I work as a liaison, conveying information to other members of our cell: a rendezvous schedule hidden in a tin of coffee, a drop-off point scribbled on a scrap of paper used to wrap a wedge of cheese. Sometimes the exchange is verbal, a seemingly innocent inquiry about an aunt’s recent bout of flu or a question about the Métro timetable. I’m to recite the line exactly as given, memorize the reply, and report back to Elise. I never know what any of it means, but that’s by design. In the event that I’m picked up and questioned, I can’t reveal anything because I don’t know anything.
But today, I’ve been trusted with something new. I’m to collect a pouch of papers from a man Elise referred to only as The Painter. She told me to fill a basket with wine, bread, and cheese and then pedal Maman’s bike to a garret in the Rue des Saints-Pères.
I’m nervous as I pull up in front of the dingy apartment building. My instructions are to appear as if I’m meeting a lover for an afternoon assignation. I take out a compact and a tube of lipstick, as I’ve been taught, and make a show of primping, all the while using the mirror to make sure I haven’t been followed.
It’s the first thing they teach you: how to make sure you aren’t tailed and what to do if you are. What to look for on the street. How to melt into a crowd. How to get rid of anything that might tie you back to the cell. But nothing looks out of the ordinary.
I chain up my bike, loop the basket over my arm, and climb the skinny flight of steps to the third floor. Three sharp knocks on the door. No more. No less. There’s the clicking of locks, and the door cracks open, revealing one eye and a heavy brow.
“J’espère que tu as faim,” I say, precisely as instructed. I hope you’re hungry.
The door inches back. Three-quarters of a face now. The eye narrows as it runs over me. Eventually, the door opens enough to let me in.
It’s a tiny apartment, two rooms crowded with tables and lamps, made even more claustrophobic by heavy blackout curtains, which are closed though it’s the middle of the day. There is a distinct reek to the place. Chemical fumes mixed with unwashed male bodies, scorched acorn coffee, and cigarette smoke.
I remember my instructions while I wait. I’m to say nothing unless specifically addressed, to make no comment or question anything I see. The less I know, the better. But it’s hard to curb my curiosity about what appears to be a kind of assembly line. There are small tables set up along the far wall, stocked with an assortment of inks, writing implements, seals, stamps, and glues.
I count four men in all—the one who answered my knock and three others bent over various tables. No one speaks, and yet it’s clear who’s in charge. He’s seated at the farthest table, surrounded by the tools of his trade—The Painter. There’s something almost desperate in the way he hunches over his work, stained fingers twitching with small, frenetic strokes, inventing human beings with paper and ink.
He lifts his head, craning his neck to work out a kink. Our eyes lock briefly. He’s surprisingly young, not much older than I am, with a long face, round wire spectacles, and a chin full of dark stubble. The moment is over quickly. He returns to his work, and the man who let me in returns, handing me an oilskin pouch. I don’t look inside or say a word. I simply tuck the pouch into the back of my skirt and cover it with my cardigan. No money changes hands. The Painter takes nothing for his work. Like the rest of us, he cares only about the cause.
When enough time has passed, I empty my basket, leaving the wine and food behind, and muss my hair and lipstick a little, in case anyone happens to notice me leaving. And then I’m outside in the sunshine again, pedaling away with a packet of forged documents tucked into my waistband.
It’s a relief to get back to the hospital and finally hand off the smuggled pouch to Elise. She’s matter-of-fact in her praise, which isn’t unusual. She’s not the effusive type, but there’s something unsettling about the way she won’t meet my eyes. And then she tells me. Anson has failed to return from last night’s mission.
The news nearly knocks me to the ground. Elise makes me sit down and brings me a cup of coffee. There’s no pretense that Anson and I are merely work colleagues. She’s just a woman, comforting another woman, and I’m grateful. She tells me it isn’t unusual—a hundred things could have happened—and she’s sure he’ll be back anytime now. But I can hear in her voice that she’s worried, and as I go back to my duties, my mind runs to worst-case scenarios, to Anson shot dead or herded onto a train bound for one of the camps.