There was a lingering odor of cigarettes and chicory coffee hanging in the stagnant air.
He folded one of the shutters back, their subtle clacks as loud as gunshots as he let in a stream of light to cut through the darkness. “Here, sit.”
In a single motion, he swept his arm over the table, clearing away crumbs and an open newspaper that crumpled to the ground. She resisted the urge to retrieve the fallen print and properly fold it to set aside. Instead, she lowered herself to the hard wooden chair, grateful for its sturdiness as she recovered from the fear of what could have happened had Etienne not arrived when he did.
She would have been caught. Claudine as well. And Joseph…？
“Do you know where my husband is?” she asked, pressing her hands together to still their shaking.
Etienne went to the stovetop and poured out two cups of steaming light brown liquid made of roasted barley and chicory. While the brew didn’t possess the fortifying effects of a strong cup of coffee, it would be welcome against her dry throat. He handed her a mug, which she wrapped her icy fingers around.
“Where are your papers?” He held out a box of saccharine tablets, the inadequate replacement for sugar these days.
She declined.
Shrugging, he dropped one into his cup with a plunk that sounded overloud in the quiet stretching between them. With a nonchalant air, he sat back in his chair, his brows lifted in expectation of an answer.
She blew at a tendril of steam curling up from her coffee and took a careful sip, uncertain how to respond.
Etienne and Joseph were as close as brothers with Etienne two years younger, having lied about his age in order to be accepted into the military during the Great War. And yet she still could not help but wonder if he could indeed be trusted.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew the identity card and opened it on the table, revealing her picture and the name Elaine Rousseau. “We both have secrets.” His blunt pointer finger rested on the document and slid it toward her.
“I gave my identity card away.” She straightened and looked him in the eye. “To a woman who needed it more than I.”
“Claudine,” he surmised and then pursed his lips, as if wishing he could take back having said her name.
Hélène took a sip of her chicory coffee to cover her surprise. “Is she a friend of yours?”
“She is a woman in need. That is all you should know.” He withdrew a rolled cigarette from a case and lit it. The odor of burning grass filled the space between them, the acrid smoke stinging her eyes and nose.
Its pungency was one she ought to be used to, as the Frenchmen resorted to smoking anything they could dry and wrap in a bit of paper when tobacco was so scarce.
“Who is Pierre?”
Etienne’s face remained blank, but Hélène wasn’t fooled. “Who is he?” She set her cup down but did not unwrap her hands from its welcome heat. “I want to know what is happening. I want to know who Pierre is and what he has to do with my husband’s disappearance. I want to know where Joseph is.” Her voice shook as she failed to quell the rise of her emotions.
Her husband’s closest friend looked down at the table, mute as his right foot began to bounce with anxious energy, his foul cigarette burning to brittle ash between his fingers.
“You cannot go back to being Hélène,” he said finally.
“I know that,” she said in a measured tone that did little to conceal her irritation. “Where did you get this?” She picked up the false identity papers. “From Pierre?” The precious pages trembled in her grasp.
Etienne’s dark brows furrowed. “You will have to leave your home if your name does not match its location,” he prevaricated.