The Librarian Spy(64)
Across the Rh?ne, the houses stacked upon one another in pastel pinks and yellows and blues and at the peak’s crest, the statue of the virgin stood proud and tall on the Basilica of Fourvière. Joseph had wrapped his arms around her, his warmth enfolding her, his spicy scent even more comforting. That’s when the first set of fireworks shot into the night and sprinkled downward, their brilliance reflected on the choppy surface of the river. On and on they came as dozens of fireworks turned the sky to smoke and called to attention how the Lady of Lyon remained forever lit atop the basilica as she guarded them all below.
Elaine tried to hold on to the memory for as long as possible, but it swept from her thoughts, blown away like the billows of smoke from the fireworks that long ago night.
Such celebrations were a lifetime ago. Those quiet moments with Joseph seemed even further away. Elaine could not help but wonder if some felt the Lady of Lyon had abandoned their once hallowed city, leaving the Lyonnaise to be ravaged by starvation and fear amid the pall cast by the bloodred Nazi flag.
Especially with so many mourning the loss of their loved ones. As she did now with Joseph.
She had a job to do. The impending task jostled her from her reverie.
A glance at her watch confirmed it was nearly nine fifteen at night, the time Radio Londres broadcast from London.
The delicate watch was a Type 18 model from LIP, who had been making watches since the beginning of the nineteenth century. The band was a textured brown leather with an elegant, gold-plated rectangular face and had been a wedding present from Joseph. Until recently, she only wore it on occasion, like jewelry—depending on her outfit—otherwise it remained safely tucked away in its fine case.
Now the accessory had become a permanent fixture. Somehow just knowing Joseph thought of her when he picked it out, how gently his fingers moved over the slender strap as he helped her attach it to her wrist the first time, the way he always gave her a proud smile when she wore it—those were memories that brought her comfort.
The minute hand on the rectangular face settled on 9:15.
She leaned over her desk and fiddled with the knob to adjust the tuning as much as was possible. No matter how perfectly someone shifted the needle to the precise location, the message was still partially obscured by a sharp, warbling whine, Vichy’s paltry attempt at blocking London’s messages when forbidding people from listening had proved pointless.
“Ici Londres...” the voice began in a timbre distinct enough to be heard over the obnoxious background. “Before we begin, please listen to some personal messages.”
Elaine sat up, her pen poised over a piece of paper, ready to quickly scribe the nonsensical statements to follow, communications meant for the Resistance. Some for their Combat group, others for those throughout France, and some meant for no one at all, simply added to throw off enemies trying to break the code.
“Jean has a long mustache.”
“Cats are in a field of lavender.”
“Grandma found a large carrot.”
A string of similarly ridiculous proclamations followed. Marcel and Antoine were the only ones who could decode the phrases into the pertinent details needed. When the “personal messages” on Radio Londres ended, the usual program decrying Germany’s false news followed. The information shared on that general, uncoded broadcast was integral for the articles in their underground newspapers. Not only to counter the disinformation and propaganda, but also to call more French citizens to their ranks. In recent issues, they urged Resistants to look to Corsica’s example, the island that rose up with the Allies and, after twenty-five days of battle, was finally liberated.
Corsica had been a beacon breaking through turbulent seas, a beam of light that shot through the darkness to keep them all from crashing onto the rocks of despair. If Corsica could be wrested from Hitler’s fist, so too could France.
However, the island’s freedom had not only rallied the Resistance to redouble their efforts, so too had it incensed the Gestapo and their French counterparts, the Milice.
Antoine arrived early the next morning and was already bowed over his work with focused diligence.
“I have the newest codes from Radio Londres,” Elaine said by way of greeting.
He gave a grunt of acknowledgment.
Elaine went to the kitchen and returned with a cup of roasted barley and chicory. “Will you look over the messages when you have a moment?”
“The likelihood of hearing back from anyone on your article is practically impossible.” His nail beds were blue where his fingers pinched at the slender drawing stick. “Most especially London.” He tilted his aquiline nose upward with a sniff.
“All the same...” She set the hot mug on the table beside him. Steam curled in the frigid warehouse air in a white-gray tendril.
He slid her a look that told her he knew exactly what she was doing. But he still took the drink in his hands.
She smiled and placed her carefully written notes before him.
He scanned over it as he took a careful sip from the hot mug, then sat back to regard her with fresh consideration.
Her chest went tight. “What is it?”
He gave a small, incredulous laugh. “It appears your message has been received.”
Elaine sucked in a breath of surprise. London had her message. She had anticipated someone within France would be the likely candidate to offer aid. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine help would come from London.