Twenty-Four

Elaine

The days following Nicole's death were some of the darkest Elaine had known.

Elaine did not remember how she returned to the warehouse after seeing Nicole's tortured body, only the sensation of being wrapped in blankets and how not even the warmth of their layers could allay her uncontrollable shivering. Afterward, once she finally shook free of her fugue state, she returned to work by rote, performing motions instilled by months of repetition rather than thought.

In the past, she had been able to outwork the horrors of war, but not now, not with such terrible images branded in her mind. Whispers followed her—ones of Nicole, of what she might have given up by the persuasion of such physical pain.

"She would never have talked." Elaine rounded on Antoine, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears after having not spoken for nearly a week.

"You can't know that," he said in a solemn tone, ever the realist.

"I knew Nicole," Elaine countered. "She would never have given the Gestapo any information about us."

"Even still," Marcel interjected, his tone paternal, "I think it best we find a different place for you to sleep rather than have you continue to stay here."

While the warehouse was by no means a home, it was familiar. The idea of going to another safe house with a lumpy mattress and empty walls left a hollowness ringing in Elaine's chest. But she could not deny that the suggestion was a sound one no matter how much it filled her with dread.

Elaine was out the door of the narrow, one room apartment as soon as the curfew lifted, eager to leave the cold loneliness of it behind. The stacks of newsprint from the night before were waiting for her at the warehouse, unfinished—something she might have completed had she been able to sleep in the back bedroom as before.

When she arrived, the front door was slightly ajar. She drew upright, her senses on high alert.

Most likely someone else had already arrived before her. They all worked tirelessly through the occupation and even more so now to comply with the massive uptick of requested production. Surely someone arrived tired, their exhaustion making them careless.

But to not close the door entirely...

They were all fatigued, but such a mistake was unthinkable. Reckless. Elaine pushed open the door and ensured it locked properly behind her. The light in the kitchen shone from a crack, dousing the hallway in a wash of dim gold.

She strode toward the room and shoved through the door with a mix of relief and irritation to discover which of them had been so forgetful. "You left the front door open."

No one was within, but the room had been entirely upended. The chairs were flipped, the table absent a leg, the cabinets hanging open in defeat, the drawers pulled from their alcoves. Even her precious collection of breadcrumbs from the last two weeks was scattered on the floor like pigeon feed.

She pulled back instinctively.

Before she could recover from her surprise, strong hands grabbed her shoulders. She spun around, her fist flying.

Antoine ducked just before her hand could connect with his face. She gave him an exasperated look, too frightened to talk. He shrugged apologetically, also remaining quiet, and put his hand up to indicate she ought to wait in the kitchen. That was an order she could not obey. She shook her head, refusing for either one of them to be alone. Whoever had destroyed the kitchen might still be inside.

The thought chilled her. Immediately her mind summoned the image of Nicole as it so often did, of what she must have endured in those terrible hours before her death.

A shiver ran through Elaine, and she shook her head again a final time. Surely two would stand a better chance than one on their own.

The rest of the warehouse looked similar to the disheveled kitchen, all drawers pulled out, cabinets opened. A typewriter was missing, as well as a lockbox that contained several thousand francs.

Neither spoke, but Elaine knew what Antoine thought. She could not even stop the consideration herself, though it was met with a burden of guilt as soon as it hit her mind.

Perhaps Nicole had confessed.

And if she had, who could blame her?

As they were examining the damage, Marcel and Jean joined them, also taking inventory. Marcel emerged from the fake identity card room several minutes later, his face ashen with the realization that his original identity card with his real name had been taken along with the missing francs.

Though Marcel's replacement would arrive in two days' time, the attack surely felt like a noose tightening around his neck. He made a discreet call that afternoon, begging to stop production on the paper, but was once again denied.

Elaine was at his side when he set the receiver in the cradle, his face grim as he muttered to himself words he likely had not expected her to hear. "They have killed us all."

Elaine averted her gaze to keep him from realizing she'd overheard even as her pulse kicked up at his ominous words.

Regardless of the danger, the paper would print on and they would be the crew to see it done.

Two days later, a stocky man known as Albert, with thick round glasses and a shock of white hair, arrived to shadow Marcel to eventually take his place. The man had a serious demeanor and lacked any lines around his eyes that suggested he had never smiled once in his life.

Still, Elaine was grateful someone would be assuming the role for Marcel, to allow him the opportunity to live his life once more. To reunite with his wife whom he had not seen in several months.

With the exception of Albert's presence, the day was like any other with Antoine bent over a piece of art, Jean manning the Linotype machine, Elaine pumping the pedal on the old Minerva, her hands busily pulling the completed print while replacing it with a blank piece of paper on the small shelf.

A voice shouted from somewhere nearby, the word almost inaudible against the rhythmic thumping of the Minerva. "Surrender."

Elaine glanced about, her foot ceasing its task as the machine slowed. It was just enough time to see Antoine and Jean share a frightened look before the warehouse erupted into chaos.

It all happened so quickly, Elaine's confusion had not yet had a chance to bleed into fear. The door to the warehouse flew open, and a puff of red mist sprayed from Antoine. He fell backward to the ground as a pool of blood spread around his head, his pencil plinking against the hard floor at his side, his eyes staring up at nothing.

Elaine staggered back, stunned.

The Gestapo and Milice were there, led by a man whose face loomed in Elaine's nightmares, the iron cross medal gleaming at his breast.

Werner.

He stared at Marcel with his flat, metal-gray eyes. "Marcel," he said in a calm, even voice that set the hairs on Elaine's arms standing on end.

Jean put his hands up in surrender as Elaine backed away toward the rear door. Another burst of submachine gunfire sent Albert folding to the ground where he stood. He toppled to the floor, his white hair seeping to crimson.

Marcel ran from his side then, fast despite his limp as he grabbed Elaine's arm and dragged her back with him.

Energy jolted through Elaine like electricity, charged by the hail of bullets chipping at the wall and floor around them as they sprinted for the door. A sharp pain bit into the back of her calf, but it scarcely slowed her as they escaped to the back terrace.

Together they ran for the rear wall. Before Elaine could consider how to scale it, Marcel was lifting her as if she weighed nothing, pitching her over the ivy-layered ledge. The back of her leg burned, but she didn't stop to examine it as she staggered to her feet. Marcel was immediately beside her, grabbing her arm once more to pull her along.

Up ahead, Gestapo agents filled the alley.

Elaine skidded to a halt. Her gaze darted around the alley for any doorways or windows they might use for escape. And found none.

There was nothing but the lethal force behind them. And yet another in front of them.

They were trapped.

"Halt," the Gestapo shouted, the click of their guns echoing off the high stone walls on either side of them.

Beside her, Marcel withdrew a revolver from his gray trousers. Blood spattered his body and several bullet wounds showed against his jacket, wet with streams of blood.

But when he met her eyes, there was a strange sense of serenity within them. "They will not take me alive." His voice was weak, as if the thread of his life would soon be snipped short.

In that instant, myriad thoughts flitted through Elaine's mind. Joseph and life without him after the war. Nicole and what was done to her. What Marcel had been subjected to and his certainty that he could not withstand another round. Her own fear that she could not endure such torture without giving away secrets that might get others killed. And in that moment, she knew with certainty she could not be taken either.

"I also don't want that," Elaine breathed.

Marcel shook his head. "Do not ask this of me."

She straightened despite the pain in the back of her leg and a pinching sensation at her side. "Do not let them take me alive, Marcel," she hissed vehemently.

"Elaine." His face crumpled, his eyes filling with tears.

The jackboots pounded the pavement, coming closer.

His hand shook as he lifted the gun, its barrel mere inches from Elaine's torso. "May God forgive me," he whispered.

The gun went off and pain exploded in Elaine's chest with an impact that sent her flying to the ground. A weight seemed to settle against her solar plexus, pressing the air from her lungs and making her heart beat in heavy, thick pumps. In the distance came another single shot as the world went dark.

At least in their terrible world of ugliness and hate and war, she had managed to save Sarah and sweet little Noah. For they were her last thought as she slid into a velvety abyss. Without fear. Without pain. Without hope.