“Don’t turn on the lights,” her father said harshly as he opened the door.
Isabelle followed him into the living room and went past him to the window, where she lifted the blackout shade, peering out.
From far away came a droning sound. As it grew louder, the window rattled, sounding like ice in a glass.
She heard a high whistling sound only seconds before she saw the black flotilla in the sky, like birds flying in formation.
Aeroplanes.
“Boches,” her father whispered.
Germans.
German aeroplanes, flying over Paris. The whistling sound increased, became like a woman’s scream, and then somewhere—maybe in the second arrondissement, she thought—a bomb exploded in a flash of eerie bright light, and something caught fire.
The air raid siren sounded. Her father wrenched the curtains shut and led her out of the apartment and down the stairs. Their neighbors were all doing the same thing, carrying coats and babies and pets down the stairs to the lobby and then down the narrow, twisting stone stairs that led to the cellar. In the dark, they sat together, crowded in close. The air stank of mildew and body odor and fear—that was the sharpest scent of all. The bombing went on and on and on, screeching and droning, the cellar walls vibrating around them; dust fell from the ceiling. A baby started crying and couldn’t be soothed.
“Shut that child up, please,” someone snapped.
“I am trying, M’sieur. He is scared.”
“So are we all.”
After what felt like an eternity, silence fell. It was almost worse than the noise. What of Paris was left?
By the time the all clear sounded, Isabelle felt numb.
“Isabelle?”
She wanted her father to reach out for her, to take her hand and comfort her, even if it was just for a moment, but he turned away from her and headed up the dark, twisting basement stairs. In their apartment, Isabelle went immediately to the window, peering past the shade to look for the Eiffel Tower. It was still there, rising above a wall of thick black smoke.
“Don’t stand by the windows,” he said.
She turned slowly. The only light in the room was from his torch, a sickly yellow thread in the dark. “Paris won’t fall,” she said.
He said nothing. Frowned. She wondered if he was thinking of the Great War and what he’d seen in the trenches. Perhaps his injury was hurting again, aching in sympathy with the sound of falling bombs and hissing flames.
“Go to bed, Isabelle.”
“How can I possibly sleep at a time like this?”
He sighed. “You will learn that a lot of things are possible.”