Epilogue

Elaine

The day after Etienne killed Werner, the Nazis fled. Explosions filled all of Lyon as they blew up the bridges behind them to keep the Allies from giving chase. The cowards.

General de Gaulle himself arrived two weeks later and honored Lyon by declaring it the capital of the Resistance. The day was one of great victory that seeded itself in Elaine's soul, for in that veneration was the appreciation for brutal sacrifices. For those who had been strong enough to endure torture. For those who had paid with their lives. For those whose hearts had been gouged from people they'd lost.

At last, she had heard from her parents. As she had hoped, they fared better than most through the occupation. Their time in the small rural town whose doldrum existence she had resented in her youth had been their salvation, providing them with enough produce to make it through the leaner years.

Prisoners did not return from the camps until the beginning of 1945, and when they did, France was horrified at the zombie-like people who arrived, bone-thin with large haunted eyes set in skulls with only taut skin stretched over them. The ration was still enforced, though not to the strict standards of when Lyon was under German occupation. But when the people from the camps returned, there was not a soul in France who did not offer their own share to help feed them.

Denise returned a month into the prisoners' liberation, skeletal like all the others, and missing several teeth, but with that familiar fire still bright in her gaze.

It was with their arrival that Elaine found new purpose. So vast was the number of people seeking family members, that she printed lists of survivors to reunite them with who had been lost. She relocated the heavy printing press once more, this time to a room with a wide window facing the street to let in sunshine and make her efforts known. It was from there the Minerva put forth the power of words, no longer enlisting an army to fight hate but reuniting friends and family and restoring love.

It was through those lists that she found Nicole's father, Olivier, who towered well over six feet and bore the same heart-shaped mole on his emaciated arm. He listened to the tales of Nicole's bravery with tears in his eyes and confirmed that it was through her packages that he and his son had managed to survive. Nicole's sister and brother-in-law both made it through their ordeal in Germany as well, and every night the four of them said a prayer for the empty seat at the table that lay between them.

Josette never fully recovered from her precarious state, her nature too delicate to endure the prolonged stress. Elaine had visited once under the disapproving glare of Josette's mother, who blamed Elaine and the rest of the Resistance for what happened to Josette. Though Elaine wanted to return, her mother barred any future visits.

Lucie did not come back to France. Nor did her husband, both having perished in a camp in Poland called Auschwitz. Every image of the terrible place made Elaine recall her friend who had always been so beautifully optimistic and ache for what she must have endured.

Elaine returned to her home eventually at Rue du Plat, pausing outside with poignancy at what lay on the other side. Not the layers of dust, but the memories of a life that seemed to have belonged to someone else.

When at last she entered, she found an envelope just inside the entryway, a scrape of dust in its wake from where it had been shoved beneath the door. She kept it pinched between her fingers as she slowly walked through those once-familiar rooms. To the sunny kitchen where she used to pore over issues of Combat, back before she'd ever known what a printing press looked like, let alone how to operate one. To the armchair in the living room where Joseph would bend over his research, his warm brown gaze distant with calculations. To the bedchamber where they had slept in one another's arms until she allowed his need to keep her safe to drive a wedge between them.

Tears burned in her eyes.

What she wouldn't give to have those days back, to set aside her anger and still allow herself to revel in their love. She entered the bathroom last where the spice of his cologne still lingered two years later.

It was then that her knees gave out and she sank to the floor in a fit of sobs for the man she loved. The man who was gone forever.

When at last her tears had dried, she remembered the letter still in her hand. She drew back the top to reveal a note inside along with an identity card for Hélène Bélanger.

A name as once familiar as the apartment in which she now lay crumpled on the floor.

With trembling hands, she unfolded the note.

I waited for several hours, but I fear you do not reside here any longer. I hope you receive this as I have no other way to locate you. I want to thank you for the time you allowed me to use your name, though truly this note is so ineffectual to express the depth of my gratitude. You saved my life with your sacrifice. It only seemed right to return this to you.

Elaine looked down at the identity card once more.

It had never occurred to her that she could take her name back. In the last two years, Hélène had become something of the past. A woman who selfishly made demands of what she wanted in her life, who thought she could bend circumstances to her will, who allowed her temper to squander the last precious days of her time with Joseph.

But Bélanger...yes, she would take that name once more, to have and to cherish the eternal gift bestowed upon her by the man she would always love.

A week later, when she arrived at her printing press to begin a fresh list of survivors that needed to be printed and shared, she found Etienne waiting for her with a painfully thin man at his side.

The stranger's shoulders were hunched forward, his hands clasped together in a diminutive stance, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. But he kept his head lifted, his large dark eyes watching her with interest.

It was not the first time Etienne had brought one of the camp survivors to her. He too spent most of his days tracking down family for those who had been unjustly imprisoned. Perhaps it was his time as a soldier that led him to such philanthropic pursuits, though Elaine suspected it had much to do with his personal penance when it came to Joseph and others he had not been able to save.

"It is good to see you, Etienne." She kissed his cheeks and was met with the familiar scent of cigarettes. He and the other men of France—and some women as well—were relieved to have their tobacco stocks restored.

She turned her attention to the man.

"This is Saul." Etienne set a hand gently to the man's thin shoulder, the gesture one of affection as well as being somewhat reverent.

"Bonjour, Saul." She offered him a smile and kept her tone gentle. Many camp survivors still jumped at being spoken to, haunted by the nightmares of their daily life of barking orders and senseless, unwarranted punishments. "May I help you?"

"I may help you." His voice was thin and reedy, his breath whistling in his narrow chest beneath clothes that were far too large for his shrunken frame. He held out his fisted hand, which she opened her palm beneath.

"I'm sorry for its state," he said as he spread his long fingers and let a scrap of paper fall into her waiting hand. "I kept it within my shoe for months."

Elaine used two fingers to gently pry apart the paper and immediately recognized the handwriting as her own. She drew in a shaky inhale at the familiar words.

Dearest Joseph,

I'm sorry for everything I said. I love you always.

-Hélène

"He was with Joseph," Etienne said.

Elaine's throat went tight with emotion. "How?" she managed to croak.

"We were in Auschwitz together," Saul replied. "The first week I arrived, I became very ill. I survived only because of your husband. He held me upright through the work, doing my share and his so I would not be shot. I do not even know where he found the strength. Perhaps in you." He gestured to the paper. "He looked at that often, cupped in the cradle of his hand, protected in the heel of his shoe otherwise. One day, an officer caught him smuggling potato peels to give to a man in our row who could not raise himself from bed. I was with Joseph when the officer shot him. He was clutching your note when he died." Saul's voice caught and his eyes welled with tears. "I thought it only right to keep it for him, to return his most cherished possession to you."

Elaine's mouth stretched over her teeth as she tried to keep back her tears, to summon the words to thank the man for such a precious gift. All these months, she had tried to push this note from her mind, to not dwell on the fear that Joseph had died never knowing how truly sorry she was, how very much she did love him.

A sob choked from her. "I love him so much."

Tears ran down Saul's cheeks, and he opened his thin arms to her. "And he loved you." The man whose body was little more than the bones framing his skin and who had endured cruelties beyond imagination, offered Elaine solace and comfort greater than any she had received in a long time. He had known Joseph in those final months, in the final seconds.

"Thank you," she whispered with all the love in her heart. "Thank you for this gift."

Saul smiled up at her through his own tears and gently patted her face.

But he was not the only one owed her gratitude. She reached for Etienne's hand and squeezed it with all the appreciation welling within her. "You got the note to him."

"I told you I would do all I could."

Saul and Etienne were not the last of her guests that week. On a sunny Friday, after the bells tolled half past noon, a quiet rap sounded at the door. Elaine crossed the threshold to welcome another visitor in search of their loved one.

A pretty young woman stood on the other side, her dark hair pulled back into victory rolls to reveal intelligent, clear green eyes. "Are you Elaine Rousseau?" she asked with a dialect Elaine could not place.

"Bélanger," Elaine answered. "But once known as Rousseau, yes. How may I help you?"

The woman reached into a small handbag hanging from her elbow, one far too small to hold the series of ration cards still needed for daily life. From it, she withdrew a black-and-white photo. "My name is Ava Harper, and I was the one who received your secret code in Combat to help bring Sarah and Noah Cohen to America."

She handed the photo to Elaine, whose heart caught in her throat. Sarah stood in a yard before a modest-sized house with dark shutters against its pale exterior. At her side was a dark-haired man with broad shoulders and a euphoric grin. They both rested their hands on the shoulders of a little boy with long-lashed eyes Elaine knew to be hazel. His cheeks were plump with good health and his mouth was partially open, his hand pointing in the distance, as if he was excitedly chattering about something he saw. The way children ought to be.

Sarah and Noah had made it to America and reunited as a family. Elaine's efforts had not been in vain. Her fight had not been in vain.

Joseph may not have wanted her to engage in such dangerous work, but she knew her husband: he would have been proud.

Ava could recall perfectly the day she'd taken the picture. It had been a fine April afternoon with a gentle breeze stirring the fresh shoots of grass in the verdant yard. Sarah's neighbor had recently acquired a new puppy, a puff of white with an overeager pink tongue, and Noah could not stifle his adoration long enough to sit still for the photograph.

Whatever Sarah's fears might have been about losing Lewis's love, they were entirely unfounded. Never had Ava seen a man look at a woman with such tenderness as Lewis did with Sarah.

It was Sarah's fondness for Elaine that sent Ava to Lyon before she went on to England. To meet the woman who had risked her life creating publications to squelch the dissemination of the Nazis' spurious claims, to meet the woman who had brought the Cohens into Ava's life and helped them to freedom.

Her search for Elaine in Lyon had taken several days of going to various locations and seeking out every name Sarah had provided her with. Time was running out and Ava's flight would be soon departing, but she was grateful for her success in finally locating the woman who had done so much for others.

Elaine looked up from the photograph with tears in her dark eyes. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, her wrists slender where they thrust out from the red sweater she wore. "Are they happy?"

Ava couldn't stop her own smile. "Very much so. And they all survived the war because of you."

"Not me." Elaine shook her head, setting her thick blond hair swishing over her shoulders. "I merely put out the message."

"Yes, but it was so cleverly hidden," Ava said. "I recognized it immediately because your usual work in Combat was so immaculate, but no one else would realize that if they were not familiar with the newspaper."

"We always were so proud of how perfect the final product was." Elaine gave a sad smile. "I am grateful you decoded my message, that you were able to help them." A flash of pain touched her eyes. "There were so many who could not be saved."

Ava felt the weight of those emotions in her very soul and nodded in understanding. "I was in Lisbon, but I saw the refugees come through, I heard their stories. Even in a place of safety, some were still lost." The force of her grief for Otto resonated through her. It always would.

"I heard of the attack on you and your coworkers." Ava had been shocked to learn about the attack on the warehouse in a letter from James. "I am so sorry for your loss."

Elaine lifted her chin at a slightly cocky angle, as if confidence could cast aside grief. "It was a dangerous role. We knew the risks."

Ava caught sight of a large machine in the corner of the room. "Is that your press?"

"Oui."Elaine looked at it over her shoulder. "Would you like to see it?"

"I would." Ava stepped closer to examine the different levers and plates and rollers. The scent of metal and grease blended with a powdery aroma of ink hanging in the air. While she could piece out what some items were, the rest was a fascinating enigma.

The written word held such importance to her through the years. Books had been solace in a world turned upside down, a connection to characters when she was utterly alone, knowledge when she needed answers and so, so much more. In the war, they had given her insight, understanding, and appreciation. And even through letters and journals, words granted immortality for those whose stories she had been honored to capture.

"It's beautiful," Ava whispered.

Elaine considered her. "Do you think so?"

"Absolutely," Ava replied without hesitation. "Without machines such as this, we would never have books." She let her fingers gently brush the lever, cool against her touch. "Words have such incredible power."

Elaine studied her, and the tension on her face melted away to reveal a youthful visage. "Oui, they do."

They spent the afternoon together as Elaine showed Ava how the press worked, even allowing her to create a few impressions. The ease with which Elaine operated what she called the Minerva was enviable, her slender, tapered fingers like that of an artist as she adroitly performed several tasks at once.

Church bells chimed outside, marking the hour and the time Ava had to leave to catch her plane to England. Before departing, she withdrew two items from her purse—a sealed letter from Sarah to Elaine and the other a folded picture Noah had drawn of himself holding a jar of something red.

When Elaine opened the one from Noah, she exhaled with something between a laugh and a sob. "Strawberry jam." She touched the image with a smile of affection.

"Is that what it is?" Ava asked.

"It was a treasure during the war." Elaine pressed her lips together, composing her emotions. "He loved it."

"That explains why it is his favorite even still," Ava said.

A tear ran down Elaine's face. She swept it away with trembling fingers. "You came all this way to see me?"

"Yes. To tell you how very clever and brave I find you and to share with you what an impact your risks have had." Ava had initially questioned if it was a good idea to come to Lyon, if she would even be able to find Elaine. But standing here now in front of the thin woman whose face glowed with pride, Ava knew she had made the right decision.

Elaine opened her arms and captured Ava in a fierce hug. "This is truly the greatest gift." She released her and smiled through her tears. "Thank you."

Ava disembarked from the plane in London where James would be waiting for her, the man whose set of dice even now clicked together in her pocket as anticipation for a fresh adventure blossomed in her chest.

Britain was another world to explore. One that birthed Geoffrey Chaucer, who gave the English language its literary feet, one where Shakespeare's theater had once entertained the masses with stories that would be retold for centuries to come. It was the city where Charles Dickens set so many of his books, educating people not with instruction, but by connecting the character to the reader and pulling them on a journey. It was where Thomas More framed a perfect fictional society that mirrored a monastic lifestyle in Utopia and where Jane Austen's characters strolled in their endeavors of marital pursuits.

The wealth of Britain's history was so rich, Ava could feast on it for decades and never be full.

She had spent her entire life reading of such experiences and was now ready to enjoy them in the flesh. Perhaps even have the opportunity for a chance at love.

Regardless, she was eager to work in the London Library, once more surrounded by tomes that spanned centuries past, doing her part to record the history so it would always live in the minds of future generations. After all, there was nothing Ava loved more than the scent of old books—except, of course, the power of the written word.