Twenty-Two

Elaine

Witnesses say Manon was like an angel preparing to ascend into heaven. Amid the crimson waves of violence the Germans swept over Lyon, their cruelty played its wicked hand that night when the Gestapo pulled her into the street on Rue Lanterne. She did not fight their painful grip, nor did she cringe when they pointed the barrels of their submachine guns upon her.

Elaine did not know what they said to her, only that as their voices roused the attention of the neighborhood, Manon closed her eyes and tilted her head back, seraphic, as if basking in the warmth of heaven's golden glow. The men released her, and she spread her arms at her sides in supplication as the bullets scored the night air and tore into her frail body.

Her loss was one of many etched upon Elaine's heart, and every night thereafter for those following four months, she prayed Manon had finally found peace at last with her husband and her son.

Denise was taken that night while fleeing from the bomb she'd planted as a distraction. There were also stories about her—how she lashed out like a guivre to avoid capture. But in the end, even the dragon-like creature itself could not have held out against the considerable force of the Germans sent to arrest Sarah and Noah. Denise remained at Montluc for only a short week, her rescue impossible, before she was finally sent to a prisoners' work camp, like Joseph.

There had been no news of Sarah and Noah since. Though perhaps that was a good thing. Regardless, they remained on Elaine's mind. They likely always would as their absence in her life was one her thoughts constantly prodded.

The newspaper rolled through the machine, its rhythm lulling her as stacks of fresh newsprint piled up. It was the middle of the day and yet Elaine had to fight the weight of exhaustion tugging at her eyelids. Marcel had been arrested nearly two months ago on suspicion of operating the clandestine newspaper, though they were still uncertain if he was at Montluc or the Gestapo headquarters...or somewhere else entirely. Regardless of his location, he hadn't talked, or they would all be with him.

So it was, they put in extra hours to compensate for his absence until he returned. If he would return.

Her head nodded forward, yielding to her fatigue when the machine's sudden click-click-click snapped her awake once more, indicating the print job was complete. Fatigued, she gathered the newspapers and set them beside the stack she had completed an hour earlier on the Minerva.

The Gestapo had been relentless in their pursuit of Resistance fighters and Maquis. The kid gloves with which the Nazis handled the French populace before were ripped off, their claws now bared and dripping with blood.

A dozen prisoners were slain in retaliation for the death of one German, and in the country, those suspected of helping the Maquis were dragged from their homes and killed. Arrests were a constant threat as the Milice and Gestapo tightened their grip on the throat of Lyon. Bread rations were cut, curfews extended to ridiculous hours, and harsh shouts rang out through the narrow stone streets.

The Nazis had hovered over Lyon since the occupation, but now their breath whispered hot and fetid at the neck of the Resistance network. Most especially the printers as the Nazis attempted to destroy all clandestine presses.

It was for that reason, Elaine and the others did not mind the extra hours Marcel's absence created. If the newspaper still went out on time, it would hopefully disprove his involvement to the Gestapo. Thus far, at the very least, there had been no news of his death. For that, they were all grateful.

And for every day the Gestapo didn't storm into the warehouse from whatever they may have forced from Marcel's lips, they were even more grateful.

The print job complete, Elaine dragged herself toward the kitchen to prepare a cup of chicory coffee to fortify herself and stifle the emptiness growling from her stomach as she waited on Nicole to come for the freshly printed papers. The darkened corridor was uncharacteristically quiet with the automatic machine having completed its task, and Elaine's entire body was immediately on alert.

Every footstep outside might be the Milice surrounding the warehouse. Every murmured voice might be the Gestapo infiltrating their perimeter. Every person who strode by might be a collaborator who noticed something unusual about the facade of their geological business.

That was daily life now—along with the gnawing ache of insatiable hunger, the threadbare blanket of comfort and safety ripped away with the Germans' barbaric tactics. Even in Elaine's exhausted state, every pop and creak of the old building as it settled deeper into its foundation made her jump. She was nearly to the kitchen, her nerves strung tight as a trip wire when the front door flew open, flooding the dark hall with light from outside.

Elaine's heart leaped and she froze where she stood, a deer before a hunter. Caught.

But the figure stumbling into the backlit doorway was no Nazi.

"Help me," Nicole gasped as she staggered under the weight of a man she had propped against her side.

Elaine ran to her friend without hesitation, first closing and securing the door behind them, then putting herself under the man's other arm. He was skeletal, but she and Nicole were scarcely better off, and they still struggled to keep him upright.

"I can walk." The man's voice carried a familiar timbre, both serious and authoritative at once.

Marcel.

With what little strength he possessed, he straightened, and the burden of his weight eased from Elaine's shoulders. They guided him into the quiet warehouse.

Antoine lifted his head, eyes going wide. But he did not hesitate. "Jean, come at once. Bring your kit."

Elaine pulled a chair toward Marcel. As he settled gingerly into the cradle of the seat, she could finally see his face for the first time. Bruising mottled his features, coloring his skin with the offended red of new marks, the purple of ones sustained days ago and even the yellow-green of those on their way to healing. A cut split his lower lip, and his hair, usually cropped close to his scalp, was at least an inch long and glistening with blood on one side.

As with the man at Montluc, Marcel's fingernails were all removed, leaving only patches of angry red.

No one shied away from gore these days when abuse was so prevalent. But then, never had Elaine witnessed someone with whom she was so familiar be injured as Marcel was now. In that battered visage, she still knew a proud father's smile, a man who loved his wife and cared for those in his employ, a hard worker who wanted only to see his country free and safe.

Jean settled before Marcel with a bag opened at his side. Though Jean's face remained calm, there was a tremble to his fingers as he dashed a bit of what he called Carrel-Dakin fluid over wounds Elaine had not initially noticed. While Jean was no doctor, he had been trained in first aid in his final year at school when the Germans came through Lyon at the start of the war.

"Werner," Marcel muttered. "I said nothing."

"We know," Elaine soothed. "And the papers have gone out these last two months."

"Two months?" His brows pushed together.

Elaine could too easily remember the awful cell in Montluc and the odor of fear and blood that permeated Werner's office. The memories visited her often at night and woke her with a chilled sweat. It was easy to see how time would blur in such a perpetual state.

"Yvette." His wife's name emerged from a deep place within his chest.

"She had the baby." A sad smile quivered at the corners of Nicole's lips. "A girl named Claire."

A tear trickled down Marcel's battered cheek. "Orphan," he muttered.

"Oui,"Elaine whispered around a fresh lash of pain for him. "Yvette took her to the orphanage as you directed."

Though no doubt it had devastated his wife to do so, her womb and heart both empty. But a child could be used against Marcel. He and Yvette had given up much for the Resistance, including their children, who had all been sent to an orphanage in the last brutal months. To protect them in the best way their parents knew how. An end to the war would finally reunite them, but nothing could bring back first steps and first words and all the other firsts their sacrifices cost them.

The tension drained from Marcel's shoulders as he relaxed into the seat, and everyone left Jean to tend to him in peace. Antoine had already returned to his work, his brow pinched in a forced concentration Elaine knew well, one that was meant to push away the horror of what lay before them.

Nicole followed Elaine to the stack of papers.

"Have you heard anything of Josette?" Elaine asked. The short window of time they saw one another every other week for newspaper deliveries was their only opportunity to discuss what the other knew.

Nicole's pale eyes darkened as she shook her head.

Josette's nerves had unraveled and torn away at something vital within her. Her parents, in their fear for their only child, kept her locked within their home lest the Nazis detect whatever had broken, and finished the job.

"Denise?" Nicole asked.

"Nothing new."

Nicole nodded slowly as her gaze wandered back to where Jean leaned over Marcel. A sharpness took hold of her eyes, imbued with scalding vengeance and rancor. "I wish I could kill Werner myself."

The look was visceral, an enmity simmered in Elaine's own soul like a pot ready to boil over. They all were in a state of agitation, their bodies exhausted but keenly alert, their empty stomachs filled only with acid that churned and roiled. And burning beneath it all was the raw hatred for the Nazis.

Either the Resistance would gain an advantage over their oppressors, or every one of them would die trying.

A month later, Elaine leaned over the desk, her pen poised over a notepad, body tensed like a horse at the races, waiting for the gate to spring open and reveal the stretch of track.

The opening notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony tinkled to life; the short-short-short-long notes were Morse code for V—symbolic of the Victory they all prayed to see realized. And now, after poignant loss and powerful suffering, that time might finally be coming to fruition.

Elaine was not alone as she leaned over the radio, ears straining to listen behind the pierce of whining and cracking static meant to jam up the message. Nothing could keep them from gathering the codes that had been rattled off in a seemingly endless stream in the last week. On June 1, there had been over two hundred messages.

Marcel had translated them with tears shimmering in his eyes. The Allies were coming.

He was beside her now along with Antoine, each with their own pad and pen to ensure nothing was missed.

"The long sobs of the violins of autumn," the broadcaster's voice said in French.

Antoine, a man never given to emotion, sucked in his breath.

"It is happening," Marcel said with reverent awe. In the month since his escape from the Nazis, his bruises had all healed and he was left with only a limp and ten patches of unnaturally smooth skin where his fingernails once grew.

Before Elaine could ask what he meant, the second message came. "Wound my heart with a monotonous languor."

Marcel looked to Antoine and nodded. "Go."

Antoine was already halfway from the chair when he received the order.

"The Allies will be here in less than twenty-four hours," Marcel said swiftly in the breath between messages.

A tingle of excitement had but a second to prickle through Elaine's veins before the next code came, its swift delivery demanding her full attention. But as she wrote down line after line of seemingly nonsensical statements, that fledgling tingle blossomed into the tangible flare of hope.

Once the stream of messages concluded, Marcel turned to Elaine, a smile spreading over his healing face. "Sarah and Noah are safe and will hopefully depart for America soon."

Elation soared through Elaine. "Is it really true?"

He grinned at her, revealing a missing lower left canine. "You did it, Elaine. You saved them, especially before these harrowing months."

These harrowing months—even such strong words were a trite description for what they had endured. Every day there were reports of Nazi aggression as they ferreted out where Jews were being hidden. The worst of which was in Izieu, not far from Lyon, when three Nazi trucks arrived at an orphanage for Jewish children, arresting all forty-four innocent souls and the seven brave adults who stayed with them. Elaine had written the story for Combat herself, her heart heavy, the typed words interrupted often by the moments needed to blot away her free-flowing tears. The orphans and their caretakers had been taken to Drancy, an internment camp in Paris where they were then sent to work camps.

What could children possibly do in work camps?

Elaine had immediately thought of Sarah after learning of those poor children of Izieu. If Sarah had done what many suggested and placed Noah in the care of those meant to save Jewish children, perhaps he might have suffered a similar fate.

Elaine sat back in her seat as the news report of Radio Londres detailed the losses Germany faced recently despite how the Nazis boasted their specious claims of victory. She remained sitting there long after the program ended, ruminating over Sarah and Noah's success.

The task of getting them to America had been deemed insurmountable, but Elaine's actions set their liberation into motion, along with the heroic efforts of countless others who managed to make the impossible become a reality.

Finally, it felt as if there was hope for them all.

The clandestine papers made no mention of the Allied invasion in their newspapers, but the arms stored in the basement were distributed through the Resistance in Lyon as well as to the Maquis. The Allies were finally coming; the war for independence had begun in earnest.

Allied bombings in the past had been unsuccessful in Lyon, like the one that had occurred in late May. While the explosive power did its worst on the Gestapo headquarters, so too had its destruction wreaked havoc on the local area, killing over seven hundred civilians and wounding hundreds more.

An advancing army crawling over France's verdant hills and cobbled streets, however, would be far more effective.

The printing press banged on through its process, but Elaine could scarcely concentrate enough to operate the old Minerva. She glanced down at her watch, the delicate arm stretching half past the hour. Nicole was late.

Anxiety brought an unwelcome sense of unease to the forefront of Elaine's mind. At any moment, she expected the door to swing open and Nicole's voice to tinkle out in her singsong welcome.

But it never came.

Nicole had never been late in the past. Not once.

A prickle of foreboding rippled over Elaine's skin.

She stared at the door, willing it to swing open. When it finally did, however, it was not Nicole who entered through the entryway, but Marcel, returning from a meeting in Paris with the other news printers. The Allied advance meant further recruitment for the Resistance would likely no longer be necessary. The war would surely be over any day now.

Elaine rushed to him, following his long strides as he crossed the room. "Nicole is late."

His gaze caught on Elaine's desk where the stack of newspapers lay bound and ready for retrieval. Frowning, he glanced down at his watch.

"She should have been here forty-five minutes ago," Elaine said solemnly. An ominous sensation fluttered in her chest. She looked to Marcel in the hopes he could quell the terrible feeling with a note of reassurance. "She has never been late before."

"Let us wait a moment more." A haggard exhaustion lined Marcel's face and darkened the tender skin under his eyes to the point they were reminiscent of those bruises he once carried from German abuse over a month before.

"What did they say about stopping production of the paper?" Elaine asked.

Marcel sank into a chair and removed his fedora, letting it plop onto the desk. His hair was cropped short once more as he preferred to wear it, enough that he was often mistaken for a soldier. Enough that no one could grab hold of his dark locks to plunge his head easily into water for baignore, the bathtub water torture the Nazis relished employing.

"Paris said that we should increase production rather than stop," Marcel answered woodenly.

The spark of determination in his eyes had dulled to something flat and unrecognizable. Defeat.

In that moment, Elaine could practically hear his thoughts. He wanted his role to be over, to reunite with his wife, for them to reclaim their children from their cold relegation to the orphanage, to relive those memories that once upon a time pulled his lips into an involuntary smile.

While Elaine did not have such a happy ending waiting for her at the end of her service, she understood the lure of such a desire. For if Joseph had lived, she would want the same—to be free of her part with the printing press, to sacrifice ink and paper and hot metal slugs dropping onto cooling trays for safety, comfort and love.

Now though, her efforts were a way to forget everything she no longer had. While she wanted the war to be over, she did not wish for her work to end. When it did, she would have to face the enormity of exactly how much she had lost.

"Perhaps they can send a replacement?" she offered even as her eyes wandered to the closed door that Nicole failed to emerge through. "Or I can take over."

He lifted his gaze to Elaine and nodded. "I know you can do the job, but I could never put such a burden on your shoulders."

"But I could—"

"No." There was a firmness to his response. While his body healed from the two months he'd spent imprisoned, his demeanor remained wounded. In all the time Elaine had known him, in all the arrests from which he had previously escaped, he had never shown fear until his most recent return. That nervous anxiety bled through his dealings with all of them, as Elaine and the others were scarcely allowed to leave the warehouse or to take on anything that might assume additional risk.

Like running the printing press as she had suggested.

His gaze slowly crept to the closed warehouse door and a pained look pulled at the new creases on his brow.

"Nicole is very late," Elaine whispered.

A muscle worked in his jaw, and his stare grew soft and distant. "I think we will not see her this day."

Marcel was correct. Nicole did not show. Worry finally gnawed through Elaine's discretion when Nicole did not appear the following day either.

There had been no reports of her at Montluc Prison, which meant only one thing.

"I'm going to try to find Nicole." Elaine snatched up her shopping basket and handbag before her nerves could get the better of her.

After the Allied bombing destroyed the old medical military school, the Gestapo headquarters had relocated to a building on the corner of Place Bellecour and Rue Alphonse Fochier. If Elaine rushed and caught the right trams, she could be there in half an hour.

Nicole had once risked herself to liberate Elaine from the clutches of Werner. Elaine would not abandon her friend now.

Marcel moved like a striking snake, grasping Elaine by the arm. "Are you mad?"

"I cannot sit by and do nothing." She hadn't meant it to come out as an accusation, but he jerked back as if she'd struck him.

"You don't even know if she's there," he said in a hard tone. "If you show up looking for her, they will kill you too."

There was nowhere else Elaine could think that Nicole would be. She would never disappear and leave her father and brother to fend for themselves without the supplies she so carefully gathered to send them. Nor would she abandon her position with the Resistance when she was its most ardent supporter.

Elaine shook her head. "She cannot be anywhere else. I cannot leave her. She didn't leave me."

Jean approached, no doubt drawn by the passion with which Elaine spoke. "Marcel is correct, Elaine. It is far more dangerous now than before." His usually jovial expression was muted by the solemnity of the situation, by the pain Nicole's disappearance evidently caused him. "That's why I'm coming with you."

The warehouse door opened and a young woman with short, dark hair entered. Nicole's replacement, Celine. There was an edge to her, aged eyes in a youthful face. She did not have the cheerful countenance of Nicole and took her place as courier in job alone.

The position needed to be filled, yes, but the haste with which it was done was an insult. As if they were all simply interchangeable. As if none of them mattered more than the role they filled. Not people, but nameless parts in the workings of the great Resistance machine.

That someone like Nicole could be so easily forgotten, that the organization could so readily move on...it was more than Elaine could stand. "I am going now."

Before Marcel could reach for her again, she was gone, sprinting toward the warehouse door with Jean close behind her. The world whirred by as she ran out into the heat of the June day.

Jean joined her, matching her pace and saying nothing, slowing only when they reached the Rh?ne. The shade from the plane trees lining the river helped cool the sweat gathered on her brow and dampening the lower back of her dress. But the rustle of the pointed leaves overhead drew her awareness, its sound ominous, tugging her onward with the same press of determination she'd felt earlier.

"What are they looking at?" Jean nodded toward a crowd leaning over the stone wall to the river below.

An icy premonition cascaded over Elaine as she walked on legs she could not feel. A man turned to the side and retched, creating a break in the crowd, a place to slide into and peer toward the glittering river below.

A nude woman floated in the water, bobbing facedown in the gentle waves. The stiffness of her body was guided toward the stone walkway by a police officer with a long metal pole. Blond hair floated around her like a pale mist and her skin was white as a marble statue, marred with patches of black bruises covering her legs and back. Hideous strips of meaty pink showed where skin was missing entirely, as if peeled away.

Bile burned up Elaine's throat.

"Don't go down there," Jean cautioned at her side.

But she was already making her way to the stairs, guided by the same macabre unseen hand that had led her on this path.

She had to know.

Rather, she already knew, but had to confirm.

The police officers yelled at her, but they were too busy with pulling the body from the water to physically stop her. So it was that she was there when they pulled the corpse from the lapping waves and rolled the woman face up onto the stone walkway.

Milky blue eyes stared up at nothing in a face so misshapen, the woman's features were indistinguishable. If the signs of torture were monstrous upon her back, they were nothing compared to what had been done to her front.

Elaine's stomach rolled with nausea. This woman could not be Nicole. Her light was too bright to be snuffed out, her guile too smooth to be snagged, her beauty too breathtaking to be made hideous, even with torture.

Yet even as Elaine tried to convince herself, she could not stop her gaze from creeping toward the woman's right arm, to the spot just above the crook of her elbow where a small heart-shaped mole showed black against her pale skin.

Nicole had been found.