The Librarian Spy(59)
“Was my message delivered to him?” Anger edged her words like a weapon.
His expression was one of helplessness that tugged somewhere deep in the raw ache of her soul. “I have no way of knowing if he received your note. I can tell you that I called in every favor I had to make it happen.”
Words had power.
She learned that from her fateful last fight with Joseph, painfully realizing that words spoken could never be taken back—words that no longer would be made right with an apology. The mistake was one she would not repeat even as the invective rose in her throat like bile.
He had failed Joseph. While Joseph was beaten by Werner, Etienne walked free. He left his best friend to die.
She almost choked as she swallowed down such bitterness. However, her refusal to lay such heavy accusations at his feet did not mean she would offer him forgiveness.
Instead, she put her back to Etienne and returned to the warehouse, her body numb and her heart on fire. Somehow, she managed to stay her tears. Deep down she was fully aware that when they did come, they would be like a dam breaking, flowing out in an uncontrollable wave that would be impossible to hold back.
Her actions were wooden for the rest of the day as she coordinated efforts to have Sarah and Noah settled at Manon’s. Elaine brushed aside concerns for her well-being as she resumed her work. The men skirted around her, their concerned gazes flicking to her periodically as though they expected her to topple.
There were many moments she suspected she might as well.
No matter what task she set upon, her thoughts were of Joseph. From the times they strolled along the Rh?ne at night with stars dotting the sky like flecks of diamonds, to the countless mornings she kissed him goodbye as he left for work. With heavy regret, she also recalled when she had stopped that simple spousal affection after their fighting brought their marriage to its knees.
When the day began to darken into night, Marcel approached her. “Go to the back room, Elaine. Get some rest.”
“I’d like to keep working,” she replied numbly. “Being busy has helped.”
Empathy showed in his eyes, so poignant it almost cracked the fragile shell of her composure. “If you think it will help,” he said slowly, clearly not in agreement with her. “But only tonight.”
Such kindness tugged at a guilty thread in her conscience for what she was about to do. She gave an obedient nod to Marcel, who pushed his arms into his jacket and picked up his hat, the top of his dark fedora pinched between his fingers, still hesitant.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him.
He tossed a final, worried look her way, settled his hat on his head, and exited the room. Several long seconds later, the front door to the building slammed closed.
She was alone.
There wasn’t a second to waste. She pulled out a piece of paper and immediately set to work to puzzle through the code, using the poem in circulation among Resistant that week: “Mignonne allons voir si la rose” by Pierre de Ronsard. That done, she went to the Linotype Machine Jean had been instructing her to use and painstakingly plucked at the keys, retyping an article on the bombing of nearby factories. Only this time, she slid the code into words, intentionally misspelling them.
The effort took a considerable amount of time on the strange keyboard. With lower letters on the left, capital on the right, and all the spacing and punctuation in the middle, it would likely be an age before she typed without looking or achieved a speed like Jean’s.
The metal slugs with the lines of text slid down from the machine and cooled while she adjusted the printing sheet. Her pulse roared in her ears as she worked, carefully removing the previous verbiage and fitting the changed ones into the same space.
She readjusted the printing plate into the automatic press as it hummed to life and the papers spun their way through the ink. The first completed page settled onto the tray, followed swiftly by others. She picked it up and scanned the contents, confirming the final product to be exactly how she envisioned. Once the misspelled words were identified and the code broken, her message would be read as:
Jewish mother and child need transport to America.
It was stated as simply as she could word it. Members of the Resistance would know where to go to offer their aid. Marcel would, of course, be incensed by her direct disobedience, especially at the flawed words to the casual observer.
Elaine turned her thoughts to Joseph, to how many Jews he saved by changing their identity cards. And she recalled the woman she had given her own to, who now carried Joseph’s surname.
In her husband’s absence, Elaine continued on in the fight he had sacrificed everything for. And though she was aware he hadn’t wanted her to be in the Resistance, he would have been proud of her.
That thought wrenched at her heart.
A tear plopped onto the page. The fresh ink sucked into the droplet, obliterating the careful lettering and turning her tear a murky black. It was followed by another and another still.
Elaine’s legs were suddenly too weak to hold her upright. She folded to the floor beneath the weight of her profound grief, the pain exploding inside her too unbearable to endure. The walls holding back her sorrow became tenuous, and the dam collapsed as she yielded to the agony of a broken heart.
FIFTEEN
Ava
Ava arrived at the JDC center the next afternoon to return the letter to Otto.
“It was an honor to be entrusted with something this precious and powerful,” she said as she handed it back.