Goodnight from London

by Jennifer Robson

  “Hold on,” Mr. Howard said, his face brightening with recognition. “You work for Kaz. Sorry—I ought to have made the connection right away. I knew him years ago, when he was just starting out, and I’ve bumped into him a few times since. How is he?”

  “He’s well,” she said. “Have you been at the Herald for a while?”

  “Going on twenty years. My wife is English, so I wanted a job that kept me on this side of the pond. We lived in France for most of that time, but came back to London in the fall of ’39. Thought it would be safer. Then the Blitz began, and we felt like we’d gone from the frying pan into the fire.”

  “But you all . . . ?” she asked tentatively, bracing herself for the inevitable story of loss and woe.

  “We all survived. Nothing more than broken windows. And you? How long have you been at PW?”

  “Since the summer of 1940. I was bombed out that December, but I’ve lived with friends ever since. Compared to some, I’ve been very lucky. Do you think you’ll come back to France to live?”

  “One day. Ellie is desperate to return, but this war isn’t won yet, and I won’t risk her safety, or that of the children. Never mind that they consider themselves all but grown. The eldest joined the ATS as soon as she was able, and spends her weekends stripping back lorry engines.”

  “Are you staying here?” she asked.

  “No. I’m across the road at the Grand. And you?”

  “At a little place on rue Daunou. A better match for our budget at PW.”

  “Next!” called the censor, and looking ahead, Ruby realized she was at the front of the line.

  “I guess that’s me,” she said.

  “It was good to meet you, Miss Sutton. Give my best to Kaz when you get home. And keep your head down. Paris has been liberated, but not everyone is happy about it. Be careful whenever you’re out and about—promise me?”

  “I promise. Goodbye, Mr. Howard. And good luck.”

  Dispatches from London

  by Miss Ruby Sutton

  August 26, 1944

  . . . Compared to London, Paris looks as if it needs little more than a good scrub and a few coats of fresh paint to bring it back to life. I speak of the city itself, its buildings and squares and wide-open boulevards. Its people are in far worse shape, and I cannot begin to imagine how long it will take for them to recover from four years of Nazi oppression and terror . . .

  BY ONE O’CLOCK that same afternoon, Ruby and Frank were in place on the Champs-Élysées for the anticipated victory parade. It had proved impossible to reach the front of the crowd, which stretched to ten people deep where they were standing, but the spot they had chosen, half a mile from the Place de la Concorde, boasted a clear view of the avenue as it rose toward the Arc de Triomphe in the west, and by standing on the very tips of her toes and craning her neck, Ruby was able to watch the parade of dignitaries and Allied military might for nearly the entire distance.

  Charles de Gaulle himself had just marched past, his height and regal bearing making him impossible to miss, and Ruby, not wishing to forget even the smallest detail, had ducked her head to scribble in her notebook.

  Without any warning, strong hands grasped her arms and swung her around. “Ruby,” a voice whispered in her ear, and the man pulled away just far enough that she might see his face. It was all but obscured by a scruffy mustache and beard, but wonderfully familiar all the same. Bennett.

  He kissed her fiercely, one hand grasping the back of her head, only pulling away when the people around them began to stamp and clap and cheer. “Your room number at the hotel—which is it?” he whispered in her ear.

  “Thirty-two.”

  “I’ll be there at nine tonight.”

  He vanished into the crowd before she could say anything, and she was left to stand among strangers, mute from shock, and try and make sense of what had just happened.

  Bennett was alive. He was alive and unharmed, and she would see him again in a few hours.

  A frantic voice brought her back to earth. “Are you all right? Say something—did that fellow hurt you?”

  “No, Frank. Just a bit of high spirits. That’s all.”

  “Gave me a fright, he did, when I saw how he was manhandling you. I tried to get to you in time, but there were half a dozen people between him and me. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m fine. Honestly I am. Besides, I doubt it’s the last kiss I’ll get from a stranger today.”

  She was right. Their uniforms made them the center of unfettered and crazily exuberant displays of affection from Parisians, whose expressions seemed to indicate that they, too, were perplexed by their compulsion to greet perfect strangers with such a disconcerting lack of decorum. Yet it didn’t stop them from hugging and kissing and dancing down the streets with anyone and everyone they encountered in an Allied uniform.

  Moving away from the crowds that flanked the Champs-Élysées, Ruby and Frank walked north, in what she hoped was the general direction of their hotel. Away from the parade route, the streets were far less crowded, less noisy, and altogether less overwhelming.

  Ruby smiled until her face ached, accepted the many flowers that were pressed into her hands, and tried unsuccessfully to unearth someone who spoke English and might be able to tell her what the last few weeks had been like. But the people she approached couldn’t understand her questions, or perhaps they simply didn’t want to talk about serious things on such a day.

  They walked and walked, and Ruby filled her notebook with observations of the people they encountered. The sun was beginning to set; she checked her wristwatch and realized it was almost seven o’clock.

  “Do you want to find somewhere to eat?” she called to Frank, who was trying to extricate himself from the embrace of a large and extremely affectionate nun.

  “Yes, please!” he shouted, and she grabbed his arm and pulled him away and down the nearest quiet street. It had no shortage of cafés and restaurants; the problem, though, was that most were closed.

  They were standing before one such establishment, trying to summon up the strength to continue along, when its front door burst open and they were confronted by a young man in an apron, his face wreathed in smiles.

  “Vous êtes américains? Anglais?”

  “Oui,” Ruby said, and then she produced the only useful French phrase that she knew: “Est-ce que vous parlez anglais?”

  “Yes, yes—but of course we speak English for our American friends! Please come in and allow us to feed you. It is our pleasure. Please come in.”

  It quickly became apparent, since they were the only people in the dining room, that the staff had opened the restaurant especially for Ruby and Frank; and it was also evident that they were being treated to the best the chef and his staff could provide.

  After the first bite of bread, fresh-baked and spread with real butter, Ruby knew she’d be dreaming of this meal for years to come. Roast chicken and new potatoes and green beans followed, and then they were served a cake studded with fresh apricots, and by the time they emerged from the restaurant, buoyed by the embraces and gratitude of the staff, she felt as if she were floating on air.

  The walk back helped to clear her head and calm her nerves, and once they reached the hotel, a few minutes before nine, Ruby felt she might, just might, be able to get through the next hour or so without bursting into tears at the sight of Bennett, or otherwise embarrassing them both.

  “I’m off to bed,” Frank said as they collected their keys from the concierge. “How about you? Planning on a visit to the bar at the Scribe?”

  “Not tonight, I think,” she said, and followed him up the stairs. “Good night, Frank.”

  She waited until he’d gone into his room and she was alone in the hall. Waited until she could hear past the drumming heartbeat that filled her ears. And then, only then, did she open her door and slip inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Bennett was there, waiting for her, as she had hoped and believed he would be. He’d be
en sitting on the room’s only chair, which belonged to a small table by the window, and now he stood and faced her. Between them loomed the bed, too wide for one person and not quite wide enough for two. She hoped it was not the sort of bed that squeaked if you so much as breathed on it.

  He was dressed in workman’s clothes, clean but ragged, his coat hung carefully on the back of the chair. His hair had grown out in the months since she’d seen him last, and now had some curl to it, as she’d always thought it would. His mustache and beard were threaded with silver, and his face and forearms were tanned.

  For long seconds she stared at him, drinking in the sight of his features, his form, everything about him. He was too thin, too tired, but he seemed to be uninjured.

  “How did you find me in that crowd?” she asked.

  “I’d been keeping an eye on you since you landed in France.” Of course he had.

  “I got your letter,” she said.

  “I know. I wish I hadn’t left it. Looking back, it seems so ridiculously self-centered. To leave you with that as a goodbye. It would have been better to simply vanish.”

  “No,” she insisted. “Never say that. I treasure that letter. Would you believe I have it memorized? Just like you with your poems.”

  “There was nothing very poetic about it,” he grumbled.

  “I disagree. And what does it matter now? We’re here. We survived. What do you say to that?”

  He smiled, his teeth a flash of white against his tanned face and dark beard, and took a step toward her, then another, until his knees bumped against the bed.

  She moved forward, too, her heart hammering in her breast, and before she could think twice she unbuttoned her uniform jacket. A shimmy of her shoulders, enough to make Bennett’s eyes darken with hunger, and it fell to the floor.

  “Ruby,” he rumbled, his deep voice roughened by desire. “If you only knew how many times I’ve thought about this moment. Tried to conjure up every last detail. Wondered if I’d ever have the chance.”

  “I know,” she said, emotion clogging her throat. “I wondered, too.”

  She unbuttoned the cuffs on her shirt, untucked it from her skirt, and not once did she look away from his face. Another step forward and she was kneeling on the bed. A heartbeat later and she was in his arms, enveloped in his fierce embrace, and he was kissing her, his mouth pressing against hers with growing and near-desperate urgency, his beard deliciously rough against her shivering skin.

  She unbuttoned his shirt and dragged it down his arms, and as soon as it was gone she pulled his undershirt loose from his trousers and pulled it off, too. His skin was pale, apart from the tan of his forearms and throat, and contrasted sharply with the dark, softly curling hair that dusted his upper chest. All the easier, then, for her to see the marks that told her more about his work than she had ever wanted to know.

  There were too many bruises to count, some fresh, some fading, and there was a long, puckered scar, newly healed, across his tautly muscled stomach. He stood there, let her run her fingers over the evidence of past wounds, and not once did he protest, not even when she found the mark by his collarbone. An older scar, raised and circular, no bigger than the diameter of her baby finger.

  “Were you shot?” she asked, touching it lightly. Afraid it might still hurt.

  “Yes. It happened a while ago.”

  She swept her fingers over his back, where a scar from the bullet’s exit wound ought to be, and found nothing but smooth skin. “Is the bullet still inside you?” she asked, her mouth going dry.

  “No. Someone dug it out. I’m embarrassed to say I passed out before she was done.”

  “She?”

  “The village midwife. And a nun, as it happens. Risked her life to save me.”

  “Perhaps, one day, you might return to wherever it was, and thank her.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. “Are you almost done with your inspection?”

  “Almost. What about this one? On your stomach?”

  “What about it? I survived, didn’t I? And they look worse than they are. Even the tiniest scratch leaves a mark on me.”

  “These aren’t scratches,” she whispered, her lips brushing over each scar. “They’re badges of honor.”

  His skin was surprisingly sensitive, jumping and twitching wherever her mouth landed, but she didn’t halt, didn’t even consider it, until he took hold of her chin and tilted her head back just enough that he might look her in the eye.

  “I don’t want to think about any of that tonight,” he said, and then he kissed her again, his mouth tracing a glowing line from her lips to the fluttery place just below her earlobe, and from there down to her collarbone and the rising swell of her breasts.

  She began to unbutton her uniform shirt, but this time he pushed aside her hands and did it himself. Then he was unfastening her skirt, which he whisked over her head before she could protest, and she was left in nothing more than her brassiere, panties, garter belt, and stockings.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered reverently. “Everything about you is lovely. Everything.”

  “I love you,” she said. “I feel as if I’ve loved you forever.”

  “I know. I love you, too. Such a gift, to be able to say it to your face. There were so many times when I thought I would never get the chance.”

  “How long do we have? I mean until you leave.”

  “Only until the morning.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” she asked, and this time it was her turn to kiss him.

  RUBY WOKE BEFORE dawn, her head tucked against his shoulder, feeling so content that she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to move. The curtains were thin and worn, and did little to mask the brightening sky outside, but she didn’t care, for she planned on memorizing every detail of his face and form before he disappeared into his work again.

  There was nothing about him that she didn’t like, from the soft, dark hair on his chest to the wash of freckles across his pale shoulders. Even his hands were lovely, with long, straight fingers.

  Only then did she notice the marks around his wrists, horrid purple welts that had broken and scabbed over in a few places.

  “What is this?” she whispered, her throat closing in.

  Nearly a minute passed before he answered, his eyes still shut tight. “I was caught. Beaten. There was a hook in the wall. They tied me to it and left me dangling for a few days. But that, and a round of kicks and punches, were the worst of it. They couldn’t have been that suspicious or I wouldn’t be here now.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “And when you say ‘they,’ who do you mean?”

  “The Milice. The collaborationists’ militia. If it had been the Gestapo proper, I’d be dead.”

  “What did they accuse you of doing?” she asked, so nauseous she thought she might have to run for the bathroom down the hall.

  “Nothing. They never asked me a thing. My walking down the street out of uniform was enough. Perhaps they were bored, and I was a way for them to pass the time.”

  “Were you afraid?”

  “Of course I was. Only a fool forgets to be afraid. But I knew as long as I kept my head they would probably let me go. My papers were in order, and I speak French without an accent. I simply had to endure until they found someone else to torment.”

  “All those times you were away, when you disappeared for months, were you in France?”

  “Sometimes. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “I heard some people talking once. They said that people like you were given a cyanide tablet and a garrote, and not much else.”

  “A knife is better. Quieter and faster.”

  “So you . . . you’ve had to kill people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that the hardest thing you’ve ever done?”

  “I . . . no. No, it wasn’t.” He covered his eyes with his forearm, as if to block out the sight of his most painful memories
. “It’s not simply the case that I’m secretive, you know. I don’t want you to know such things because I don’t want you to be burdened by them.”

  “But that’s part of loving someone. Sharing the weight of the burdens they carry. If you want to tell me, then go ahead. I won’t break.”

  He swallowed, the muscles in his jaw convulsing, and her hand, resting against his chest, began to thrum from the drumbeat of his racing heart.

  “I was working with another man. He was captured by the Gestapo. He killed himself before they could get anything out of him, and they decided to retaliate.

  “I’d had just enough time to hide. Was high up on a rooftop that overlooked the village square. They dragged in the handful of young men who were left—most had been taken away to labor camps—and they hanged them from the plane trees around the perimeter of the square. One after the other, as their mothers screamed and begged and pleaded with the Germans. Seven of them, and the youngest was fifteen. He was only fifteen.

  “I had to watch them die. There was nothing I could do. I’d have given myself up to save them, but I had to send out a message. My colleague hadn’t enough time to get it out before he was captured. I can’t tell you what it was about, but it was vital. I knew that thousands of lives, perhaps tens of thousands, would be spared if I could get that message sent. And so I stayed hidden and watched them die. It’s been more than a year, but when I close my eyes I can still see their faces.”

  “If they had caught you,” she asked carefully, “would we have known? Would someone have called Uncle Harry?”

  “Yes. You’d have known that I was dead, but that was all.”

  “We were worried earlier in the summer. Harry stopped getting the postcards from your office.”

  His arms tightened about her. “I am sorry about that. They lost track of me, and it wasn’t safe for me to let them know I was alive. Once I was able to send out a message, I did pass on the news, but that was less than a week ago. You were already on your way to France.”

  “What now? What happens next?”