The Librarian Spy(4)
The tract would likely be torn off soon and a new one would be put up in its place; a show of defiance against their oppressors.
The Resistance—brave men and women who rose against the German occupiers—made their presence known throughout Lyon, bold and without fear.
A finger of icy air slid down the collar of Hélène’s coat and a shiver rattled through her. The chill of the overcast April evening would have scarcely been felt in years before, but the limited food within the city whittled away at her body, leaving sharp bones protruding from what had once been supple curves. The Nazis did not suffer such deprivation. On the contrary, they dined lavishly on food stolen from the mouths of hungry families and consumed endless amounts of wine looted from French cellars. All for their rapacious pleasure.
She turned away from the wall and strode briskly down Rue Sala, the wooden soles of her shoes clacking against the cobblestones. The mostly empty streets and the heavy gray clouds overhead did not help the sense of dread knotting her stomach.
Her shopping basket held only a few knobby Jerusalem artichokes rolling about the braided wicker bottom. The yellow-flowered plants were once vegetation used for livestock, yet now the tubers of those weeds kept the people of France alive, replacing fats and meats that were almost impossible to find anymore.
She’d hoped to acquire some bread but arrived too late. All the stale goods had been sold with only the fresh loaves available on the back wall that could not be purchased until the following day. How she longed for the times when she could buy a loaf still hot from the oven. But that was before the ration laws demanded bakers sell bread no less than twenty-four hours old. Not only did the hardened loaf cut into precise slices for easier ration measurement, but it also kept the French from devouring their food too swiftly. Or so the officials said.
Not that any of that mattered. For the first time in years, Hélène’s empty stomach did not cramp with hunger. This time, her insides twisted and clenched with anxiety for who awaited her at the small apartment on Rue du Plat.
Or rather who did not await her.
Joseph.
Two days and one night had passed since their argument, the worst one yet. Words had power, and she’d turned the full brunt of them against her husband in her anger.
He was a man who fought and sacrificed in the Great War, who turned to pacifism after what he’d seen amid the Battle of Verdun, whose brilliant mind for chemistry caught her attention when she’d been a girl fresh out of secretary school.
Now she kept her gaze averted from a smear of pale, chalky blue against the wall near their apartment. It had once been a V—victoire, an additional mark of French opposition to the Nazis and a promise that eventually the Resistance would have their victory. That V hastily marked across the ragged stone had been put there by her own hand and had been the catalyst for the fight. Her fingers still recalled the dry grip of the brittle blue chalk she often kept in her purse.
The act was trite, but all she could allow herself when Joseph guarded her every move.
He had caught her midway through, his usually serene expression darkened with ire. The disagreement began as soon as they returned to their apartment, and it was then she had used the harshest of words upon her own husband.
The argument erupted in a blinding flare of their combined frustrations. He had scolded her for not being a proper Vichy wife—the type of Frenchwoman who was a mother and a housewife, obeying the orders of her husband—the type of woman she had never been. The type of woman he had never expected her to be. What’s more, Vichy was the regime that worked with the Nazis who she longed to oppose. The vile suggestion had been more than she could bear. In her rage, she called his refusal to join the Resistance cowardice.
He had not been home since.
Except Joseph was not a petty man. Of the two of them, she was the one who leaned heavily on her temper, who was too impulsive. Whatever kept him from returning home was not simply malcontent.
Each attempt to see Etienne, his closest friend, had been in vain as her visits to his flat went unanswered. She considered going to the police, but knew they worked closely with the Gestapo, men who were cold and cruel and likely to be of little help.
If Joseph was not back by dawn the following day, however, desperation would draw her to the police, no matter the risk.
The massive wooden doors of her apartment building came into view, and she pushed inside to the courtyard. All was quiet within.
A quick stop by their letterbox revealed it to be empty and devoid of any clues as to Joseph’s whereabouts. The sense of unease in her gut tightened further still as she tried to suppress the hope that he would be home.
She trudged up the stairs to the fourth floor and to the narrow apartment that Joseph’s parents left him when his mother passed away several years before the war. Though Hélène and Joseph were in Paris at the time, he kept his childhood home with the intent to use it for holidays. They did so several times. One summer in particular, they explored the winding streets during the day and stayed out late in the evening, drinking wine along the Rh?ne as the warm July air cooled. Lucky for them, the apartment was a place of refuge when the Germans marched into Paris. With so many fleeing to Lyon in those days, such accommodations would have been impossible to find otherwise.
Joseph hadn’t wanted to flee the City of Light when they were all warned to go, loathe to abandon his students and his work. But he had left everything in Paris for her, to keep her safe. That had been three years ago, back when their marriage had been happy.