Leaving the apartment felt dangerous suddenly. So did staying.
She crept past the Leclerc apartment and then rushed down the stairs.
Outside, she drew in a gulping breath.
Now what? She couldn’t throw this just anywhere. She didn’t want someone else to get in trouble …
For the first time, she was grateful for the city’s blackout conditions. She slipped into the darkness on the sidewalk and all but disappeared. There were few Parisians out this close to curfew and the Germans were too busy drinking French wine to glance outside.
She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm down. To think. She was probably moments away from curfew—although that was hardly her biggest problem. Papa would be home soon.
The river.
She was only a few blocks away, and there were trees along the quay.
She found a smaller, barricaded side street and made her way to the river, past the row of military lorries parked along the street.
She had never moved so slowly in her life. One step—one breath—at a time. The last fifty feet between her and the banks of the Seine seemed to grow and expand with each step she took, and then again as she descended the stairs to the water, but at last she was there, standing beside the river. She heard boat lines creaking in the darkness, waves slapping their wooden hulls. Once again she thought she heard footsteps behind her. When she stilled, so did they. She waited for someone to come up behind her, for a voice demanding her papers.
Nothing. She was imagining it.
One minute passed. Then another.
She threw the bag into the black water and then hurled the identification tags in after it. The dark, swirling water swallowed the evidence instantly.
Still, she felt shaky as she climbed the steps and crossed the street and headed for home.
At her apartment door, she paused, finger-combing her sweat-dampened hair and pulling the damp cotton blouse from her breasts.
The one light was on. The chandelier. Her father sat hunched over the dining room table with paperwork spread out before him. He appeared haggard and too thin. She wondered suddenly how much he had been eating lately. In the weeks she’d been home, she had not once seen him have a meal. They ate—like they did everything else—separately. She had assumed that he ate German scraps at the high command. Now she wondered.
“You’re late,” he said harshly.
She noticed the brandy bottle on the table. It was half empty. Yesterday it had been full. How was it that he always found his brandy? “The Germans wouldn’t leave.” She moved toward the table and put several franc notes down. “Today was a good day. I see your friends at the high command have given you more brandy.”
“The Nazis do not give much away,” he said.
“Indeed. So you have earned it.”
A noise sounded, something crashing to the hardwood floor, maybe. “What was that?” her father said, looking up.
Then came another sound, like a scraping of wood on wood.
“Someone is in this apartment,” Papa said.
“Don’t be absurd, Papa.”
He rose quickly from the table and left the room. Isabelle rushed after him. “Papa—”
“Hush,” he hissed.
He moved down the entryway, into the unlit part of the apartment. At the bombé chest near the front door, he picked up a candle in a brass holder and lit it.
“Surely you don’t think someone has broken in,” she said.
He threw her a harsh, narrow-eyed look. “I will not ask you to be silent again. Now hold your tongue.” His breath smelled of brandy and cigarettes.
“But why—”
“Shut up.” He turned his back on her and moved down the narrow, slanted-floor hallway toward the bedrooms.
He passed the miniscule coat closet (nothing but coats inside) and followed the candle’s quavering path into Vianne’s old room. It was empty but for the bed and nightstand and writing desk. Nothing was out of place in here. He got slowly to his knees and looked under the bed.
Satisfied at last that the room was empty, he headed for Isabelle’s room.
Could he hear the pounding of her heart?
He checked her room—under the bed, behind the door, behind the floor-to-ceiling damask curtains that framed the blacked-out courtyard window.
Isabelle forced herself not to stare at the armoire. “See?” she said loudly, hoping the airman would hear voices and sit still. “No one is here. Really, Papa, working for the enemy is making you paranoid.”
He turned to her. In the corona of candlelight, his face looked haggard and worn. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be afraid, you know.”
Was that a threat? “Of you, Papa? Or of the Nazis?”
“Are you paying no attention at all, Isabelle? You should be afraid of everyone. Now, get out of my way. I need a drink.”
EIGHTEEN
Isabelle lay in bed, listening. When she was sure her father was asleep (a drunken sleep, no doubt) she left her bed, went in search of her grandmère’s porcelain chamber pot, and holding it, stood in front of the armoire.
Slowly—a half inch at a time—she moved it away from the wall. Just enough to open the hidden door.
Inside, it was dark and quiet. Only when she listened intently did she hear him breathing. “Monsieur?” she whispered.
“Hello, miss” came at her from the dark.
She lit the oil lamp by her bed and carried it into the space.
He was sitting against the wall with his legs stretched out; in the candlelight, he seemed softer somehow. Younger.
She handed him the chamber pot and saw that color rose on his cheeks as he took it from her.
“Thank you.”
She sat down opposite him. “I got rid of your identification tags and flight suit. Your boots will have to be cut down for you to wear. Here’s a knife. Tomorrow morning I will get you some of my father’s clothes. I don’t imagine they’ll fit well.”
He nodded, saying, “And what is your plan?”
That made her smile nervously. “I’m not sure. You are a pilot?”
“Lieutenant Torrance MacLeish. RAF. My aeroplane went down over Reims.”
“And you’ve been on your own since then? In your flight suit?”
“Fortunately my brother and I played hide-and-seek a lot when we were lads.”
“You’re not safe here.”
“I gathered.” He smiled and it changed his face, reminded her that he was really just a young man far from home. “If it makes you feel better, I took three German aeroplanes down with me.”
“You need to get back to Britain so you can get back to it.”
“I can’t agree more. But how? The whole coastline is behind barbed wire and patrolled by dogs. I can’t exactly leave France by boat or air.”
“I have some … friends who are working on this. We will go see them tomorrow.”
“You are very brave,” he said softly.
“Or foolish,” she said, unsure of which was more true. “I have often heard I’m impetuous and unruly. I imagine I will hear it from my friends tomorrow.”
“Well, miss, you won’t hear anything but brave from me.”