Sixteen

Elaine

The effort of putting everything at risk for the coded message had been in vain. Two weeks passed and still not one person had answered Elaine's call for aid. At least Marcel had begun speaking to her again.

They argued over the matter for some time, but after she asked how he would feel if it was his wife and child, his protests floundered. Not only did he accept that she had done the right thing, he also agreed to allow her to place new sets of code in the next issues until someone offered assistance.

Truthfully, Elaine had been heartily disappointed when no one came to her after the first few days of the newspaper's release. With taking such a risk, she'd been certain there would have been a brave soul willing to step forward.

While Elaine's own optimism was somewhat dimmed by the lack of an immediate response, she did not share her reaction with Sarah, whose hope remained firmly in place.

Not that Elaine could fault her when she herself harbored her own secret wishes for Joseph's miraculous survival. That the informant had been mistaken, that somewhere he was still alive, dreaming of her the way she dreamed of him, waiting for the day they could be reunited.

In the weeks Manon housed the mother and child, color had blossomed back into her pallid cheeks and smiles occasionally reached her eyes. Witnessing those glimpses of momentary joy was like watching the sun break through on a streak of cloudy days. True, the bedroom in the warehouse did not carry the comforts Elaine had grown used to, but the effects of Sarah and Noah on Manon were well worth the sacrifice.

Those were the times to be celebrated, the wisps of joy in an otherwise gray and painful world for Elaine.

December frosted over the chill of November, its dark days all the bleaker under the shroud of Elaine's mourning. The work kept her busy, yes, but nothing seemed to fill the chasm in her soul left by Joseph's death.

The following day would be the Fête des Lumières, a day to honor the Virgin Mary for having saved Lyon from the plague in the seventeenth century. Every year since, a procession was held for the virgin—dubbed the Lady of Lyon—in gratitude.

Elaine recalled one December she and Joseph vacationed in Lyon, before the Nazi occupation, when the river sparkled with thousands of lights and vendors called out to the crowds. Their kiosks were filled with cups of rich coffee and paper cones with frites straight from the fryer, crusted with granules of salt and steaming in the icy air when broken in half.

Across the Rh?ne, the houses stacked upon one another in pastel pinks and yellows and blues and at the peak's crest, the statue of the virgin stood proud and tall on the Basilica of Fourvière. Joseph had wrapped his arms around her, his warmth enfolding her, his spicy scent even more comforting. That's when the first set of fireworks shot into the night and sprinkled downward, their brilliance reflected on the choppy surface of the river. On and on they came as dozens of fireworks turned the sky to smoke and called to attention how the Lady of Lyon remained forever lit atop the basilica as she guarded them all below.

Elaine tried to hold on to the memory for as long as possible, but it swept from her thoughts, blown away like the billows of smoke from the fireworks that long ago night.

Such celebrations were a lifetime ago. Those quiet moments with Joseph seemed even further away. Elaine could not help but wonder if some felt the Lady of Lyon had abandoned their once hallowed city, leaving the Lyonnaise to be ravaged by starvation and fear amid the pall cast by the bloodred Nazi flag.

Especially with so many mourning the loss of their loved ones. As she did now with Joseph.

She had a job to do. The impending task jostled her from her reverie.

A glance at her watch confirmed it was nearly nine fifteen at night, the time Radio Londres broadcast from London.

The delicate watch was a Type 18 model from LIP, who had been making watches since the beginning of the nineteenth century. The band was a textured brown leather with an elegant, gold-plated rectangular face and had been a wedding present from Joseph. Until recently, she only wore it on occasion, like jewelry—depending on her outfit—otherwise it remained safely tucked away in its fine case.

Now the accessory had become a permanent fixture. Somehow just knowing Joseph thought of her when he picked it out, how gently his fingers moved over the slender strap as he helped her attach it to her wrist the first time, the way he always gave her a proud smile when she wore it—those were memories that brought her comfort.

The minute hand on the rectangular face settled on 9:15.

She leaned over her desk and fiddled with the knob to adjust the tuning as much as was possible. No matter how perfectly someone shifted the needle to the precise location, the message was still partially obscured by a sharp, warbling whine, Vichy's paltry attempt at blocking London's messages when forbidding people from listening had proved pointless.

"Ici Londres..."the voice began in a timbre distinct enough to be heard over the obnoxious background. "Before we begin, please listen to some personal messages."

Elaine sat up, her pen poised over a piece of paper, ready to quickly scribe the nonsensical statements to follow, communications meant for the Resistance. Some for their Combat group, others for those throughout France, and some meant for no one at all, simply added to throw off enemies trying to break the code.

"Jean has a long mustache."

"Cats are in a field of lavender."

"Grandma found a large carrot."

A string of similarly ridiculous proclamations followed. Marcel and Antoine were the only ones who could decode the phrases into the pertinent details needed. When the "personal messages" on Radio Londres ended, the usual program decrying Germany's false news followed. The information shared on that general, uncoded broadcast was integral for the articles in their underground newspapers. Not only to counter the disinformation and propaganda, but also to call more French citizens to their ranks. In recent issues, they urged Resistants to look to Corsica's example, the island that rose up with the Allies and, after twenty-five days of battle, was finally liberated.

Corsica had been a beacon breaking through turbulent seas, a beam of light that shot through the darkness to keep them all from crashing onto the rocks of despair. If Corsica could be wrested from Hitler's fist, so too could France.

However, the island's freedom had not only rallied the Resistance to redouble their efforts, so too had it incensed the Gestapo and their French counterparts, the Milice.

Antoine arrived early the next morning and was already bowed over his work with focused diligence.

"I have the newest codes from Radio Londres," Elaine said by way of greeting.

He gave a grunt of acknowledgment.

Elaine went to the kitchen and returned with a cup of roasted barley and chicory. "Will you look over the messages when you have a moment?"

"The likelihood of hearing back from anyone on your article is practically impossible." His nail beds were blue where his fingers pinched at the slender drawing stick. "Most especially London." He tilted his aquiline nose upward with a sniff.

"All the same..." She set the hot mug on the table beside him. Steam curled in the frigid warehouse air in a white-gray tendril.

He slid her a look that told her he knew exactly what she was doing. But he still took the drink in his hands.

She smiled and placed her carefully written notes before him.

He scanned over it as he took a careful sip from the hot mug, then sat back to regard her with fresh consideration.

Her chest went tight. "What is it?"

He gave a small, incredulous laugh. "It appears your message has been received."

Elaine sucked in a breath of surprise. London had her message. She had anticipated someone within France would be the likely candidate to offer aid. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine help would come from London.

"Just because they have received your request doesn't mean they'll do anything," Antoine cautioned.

"I know," she replied, unable to stop her grin.

He resumed his work with a disbelieving grunt, but she saw the hint of a smile on his lips before he bent his head once more. No matter how many warnings he might offer, Elaine would not be discouraged.

That afternoon she and Jean worked side by side together, setting the typography for the upcoming edition of Combat.

"Bonjour."Nicole's singsong voice tinkled over the clatter of the automatic press.

"Bonjour, Nicole," Jean called back with a shy wave. "You look beautiful as always."

She swept her hand through the air dismissively, but with apparent pleasure at his compliment.

Jean's face flushed.

"You should talk to her," Elaine said encouragingly in a whisper.

His head shook in vigorous refusal. With a sigh, she pushed up from the series of stacked typography slugs and approached Nicole, who was in deep conversation with Marcel. Elaine almost turned away until a familiar name caught her ears.

Josette.

"She is breaking," Marcel said. "Tearing apart at the seams. We cannot afford—"

"She's fine," Nicole insisted. "I'll care for her."

"Is she worth risking your life for?" Marcel pressed. "Risking your father's and your brother's?"

"That isn't fair."

"War is not fair."

Nicole caught sight of Elaine and called out with a wave, her expression set in forced joy, her cheeks blazing with color.

"Ma chérie, how are you?" Nicole asked, embracing her.

"Worried," Elaine answered honestly in a voice she knew Marcel wouldn't overhear. "About Josette. And about you helping her."

Nicole laughed off the warning. "She'll be fine."

"She's not well, Nicole."

Something flickered in her pale blue eyes, but she brushed it off as she did all concerns tossed her way, as if they were pesky gnats to be swatted. Truly no one in all of France possessed the bravado of Nicole, which made Elaine worry all the more.

"Do not be such a hen, Elaine." Her gaze was kind as she said it. "Trust me, please."

Elaine nodded slowly, but even as she did so, she could not stop her internal arguments from picking at Nicole's misplaced faith. But Nicole was a force to be reckoned with, more so than even Denise. Nicole couldn't be cautioned; she would have to see for herself.

Elaine only hoped that would happen before it was too late.

That afternoon, once the typography was set and the latest edition was automatically winding its way through the printing press, Elaine decided to take her mind off the exchange with Nicole by paying a visit to Manon. An earlier appointment with a black-market supplier left the warehouse kitchen well stocked enough to bring some extras to Sarah and Noah. With the greatest care, Elaine packed her shopping basket with a sack of lentils that might carry them through the week, two eggs, and a precious pot of strawberry jam. The latter had come at a steep price, but Elaine's memory of Noah's enjoyment of the treat had made the expense worthwhile.

Once at Manon's apartment, she knocked and called out. "Bonjour, cousin."

The door opened and Manon greeted her with a small, but genuine smile. She waved Elaine in swiftly. As soon as the door was shut once more, a little face peered around the doorway in the main living area.

"Is that Noah?" Elaine asked.

His face erupted in a grin, and he scurried toward her, his arms spread wide. She set the basket down carefully and caught him midrun, clutching him to her to keep them both from barreling over.

His reaction was likely due to the food she managed to bring with each of her visits, but she still relished his excitement regardless.

Perhaps if her womb had been more welcoming, she might have had a child like Noah, one with her dark eyes and Joseph's razor-sharp mind. They could have been a family, strolling alongside the Rh?ne together with pink-speckled praline brioche in their hands and pure happiness in their hearts.

She had lost a part of Joseph in having never had children with him. The poignancy of that realization hit her in the chest, visceral and sharp.

"Don't be sad, Elaine." Noah gazed up at her with his big, hazel eyes.

She blinked and rapidly cleared her mind of such ill-serving thoughts. "Of course I'm not sad. Today is the Fête des Lumières."

Sarah leaned against the doorway, watching her son with her arms folded comfortably across her light pink sweater. A look of pride lifted the corners of her lips.

Elaine pulled out the lentils from her basket. "I brought food."

"You did not have to do that," Manon chided. But even as she did so, she accepted the modest-sized sack.

"There are too many of you here now for your rations to do." Elaine eagerly withdrew two eggs, their shells still intact from her care upon the trek over.

Sarah joined them and accepted the eggs with gentle hands. "Where did you find these?"

"Someone from the black market stopped to see us first." Elaine reached into her basket a final time. "Which is how I was able to buy this." She held up the jar in presentation. Light glinted through the viscous red jam, so the contents appeared to glow.

Noah's face beamed with delight.

"Hold it with two hands." Elaine settled the jar in his palms. "And take it to the kitchen."

Noah did as she bade and walked with exaggerated precision, like an acrobat on a tightrope, his body tense with the concentration of youth's precarious coordination.

"That was kind of you to bring those items." Sarah hovered over Noah, deposited the eggs in the kitchen, then returned to speak with Elaine. "Manon never says as much, but I know we are straining her supplies. Especially with the way Noah eats."

"He's a growing boy." Elaine gathered her empty basket. "Let him eat whatever he can."

"Have you heard anything?" Sarah asked, her composure breaking slightly, revealing the strain beneath.

"London has confirmed receipt of my request." Elaine had to force herself to keep the excitement from her voice. "But it does not guarantee—"

"I know," Sarah said quickly. "But London." She clasped her hands over her heart, as though locking the hope inside lest it flit away. "This is greater than I ever anticipated."

"I will do my best," Elaine promised.

Sarah's eyes brimmed with tears. "Thank you."

That night, when the sun descended in the hills beyond where the old Roman ruins lay from the ancient city of Lugdunum, a miracle happened. Soft, golden candlelight filled the windows in Lyon. There were only a few brave souls determined to engage in the celebration, but the darkened streets lit with the ethereal brilliance of their bravery.

It wasn't a frenzy of celebratory fireworks or a procession winding up the steep hill to the basilica, but it was an outpouring of love for the Lady of Lyon with the little bit some had left to give.

Elaine strode home slowly that night, savoring the warmth lighting her way even as the bitter wind rolled off the Rh?ne. For the first time in so long, amid the muted observance of the Fête des Lumières, Elaine felt her grief give way to a modicum of hope.

Josette was late.

Elaine glanced discreetly at the small watch on her wrist, which revealed it was past six in the evening, long after Josette should have arrived. Secretly, Elaine hoped the young woman did not come, that Marcel managed to convince Nicole that Josette needed some time off to steady her rattled nerves.

Even as she thought it, Elaine couldn't stifle the pinch of guilt. She didn't blame Josette for the precariousness of her condition. It was likely anyone might suffer from such a breakdown. Everyone was on constant alert for a cold German stare that lingered too long, or a set of footsteps marching at their same pace behind them in a narrow alley, or an unknown face among the familiar. How could they not when the danger was so ubiquitous?

And yet the newspapers needed to be delivered at their respective locations. Elaine eyed the stack of newsprint, the ink so fresh, its powdery scent hung in the air.

"Is Josette coming?" she asked aloud.

Marcel's mouth tightened in a thin line. Even if Josette did arrive at her delegated time, he likely would not agree to accept her aid.

There was pride in the prompt release of newspapers, that their team was timely, not only their production, but also in the paper's delivery. No matter who among them might be arrested, what materials became short due to ration or otherwise. Or even whose nerves might have gotten the better of them. After having spent months being one of the many cogs in the machine of the clandestine press, Elaine had a profound need to continue the age-old tradition of printing that had peaked in Lyon during the Renaissance when the city was the main printing district in all of France.

"I'll handle the delivery for Josette," she volunteered. "I've already finished what needed to be done on the Minerva today." The stack of papers lay in a neat row on the table beside the archaic press.

Jean lifted his head from the Linotype machine, his fingers hovering over the keys as the rapid clacking of his typing went silent. "I can do it."

Marcel considered him for a moment. "I need the plate finalized within the hour so I can finish this print on the next paper before tomorrow."

Meaning it was a job only Jean could do. Elaine was still clumsy on the foreign keyboard. Certainly, far too slow to complete the piece in time for Marcel to get the printing press going.

"Don't be silly—it will take only a few minutes." Elaine stood and pulled on her coat before Jean could insist on going in her stead. "I'll be back before you are even done."

In the months they'd all gotten to know one another, the men had become extraordinarily protective of Elaine. Even more so after Joseph's death, though they'd finally stopped handling her as though she'd break like poor Josette. They always looked after her with concern—whether the possibility of arrest or suspicion from the Nazis, or like now—being loathe to send her outside amid December's brutal freeze.

She bundled the newsprint and hid the stack in her shopping basket. "I'll be back in time to check over the printing plate when I return."

"You do have the sharpest eyes," Jean said, always liberal with his approbation.

With a friendly wave over her shoulder, Elaine slipped out of the warehouse and into the shock of the winter wind. The colder it became, the harder it was to retain warmth. Bodies were too slight, fuel too scarce, and the chill too pervasive.

They all did what they could for the underground, for their persistent battle to resist their oppressors. Her part now was to deliver the papers and avoid notice from the Nazis.

An icy blast of wind made the tip of her nose burn and her eyes sting. She squinted as much as possible to minimize the discomfort while still allowing herself to see a slit of the street in front of her without crashing into a wall or falling off a curb. Easier said than done in the darkness of early winter sunsets.

The trams were down from a Resistance attack earlier that day. There was nothing for it but to walk. She would not have the newspaper late on her account.

Hurried along by the gusts, she rushed to the drop location on the outskirts of Croix-Rousse. The courtyard of the building inside was empty and dark. But then, winter was such a bleak time. Branches were stripped of their leaves to reveal skeletal limbs beneath and the sky was cast in a flat gray that reflected on the Rh?ne, washing the world in a bland, colorless existence.

A dim light shone on a corridor containing the buildings' post boxes, only just illumining the dank open space cradled inside the building.

In the corner of the courtyard was a crate one might use to cart about goods or stand on to peer into a window. The wooden box seemed to have been there so long, the boards were stained dark with age and sagged in against themselves, a thick smattering of mud and grit coating the outside. Elaine slipped into the heavy shadow near the wall, lifted the crate to reveal the dry earth beneath and carefully set the papers within. When she withdrew her hand, her fingertips came away damp and filthy with a black and green organic substance she didn't care to place.

She rubbed her hands together to clean them as best she could. Her surroundings were desolate—the chipped walls, the alcove with only one bare bulb, the illumination almost drown out by an eclipse of moths.

Something in the distance clicked and the light went out, blanketing her in a momentarily disorienting darkness.

In that instant, she was entirely alone in the cold blackness of the world.

The enormity of her sorrow swelled inside her, absent any warmth or life. In that moment, the courtyard became a direct reflection of her own soul, bearing the agony of her pain, of her grief. She stumbled back into the street and struggled to drag in a breath of air even as it burned in her lungs. By habit more than intent, she lifted her watch to find it was very nearly eight at night.

Radio Londreswould be airing soon after her return if she hurried back. There might be more detail given on Sarah and Noah.

The thought roused her to her senses, tugging her up from the doldrums by her bootstraps.

"Halt."

She spun around to find a German officer directly behind her.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded in French.

"I was visiting a friend," she said even as her mind tried to catch up with the lie her mouth expelled.

"A friend." His narrowed eyes glittered in the darkness like something evil and soulless. "This building has been emptied, all the occupants arrested this afternoon."

"That would explain why my friend was not home," she replied smoothly, her pulse pounding. "What have they done that everyone would be taken?"

But even as she feigned ignorance, she knew. Fear prickled at her scalp and screamed for her to run. Several months before, she might have been able to. Before Corsica won the battle for its freedom from the Nazi oppressors.

Now, the Germans shot without question, bathing the streets in blood with their determination to maintain their viselike grip on France.

The officer called to someone in German. A fresh-faced boy-soldier who barely looked old enough to shave emerged from the shadows beyond a streetlamp's perfect circle of yellow light.

"Go inside and see if any messages have been placed within." The officer spoke in French, purposefully wanting her to have understood him.

Elaine used all her willpower to school her face into a bland expression, refusing to betray the fear vibrating through her. If they found the papers, she would be dead.

They waited for a long moment as the boy did what he was told. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering from terror as much as from the cold. The officer appeared impervious to the weather, most likely from the heavy coat he wore and the girth of his prominent belly jutting beneath. The boy emerged several minutes later and spoke in German.

The officer glared at Elaine and dread tingled over her skin.

Had they found the newspapers?

"I'm sure he's proven my innocence," she said in a brusque tone she prayed would be convincing.

The officer didn't deign to reply. Nor did he look convinced. Instead, he reached for her with an unfriendly hand, trapping her where she stood. "You are under arrest."