Page 25 of The Librarian Spy

Boys scuttled beneath the table the Germans had abandoned at the café, picking up the butts of their cigarettes. Their grandfathers likely waited at home for the gifts, eager to rewrap the remaining bits of tobacco. Rumor had it, Hitler detested smoking and ordered his men to forego cigarettes and alcohol, both of which the Nazis consumed in mass quantity regardless. The one order they were apparently willing to defy.

The men’s plates had not yet been cleared, most with food decadently left to be thrown away. Bits of potato. Chunks of fat-riddled meat sitting in pools of gravy. Thick slabs of white, soft bread.

A sharp hunger pain stabbed through Elaine. All that was available in bakeries now was brown in color, with an unpleasant texture and a bland taste that usually left the burn of indigestion in its wake.

She should look away as they passed, to avoid tormenting herself with the unfinished feast. The Germans had swept through France like locusts and used their gluttony as another means of oppression. Letting her gaze linger on the food was one more way they won.

But no matter what Elaine told herself, she could not tear her eyes from the plates. Especially not after she caught sight of a greasy smear of butter glistening atop an airy piece of white bread, its crust flaky and half sodden with juices from the meat.

She swallowed, but her mouth continued to water as they walked away from the laden table. At her side, Denise had also gone silent, no doubt plagued with the same infernal ravenous hunger as Elaine.

One intrepid boy cast a cursory glance before swiping the buttered bit of bread. Elaine couldn’t blame him. Even she was tempted. Not that it was worth the chance of being arrested or possibly shot.

This was why turning her focus on the Resistance was preferable to sitting home alone where boredom allowed the hunger to gnaw at her. With the café—and the distraction of food—behind them, Elaine could center her attention on more important matters.

Like why Denise had looked at her as she had the previous day when Elaine had mentioned Joseph. Her strange expression had been why Elaine had been eager to join her, but the familiarity of Bellecour had rattled Elaine and then there had been the food the Nazis left behind...

She leaned close to Denise as though sharing a tidbit of gossip for the benefit of anyone watching. “I want to free my husband from Montluc. Will you help me?”

Denise turned to her, slowing her pace but not stopping lest they call attention to themselves. Her expression remained as lugubrious as it had been when Elaine first mentioned Joseph’s imprisonment, a somberness Elaine had not forgotten. The memory of it picked at her thoughts every time she lay in the unfamiliar bed of yet another unfamiliar safe house and waited for sleep to claim her.

In truth, it was that look that had prompted Elaine to go to Denise with this request. If anyone could estimate the likelihood of freeing Joseph, it would be Denise.

“Montluc is not a place easily broken out of.” Denise glanced about as she spoke. “Do not confuse your bravado for stupidity.”

Elaine stiffened at the derisive comment. “What would you do if your husband was in prison?”

“I certainly wouldn’t put him further at risk by going to him with a false name and trying to break him out.” She lifted a brow and gave a little shake of her head. “You will both end up shot. You are better off leaving his freedom to Gabriel, who has the devil’s own luck.”

Gabriel. Etienne. No matter what name he went by, she was correct. He had not only emerged from the Great War unscathed, but always managed his way out of scrapes now as well.

Elaine was not so swiftly placated. She stared deep into the other woman’s dark brown eyes. “I don’t think you would do that.”

“No,” Denise confirmed. “But I am better trained than you.”

Her words stung, but sadly they held truth. Denise possessed a steeliness in her gaze, her time with the Resistance evident in the way her hands never once trembled and how easily she ignored the Nazis walking past.

They climbed a steep set of stairs and the conversation between them dropped with nothing more left to be said.

Elaine’s shoulders relaxed as they turned into the Croix-Rousse area of Lyon where pockmarked walls were littered with peeling signs and alleyways held the lingering odor of rubbish. There was less fear of patrolling Germans who seldom deigned to walk through the workmen’s district.

When Elaine and Denise entered the apartment, Nicole and Josette were already there, gathering envelopes for the second half of their deliveries.

“Bonjour,” Nicole called cheerfully. “We have this last bit and we are finished.” Her gaze lingered on Elaine for only a moment when she declared, “What if Josette goes with you, Denise. And, Elaine, I’ll show you around here.”

“I would like to become more familiar with the area,” Elaine agreed.

After they refilled their baskets, she allowed Nicole to lead her back down into the streets. The other woman wore an outfit similar to her last with a navy skirt like the day before, this one falling slightly below the knee, which she paired with a blue-and-white-striped shirt that called attention to her slim waist. With her red lips and nails, it was yet another clever application of the French tricolor. This time Elaine was certain the color choice was not by accident.

Of the four of them, Nicole always upheld a fashionable appearance. Denise was utilitarian in her attire with simple dresses and flat-soled shoes. The style was not much different from Josette’s who was partial to neutral colors that kept her from standing out, her only adornment a small gold cross that lay on a glittering chain below the hollow of her throat. Elaine’s own manner of dress was up to the standards of any housewife, her clothes clean and well-cared for despite the soap shortage, and her hair curled and swept back at the sides.

Nicole strode through the street with confidence, her wooden heels striking the ground with sharp clicks that made Elaine recall the song “Elle avait des semelles de bois” (“She Had Wooden Soles”) that Henri Alibert put out after rubber and leather became too hard to find. The catchy tune called out the click-clack sound young women made as they sauntered down cobblestoned streets in their ration-altered footwear.

“You mustn’t let Denise bother you.” Nicole waved Elaine into an alleyway where they slipped into a covered alcove and discreetly deposited several envelopes into the wall of letterboxes. “She’s like that with everyone.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I think that’s how it often is with communists.”

Elaine’s brows rose in surprise. Communists were some of the first groups cleared out by the Germans sent on trains and never seen or heard from again. A shiver slid down Elaine’s spine. “Denise is a communist?”

Nicole nodded as if it didn’t matter at all. “She’s managed to evade the Nazis thus far. It is why she operates underground as we all do.”