“What did they do to you?” Nicole demanded, her expression hardening.
Elaine shook her head. “Nothing like they did to Joseph.”
Nicole’s face softened and she pulled Elaine to her. “I know, ma chérie. I know.”
Elaine melted into the comfort of Nicole’s arms and, in the genuine affection of that embrace, allowed the torrent of her powerful emotions to spill over. When she had no more tears left to cry, she asked after the newspapers she had dropped off moments before her arrest. By a miracle, they had been salvaged, each delivered to the appropriate location without issue.
Which was why they had not been mentioned by the Gestapo. Elaine would never begrudge a filthy receptacle again.
They remained in the safe house through the next day before relocating to another and then another to ensure they were not being followed. In that time, Elaine continued to listen to Radio Londres, trying to make sense of the messages, unable to keep from wondering if any one might pertain to Sarah and Noah.
Almost a week later, she finally returned to the warehouse with Nicole at her side. It was strange how something that once felt so cold and utilitarian had somehow become home. She missed the room where her bedroll and box of clothes remained, as well as the small kitchen and the constant hum and bang of the automatic press. Antoine, Jean, and Marcel rushed to embrace her, the familiar velvety smell of ink on all of them, and she was grateful to be returned to her Resistance family.
“Have you heard news from Radio Londres?” Elaine queried as soon as the frenzy of welcome wishes died down.
While in those arduous days of waiting, thoughts of Sarah and Noah buzzed in her brain, the only reprieve she had from her tortuous imagination of Joseph and what he likely endured at the hands of Werner.
Antoine’s eyes slid toward Marcel.
“I did,” Marcel replied.
Elaine pulled in a breath. “And?”
He nodded slowly with quiet approval. “You did it, Elaine. They will be coordinating a pickup with the Maquis.”
The victory of her impossible task surged through her. In that moment, she was grateful she had defied Marcel. It appeared he was glad as well; the buoyancy of his exuberance stripped away the years and stress on his features.
Nicole gave a whoop of excitement and beamed at Elaine.
“They’re going to America?” Elaine asked.
“That we do not know,” Antoine interjected.
“But you still are helping them escape France.” Jean’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “At the very least they will presumably be in England where they can be safe.”
Safe.
Was such a thing even possible? In the days of slinking through shadows and hiding explosives and arranging words for a powerful impact, the notion of safety felt as elusive as a full stomach.
“And now that you are back,” Marcel said, reverting to his businesslike demeanor, “we have much work to do.” He lifted the stack of newsprint he had recently gathered and strode across the room as Antoine returned to his desk with a wink.
Jean’s gaze lingered on Nicole with an endearing bashfulness before he slipped away to the Linotype machine. As she turned to stroll away, Elaine caught her friend’s hand. “He’s in love with you, Nicole.” She spoke softly to avoid embarrassing Jean.
Nicole’s pleasant expression went blank as she considered the man. For a breath of a second, a wistful look crossed her face.
They would be a handsome couple—young and full of joie de vivre. A spark between them might be just the thing to dim the brilliance of danger and desolation.
But before Elaine could anticipate Nicole offering favorable encouragement, her friend’s demeanor frosted over, blue eyes going cold as a winter sky. “There is no room for love in this war.”