The Librarian Spy(50)
Still, the woman hesitated, her eyes wide and cautious, as obviously disinclined to trust as Elaine.
“I’m Elaine.” She waved for the woman to follow her.
The woman regarded her for a long moment. “I’m Sarah and this is Noah.” The little boy in her arms raised his head and blinked up with eyes like his mother—hazel and heavily lashed, his appearance angelic. Dark curls fell over his serious brow, and a crease lined one flushed cheek where he’d been sleeping against his mother.
He was small and thin, making it hard to place his age. Perhaps between two and four. Children were no longer plump with youth as they’d once been, their growth stunted by a lack of proper nutrition.
Sarah grasped Noah to her as she rose. He laid his head on her shoulder, more for comfort than weariness, his gaze alert.
Elaine led them to the kitchen. “Please have a seat.” She indicated the small wooden table that wobbled.
An old copy of Le Nouvelliste—the Nazis-approved publication for France’s public—was wadded beneath the shortened leg like a bit of trapped rubbish, its text ragged and torn from the sharp peg. Many people who purchased the newspaper did so with the intent to burn it for warmth with fuel being so scarce.
Sarah sank into one of the mismatched chairs with her son. His wrinkled gray pants showed his ankles, and his navy winter coat was buttoned up to his skinny neck.
The water in the kettle was still hot, and while chicory coffee steeped, Elaine cut up the last of the bread.
“You are with the Resistance?” Sarah asked.
The knife gliding through the hard crust stopped short as Elaine stiffened.
“This is the office of the Bureau of Geophysical Research,” Sarah said slowly. “Which does not require machines like the ones you possess. Copies of Combat and Défence de la France are sitting here on the counter.” She paused, studying Elaine. “I’m not asking to frighten you, but to put myself at ease.”
Sarah navigated her hand around her son to reach within her jacket pocket and spread an identity card on the table. The woman’s black-and-white image looked up at her, the red JUIF stamp brilliant where it overlapped her shoulder.
“You are Jewish,” Elaine said.
“You are Resistance?” Sarah pressed.
The two women stared at one another, a silent battle waging for trust, powered by fear and the threat of betrayal.
“Oui,” Elaine replied at last as she scooped up the last precious bit of the strawberry jam. The spoon clinked against the glass jar as she scraped at what was left, the smear of translucent red flecked with minuscule seeds.
Saliva filled her mouth at the tart, sweet scent as she set what was to be her own dinner onto the table with a muffled clink of china against the wood.
Sarah’s stare was part bravado, part fear. “Oui, we are Jewish.”
Noah’s eyes widened at the food in front of him, but he did not reach for any until Sarah gave him a slight nod. He immediately claimed a piece, taking a bite as big as his small mouth would allow.
Elaine poured a mug of chicory coffee for herself and Sarah. Noah devoured his slice and took a second.
“I’ve already eaten,” Elaine lied. “Please help yourself.”
Sarah inclined her head with gratitude and accepted some food from the plate, chewing slowly.
As she ate, Elaine gathered the remnants of bread on the cutting board into a neat pile and removed a tin from the shelf to carefully swipe the crumbs inside to join a collection of others. It was a habit formed at the start of the ration as suggested in one of the women’s magazines. Those little bits of bread, once thrown away, could make such things as eggs and milk go further in recipes and offer an extra bulk that might make one feel satisfied after a meal.
Or as close to satisfied as anyone could be these days.
“You said your husband was in America.” Elaine joined them at the table with her own mug as Noah gleefully consumed his fourth piece, sticky red jam glistening around his cherubic lips. “Why are you not with him?”
Sarah took a sip from her chicory coffee. “We were all supposed to flee Paris back when rumors indicated Hitler might attempt to pass the Maginot Line. Before we could go, my mother became ill. From what we understood, it was only the men who were in danger of the Germans, and so I insisted Lewis go on without us. We didn’t know...”
They didn’t know how the Bosche would strip away a Jew’s freedom until they were relegated to a cramped life. Until they were sent away. Until those remaining had no choice but to hide in order to survive.
Sarah glanced reverently at her right hand. “My mother died several months later. Before the roundup in Paris. An organization helped us to Lyon, but that was as far as they could take us. It cost me my mother’s ruby ring but was well worth the expense.” She rubbed at the base of her finger where the jewelry had likely been. “We did not expect to be stranded here, but then the Nazis occupied the Free Zone.”
She smoothed her son’s hair from his face as he reached for the final piece of bread. “Those who aided us wanted to take Noah somewhere safe, saying it would be easier to protect him than it would be both of us together.”
The little boy looked up at his mother with affection gleaming in his eyes.
“It is selfish to keep him with me, I know, but we suffered many losses before we finally had Noah.” She studied her son as he took an unabashed bite of the food. “I’ve heard terrifying tales of organizations with children being captured, the little ones too noisy and chaotic to properly conceal.” Pain shone in her eyes. “I also know there is a possibility that if I let him go, he might never come back to me. He is too young to remember his name as well as those of myself and my husband. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing Noah.”