THREE DAYS LATER, THE GROUP arrived on the other side of the Spanish border, freezing and exhausted, having waded across the icy Bidassoa River separating France from Spain. Sometimes, Florentino said, he was able to take pilots over a bridge that spanned the water, but Alesander had gone ahead on this trip and had returned to report that the bridge was being heavily patrolled by Spanish police. Drenched below the waist and standing in an icy field, Thomas was sure he’d never been so cold in all his life.

They had to stick to the shadows for the remainder of their descent, but they made it undetected. In a small town below, Florentino and Alesander led them to a barn, where they spent the night shivering under thick blankets. They hiked the next day to another town, where they slept in a farmhouse and had a hot meal of potatoes and mutton, and then on their third day in Spain, Florentino and Alesander brought them to a road, where they were picked up by a black car and driven to the coastal town of San Sebastián. From there, a car with Union Jacks drove them to the British embassy in Madrid, where they were heartily welcomed by the vice-consul, given new clothing, and lodged for two days. Thomas slept and ate well, but now that his journey was almost over, he found himself thinking not of how close he was to England but how far he was from Paris.

Eventually, the pilots were driven to a port in Seville, where a Norwegian ship was waiting to take them to Gibraltar, on the southern coast of the Iberian Peninsula. There was an RAF base there, and Thomas and the others were given new uniforms before being sent on the final leg of their journey: a flight home to Britain. After a few days of questioning in London, Thomas was sent back to Northolt, where not even the sight of Harry was enough to pull him from the depression he’d slipped into.

“But you’re home, my friend!” Harry said, pulling him into a bear hug. “Do you know the odds that were stacked against you?”

“I had to make it here,” Thomas replied. “It’s the only way to get back to Paris.”

“Back to Paris?” Harry chuckled. “I’d have thought you’d want to stick to this side of the Channel for a while. After I was shot down, I was in no great hurry to return to France.”

Thomas shook his head. “It’s not France I’m eager to return to.” He left it at that, because he’d received very strict instructions that he was never to talk about any piece of the escape line. It was the one condition under which he’d been allowed to resume fighting over French territory, although he knew many returned pilots were now being redeployed to Africa.

That vow of silence included Ruby, he knew. And so he tucked his memories of her away and vowed never to speak of the time he’d spent in her apartment. What would Harry or the others say, anyhow?

But it had been real. He was sure of it. And as he was cleared to return to the skies and he began once again escorting bombers into France, he vowed that no matter what, he’d see her again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

May 1942

Charlotte was very proud of Ruby, but it wasn’t as if she could say that. Thirteen-year-olds didn’t go around telling adults that they were proud of them; it sounded condescending.

Though Maman and Papa had some idea of what had happened in Ruby’s apartment—how could they not after Maman’s fall?—they didn’t know that the situation was ongoing. Charlotte spent far too much time watching through the peephole as strange men arrived at night and left a day or two later, but she made a habit of distracting her parents if they ever appeared ready to go out into the hall when it was occupied by Ruby’s visitors. It wasn’t that Charlotte thought she couldn’t trust her parents; it was that she didn’t want one more thing weighing on them. They were already drowning in their worries.

Papa seemed to grow more frantic by the day, racing out to secret meetings with other men from their synagogue. Charlotte couldn’t decide whether he was taking the Nazi threat seriously or burying his head in the sand. He continuously swore to her that mass deportations couldn’t possibly happen here. Not to them. “Even in the east, the word is that they’re taking away only the riffraff, not the productive members of society. I’m still working, Charlotte. We’re contributing. Everything will be okay.”

But she didn’t believe him. And what was more, she knew Maman didn’t either. Once strong and solid, Maman had become somebody different since the war started, and that was even more troubling to Charlotte than her father’s increased anxiety. While Papa seemed constantly wound up, her mother was wasting away. She was always sick with worry and malnutrition, and whenever Charlotte tried to comfort her, Maman’s eyes would fog over. “It’ll all be okay, dear,” Maman repeated over and over, a broken record.

They were treating Charlotte like a child, and she was tired of it. Couldn’t they see that she was just as concerned as they were? That their soothing words felt flimsy? If only she could do something brave to help out in the war effort, the way Ruby was. Then her parents would have to take her seriously. Instead, she was mostly confined to the apartment, a prisoner to her parents’ fears that she could be picked up off the street and taken away without them knowing. Maman had given up on Charlotte’s lessons too. Her only links to the outside world were occasional trips out with Papa, the books in their apartment, and her weekly English lesson with Ruby.

And then, in the final days of May 1942, everything became worse. The order came down that all Jews in France were obligated to wear a yellow star on the left side of their coats. They had just a few days to pick up the cotton insignias from their local police stations, and by the second week of June, there would be stiff penalties for those caught on the streets without them.

Papa retrieved the stars for the family, and Maman dutifully sewed them onto the coats and sweaters they wore most frequently. “It’s just a Star of David,” Papa said, his tone strangely flat. “Nothing to be ashamed of. After all, we’re proud to be Jewish.”

“But people will laugh at us,” Charlotte said softly, slipping into her own coat with the hateful yellow blemish.

“Those who treat us poorly because of the star are the same ones who have hated us all along.” Papa didn’t meet her gaze. “Just hold your head high.” But Charlotte could see the pain in Papa’s face, and she knew that the new law was wounding him as much as it was wounding her.

The first time she wore the star during a walk with Papa, a bearded man spat on her, his saliva landing on her right cheek. She blinked back tears and refrained from reacting until she’d turned the corner, out of his sight. A group of teenage boys yelled from a doorstep, calling her a dirty Jew, and a German soldier sneered at her with a look of such disgust that she had to stop herself from physically recoiling. By the time she and Papa made it back inside their own building, she was shaking.

“It’s not fair,” she murmured, trying to stop crying. Papa embraced her quickly and went into the apartment ahead of her, his face dark with worry, telling her to take all the time she needed to settle herself, but that she mustn’t upset Maman.

She was still trying to calm down when Ruby’s door opened. “Charlotte?” Ruby asked, stepping into the hall. “What is it?”

“It’s the star,” Charlotte managed, and despite her best intentions, she began to sob harder.

Ruby pulled Charlotte into her arms. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t understand why people hate us so much.”

“Why don’t you come in for a little while? Let’s talk about this.”

“But you’re busy.” Charlotte pulled away. “I don’t want to interrupt if you have a . . . guest.”

Ruby smiled. “The place is all ours today, Charlotte. Please. Join me.”

Charlotte followed Ruby in, marveling at how different the apartment felt to her now, although it looked virtually the same as it always had. Most weeks, Ruby came to Charlotte’s apartment for her English lesson, so Charlotte hadn’t been here in a while. And while the décor had changed only minimally after Marcel’s death, there was something about knowing that it was a haven for heroes that transformed everything.

Ruby fetched them each a small cup of ersatz coffee, and Charlotte felt very adult as she stirred a lump of sugar into hers and took a sip.

“So tell me,” Ruby said, sitting on the couch beside her. “Are you different today than you were yesterday?”

Charlotte paused with her cup halfway to her mouth. “Well . . . no.”

“Well then, the only thing that has changed is what you’re wearing. Am I correct?”

Charlotte glanced down at the yellow star. “Yes. But—”

“But nothing,” Ruby interrupted firmly. “You should be proud of who you are, what you are. You don’t think I stick out here every day because of my terrible French accent? I know people are mocking me.”

Charlotte allowed herself a tiny smile. Ruby’s accent was pretty awful, though her vocabulary was nearly perfect. “Yes,” she said after a long pause, “but no one spits at you in the streets for being American.”

Ruby put an arm around her and squeezed hard. “Charlotte, you know as well as I do that it’s what’s inside a person that counts. And sometimes, you have to walk through fire in order to find your true self. Maybe this is your fire.”