Four

Hélène becomes Elaine

Two weeks passed before Hélène began to think of herself as Elaine Rousseau. After a lifetime of one name, it was not easy to conform to another. However, the desire to ensure Claudine's safety and to belong to the Resistance spurred her determination.

Elaine pushed through the heavy door on Rue Saint Jean as the sun sank in the distance. The address was the last that remained on the list she had memorized. A courtyard filled with letterboxes greeted her. In the one marked with Chaput #4, she dropped the sealed envelope into the open slot above the locked box.

The message was the last of her cargo to be delivered. Immediately the tension at her shoulders ebbed. If she were caught now, the Nazis would have no evidence to use against her.

Familiar with the area, she followed the winding passage that connected the buildings, going through open courtyards to echoing tunnels toward the exit door on Rue des Trois Maries. Such passages existed all though Lyon though not all were as beautifully crafted as the one she currently made her way through, with its finely arched ceilings and rose-hued walls.

The traboules were used by the old silk workers over a century ago to travel quickly through the steeply slanting streets. The covered passages were still utilized by many to save time. As an added benefit, the winding paths made her steps difficult to trace should someone be following her.

But as she approached the large wooden door leading out to Rue des Trois Maries, a figure stood in the shadows as though waiting on her. She drew up short, aware it was far too late to turn back around.

"Bonjour, Elaine." Etienne lifted his head so she could make his features out in the dim light.

She exhaled a sigh of relief. "What news is there of Joseph?"

Etienne cast his eyes downward and shook his head. "He is still being held at Montluc Prison. None of his former contacts have been approached, which means he has not talked."

"Is he well?" She hated relying on these reports rather than going to see her husband herself. But doing so with her false papers would put him at greater risk should she be caught. "And has he received my packages?" The scraps of food she managed to send came from her own paltry rations. But, if need be, she could find more on the black market. Joseph could do nothing from his cell but wait for whatever she sent him.

Etienne nodded. "We believe he has received them all. They have been delivered, that much I do know."

The familiar knot of helpless frustration welled in her throat. "When will he be released?"

"Soon, we hope."

It was always the same answer, each time given with conviction. But as the days wore on, she found herself less willing to trust his assurances.

What if the food she sent to Joseph was being taken from him?

What if he was being beaten for information the same as Etienne?

What if they never released him?

The last thought was too stark to even consider.

There was much that needed to be said between Elaine and her husband after they had parted ways on such a bitter note. She had started several letters to him to include with her parcels, but no words seemed to adequately convey what ached in her chest when she thought of Joseph. And certainly nothing that could be read by a guard without confirming his guilt.

No, her apology would be better said in person, when she could look into his eyes and tell him not only the depth of her regret, but also her love; for to her, one could not be said without the other.

"You've done well, Elaine," Etienne said, interrupting her thoughts. "All your deliveries have been completed timely and without issue. You can be trusted."

She frowned at his words. "If I wasn't entirely trusted, why was I given messages to deliver?"

"They were traps." He winked. "They contained false information and would have revealed you if you were indeed a collaborator."

Her mouth fell open. All this time she had been thinking she was helping, putting her life on the line for those letterbox drops.

"Ours is a careful organization," he continued in a softer tone. Already he spoke quietly enough that the stone walls could not carry the echo of his deep voice, but now he was nearly inaudible. "We cannot trust anyone. Even the wives of our dearest friends."

The initial sting of distrust faded with her understanding.

Collaborators were everywhere. Like Madame Arnaud. A shiver crept down Elaine's spine.

"I will never dissapoint you," she said vehemently.

"That is what we are counting on. Tomorrow, go to 20 Rue d'Algérie where you'll find a bookshop. Repeat the address back to me."

"Twenty Rue d'Algérie," she recited. While she knew the area, it was not one she traveled to often.

"You can remember it?"

"Of course." She didn't bother to stifle her offense at the question. After all, she had spent the past two weeks memorizing addresses. Writing them down was dangerous. The instructions had been repeated to her by Etienne himself as well as many others.

If he noticed her irritation at his lack of faith, he ignored it. "A woman will meet you out front at noon. Her name is Nicole. Don't be late."

"Or early," she said, tossing his directives back at him to show she had absorbed everything he'd taught her.

His eyes crinkled with a smile. "You are good at this, Elaine."

If she was that good, she would have found a way to set Joseph free. But she refrained from saying as much. All she could do now was put her trust in Etienne and the Resistance to save her husband.

The bells chimed noon as Elaine approached the bookshop. As she did so, a woman with pale blond hair sauntered toward her, stylishly dressed in a white sweater and a knee-length navy skirt that matched the delicate brimless calot hat pinned primly to the crown of her head. Her red lips parted in a wide smile. "Elaine, ma chérie, it is so good to see you."

To Elaine's surprise, the pretty young woman embraced her and brushed a kiss on each cheek. Elaine did likewise, feigning familiarity so they appeared little more than old friends to anyone who might be observing them.

"Come join me for coffee." Nicole clasped Elaine's hand in hers. "Or at least what passes for coffee these days." Her pale blue eyes twinkled, and she pulled Elaine close, leading her to a door beside the bookshop.

Nicole did not drop Elaine's hand as they entered the courtyard and climbed a set of stairs. Instead, she gave Elaine's fingers a squeeze. "We'll teach you everything you need to ensure you stay safe, chérie."

"Safe is nice, but I want to be effective," Elaine countered.

Nicole grinned. "Denise is going to adore you."

She stopped before an apartment door and pulled out a key. Her efforts appeared to take an inordinate amount of time as Elaine waited, nerves taut with anxiety to meet the other women she would be working with. To discover what it was she was even going to be doing. At last, the heavy door clicked open, and Nicole led Elaine inside.

The safe houses where Elaine had stayed were often empty rooms with a simple mattress and a few blankets. But here, the foyer held a homey, lived-in feel with several shoes tilting in a messy line against the wall and a battered armoire sitting stout in the corner with a round mirror over it for checking one's hair before leaving.

Nicole kicked off her heels with a heavy clunk and dropped an inch in height before unpinning the smart hat and setting it aside, not a hair out of place. "She's here," she called out in a singsong voice and gave Elaine a wink.

Elaine deposited her shoes next to Nicole's and followed her into the main living area. The space was exactly what one would expect, with gauzy white curtains draped over the windows and a cobalt blue settee framed by two butter-yellow chairs. But in the center of the room was a large table that held a typewriter, various slips of paper, several pencils, and what appeared to be scraps of silk. Two women bending over something on the cluttered surface looked up with interest.

The dark-haired one's blithe gaze skimmed over Elaine, her demeanor entirely unwelcoming. The woman with light brown curls, however, gave a shy, gentle smile that instantly made Elaine like her.

"This is Denise." Nicole nodded first to the dark-haired woman, then to the one with curls. "And Josette."

Josette came around the table and clasped Elaine's hands in her warm fingers. "We are so glad to have you join us, Elaine. And now I am no longer the newest member."

Her cheeks flushed with color, and the kindness in her green eyes indicated her remark was not one of malice.

"You were enlisted by Gabriel?" Denise asked, using Etienne's Resistance name.

"Oui,"Elaine replied as Josette released her hands.

Denise nodded slowly in what Elaine thought might be approval.

"Come now, Denise," Nicole scolded. "Do not scare her off on her first day."

Denise sniffed. "The Bosche will do that for her if her nerves are not strong enough."

"My nerves are just fine no matter what the Germans do," Elaine said before either of the other two women could try to rush to her aid. "Or I wouldn't be here."

Denise's eyes narrowed slightly, but Elaine refused to be cowed by the directness of her assessing stare and lifted her chin in challenge.

"Then why are you standing there and not over here learning this code?" Denise shifted over to make room for Elaine at her side.

As she took her place beside Denise, her code crafting education with the Resistance officially began.

The process of breaking down and reconstructing the words was not an easy one. The foundation was based on a poem written over a hundred years ago, selecting words from the stanza to create a code that was then used to configurate the message. This was further complicated by the poem itself, which changed to a new poem every week.

"Don't worry," Josette said in Elaine's ear as the confusing lesson came to an end. "I will show it to you again later."

Elaine gave her a grateful nod.

"This is our typewriter." Nicole indicated the glossy black Royal typewriter on the table with Aristocrat in gold letters on its shiny plate.

Elaine regarded the glass-faced keys, noting the unusual order. Most were in the same location she recognized from her years as a secretary, but the Q, W, A, Z, X, and M were in different places.

"It's British," Denise said matter-of-factly. "Many of the items we use in the Resistance are provided to us by British agents. Some of our courier work will even involve going to the outskirts of town where the Maquis will meet us with goods received from air drops."

The Maquis, named for the underbrush in which they hid, were men who were too young to fight at the start of the war, but were ordered in recent months to relocate to factories in Germany to work for the compulsory labor service. Many opposed this rule and instead chose to live in the dense forests rather than be slaves for the Nazis. These men fell back on the guerrilla warfare tactics of their Frankish ancestors, using the land to their favor. And from what she gathered from the ladies, the British agents were there to help.

The world wanted Hitler to fail, and Elaine was proud to finally be doing her part.

"We use silk for some of our messages," Josette said.

Nicole lifted a pale yellow scrap. Her nails were lacquered with the same vivid shade as her lips. Between that vibrant red and her white sweater and blue skirt, she had completed the forbidden tricolors of France. No doubt her fashion choice was intentional. And if it was, the show of French loyalty was quite clever.

She folded the square at the corners before pinching the middle to make a small flower. "These bits of silk would make such a lovely decoration for a hat or one's hair." Her hold on the silk released and the glossy fabric unfurled into a ragged square once more. "But unfortunately, they are all needed for messages. Silk rolls very thin and can be sewn discreetly into clothing if need be. It also burns fast, so it is disposed of quickly and easily after the recipient has read the message or if they suspect they might be caught."

Elaine studied the typewriter. "How does the fabric stay still when you're typing?"

Josette held up a needle and thread. "We sew it to the paper." She took the swatch from Nicole and wove several loose stitches to secure it to the page, then fed the result into the machine without issue.

Looking at the keys as she typed, Josette copied the line of jumbled letters Denise had pieced out of the poem she had been working on. The ink hit the silk, staining the delicate fabric until the entire code was complete.

When Josette was done, she removed the paper, clipped the threads and the silk floated to the table with the message boldly standing out against its smooth surface.

"I'm assuming you know how to type, or Gabriel wouldn't have sent you here." Nicole offered the chair to Elaine as Josette eased out.

"I used to be a secretary." Elaine slid into the seat, still warm from its previous occupant. Though she had been married for over five years, it had not been so long since she'd been in front of a typewriter. Joseph had not insisted she quit her job when they wed, despite the disparaging looks she often received from her coworkers for having kept on with her employment after marriage. He'd even encouraged her to seek a new secretary position when they first moved to Lyon. Though by then, no more jobs were available as refugees from other countries that were attacked before France had already arrived and assumed those roles.

"Mind the keys," Denise cautioned.

Elaine did as she was told, paying special care to the mismatched letters. It was an odd thing to have the familiarity of the cool, smooth keys under her fingertips, but not be able to fall back on her ability to blindly type. In the end, she removed her hands from the keyboard and pecked out the message as any novice would.

Nicole pulled the page free, and her gaze skimmed over Elaine's work. "Perfect."

They worked through the afternoon, her fingers finding the appropriate keys with less difficulty, when a knock at the door resonated through the apartment. Every woman stiffened and glanced at one another, as if confirming no visitors were expected. Of the four of them, it was Denise who approached the foyer, her feet silent as she moved over the old floorboards.

Before she could ask who it was, a voice on the other end said, "Sous le pont Mirabeau..."

Without hesitation, Denise replied, "...coule la Seine."

Under the Mirabeau Bridge flows the Seine.

Elaine frowned at Nicole with confusion.

"It is a code from Le pont Mirabeau by Guillaume Apollinaire," the other woman explained as Denise received a stack of papers from a male courier who departed as abruptly as he'd come.

Elaine nodded, remembering the poem about an artist and his love that she first heard while in lycée as a girl.

Denise returned with the pile of what appeared to be newsprint in her arms. "We have deliveries tomorrow." She set her load on the table, revealing numerous copies of Combat, one of the many clandestine newspapers distributed by the Resistance.

Elaine picked up a copy and read the first article detailing the arrests at Villeurbanne when the men called up for compulsory service did not show at the train station at their assigned times. The Gestapo sealed off that section of Lyon and rounded up over three hundred young men to transport to work camps by force.

"Combat is my preference," Denise said. "Though I know Josette prefers Cahiers du Témoignage Chrétien, the newspaper for Christian Resistance supporters, and Nicole likes the journal Femmes fran?aises when she can get it. Which publication do you like best?"

Over six months had passed since Elaine last laid eyes on any clandestine newspaper, back when Joseph had suddenly demanded she stop all acts of resistance once the Germans returned to Lyon and stayed. But before then, they used to read through Combat together, the editorial geared toward soldiers and intellectuals; both aspects Joseph could appreciate. As could she, by association of her love for her husband.

"Combat,"Elaine replied. A pang of longing struck her with the recollection of those mornings over chicory coffee, their heads bowed together as they discussed the articles in low voices.

How she missed those days with Joseph, when they worked as a team rather than opposing one another. Before she had known of his efforts with the Resistance instead of being told lies. "I used to read Combat with my husband. We would use what was in the paper to come up with tracts that we made on the Roneo."

The duplicating machine was a clunky thing, but it worked well enough to copy the pamphlet she and Joseph composed to churn out replicas for distribution.

Denise lifted a dark brow with interest. "You know how to use a Roneo?"

Elaine nodded. "It isn't all that difficult, so long as it doesn't jam."

"Which is often for me." Nicole laughed. "I think my specialty is in breaking most things mechanical."

"Which is why she's usually not allowed near the typewriter." Josette smothered a giggle. "Lucky for her, she is adept at transcribing messages into code."

"My husband showed me how to use the duplicating machine," Elaine confessed. "He has always been so patient with me. In truth, I joined the Resistance in the hopes there might be something I can do to help free him."

Nicole stopped sifting through the delicate scraps of silk. "Free him?"

"He's in Montluc Prison. Perhaps you know him—Pierre?" His code name was foreign on Elaine's tongue.

Josette brightened. "He made identity cards."

Elaine nodded, suspecting as much based off Claudine's arrival at her door. However, she had not anticipated the women would know of her husband, let alone what he had done. But this new insight into Joseph left her fascinated to learn more.

"He made mine." Josette's brow pinched. "Though I can't recall much else."

"I don't know anything about him," Nicole said. "But I'll do what I can to find out."

Elaine offered her an appreciative smile. "Merci beaucoup."

Nicole waved it off as if the gesture was nothing. But it was something to Elaine. It meant knowing exactly what Joseph did those days she thought he was at work, all the times of being a bored housewife, stewing with resentment as she waited at home.

And to think Elaine had once accused him of being as guilty as the Nazis for having turned a blind eye. The memory struck at a contrite chord within her. If only she had known then... If only he had trusted her enough to tell her.

The familiar ire welled up once more.

But any residual anger dissolved into an unsettling chill when Elaine caught sight of Denise, who was studying her with an expression that could only be considered somber.