying Spitfires for years now, and he understood exactly what this plane was capable of—and what she couldn’t do.

He slammed his hands against the canopy again and again, knowing that his only chance of survival now would be to break the seal and pray that the plane’s plunge into the water was gentle enough not to knock him unconscious. But the Spit was descending too quickly. As the sea rose up to meet him, he knew with a terrible certainty that this was the end.

Thomas closed his eyes, and the world Ruby had painted with her words came alive. In the distance, he could see the house with the white picket fence, the one where they would raise their children together. But before he could get there, he had to make it through the brilliant sea of poppies. The flowers gleamed beautiful, magical, just like the sunrise, and as they danced in the breeze all around him, he could feel himself smiling. They were welcoming him home.

“Ruby!” he cried out just as his Spit plunged into the shallow sea a few hundred yards from the French coast. Just beyond the poppies, there she was, smiling and beckoning, letting him know that at long last, it was all right to rest.





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR


August 1944

Ruby was vaguely aware of murmurs, quiet voices, whispered questions, and then, something like music. She strained to listen, and it was only after a few moments that she realized what the sound was. A baby cooing. Her baby cooing. “My baby!” she managed to whisper, though the world felt hazy and untenable. Where was she? How long had she been sleeping? Why couldn’t she see more than foggy shapes?

Eva, the farmer’s wife, appeared in her field of vision, carrying a small, perfect bundle. “You’re awake, Ruby. Would you like to say hello to your daughter?”

Ruby’s throat constricted as Eva brought the baby closer and placed her gently on Ruby’s chest. Her vision cleared enough that she could see the baby’s face in all its perfect detail. She was beautiful, healthy against all the odds. She had Thomas’s brilliant blue eyes, and for a few seconds, as Ruby gazed into them, she had the feeling that Thomas was right here with her. She could hardly wait until they were together again. Soon, they’d all go home. Not home to Paris, but home to the United States, the place they’d spend the rest of forever together. She knew her parents would love Thomas and their new granddaughter with all their hearts, and they’d welcome Charlotte with open arms too. Ruby would show them the world of poppies, the way that each new day exploded in a symphony of colors and hope. She could see the future, and it was glorious.

Although Ruby felt weak, she was still able to hold her baby, who was rooting around for her mother’s breast. Tears came to Ruby’s eyes, for she wasn’t producing milk; it was impossible after Ravensbrück.

“We have some milk for her,” Eva said, seeming to read Ruby’s mind. “She’ll be all right.”

“Thank you,” Ruby rasped, still astonished at her good fortune to have ended up here. She swore to herself that she would repay Eva and Fritz one day.

“What is her name?” Eva asked. “Your daughter?”

Ruby smiled down at the baby in her arms for a moment without replying. She had hair the color of midnight and the tiniest fingers and toes Ruby had ever seen. Her skin was pale and her cheeks were pink. She was far smaller than she should have been, maybe only five pounds, but she was healthy and whole, which seemed impossible. She was, Ruby knew, the very definition of a miracle. And that gave her hope for the future, for if miracles could happen within her own body, they could happen anywhere. It meant that Thomas would come back to her, that Charlotte would be waiting for her in Paris.

“Nadia,” Ruby murmured with a smile, thinking of her Russian friend who had given her this gift, this chance of survival, at the cost of her own life. The child she had saved would forever bear her name. “Her name is Nadia. It means hope.”