His leg continued to jog, and his mug on the table rattled with the disturbance.
She released the papers and her drink as she clapped her hand over the cup in front of him, so it went silent. “What is happening? Where is my husband?” Her gaze bore into his bloodshot eyes, and she noticed a bruise under the shadow of his unshaved jaw. There was a slight cut over one eyebrow as well. “Etienne.”
His leg stopped jostling. “Joseph has been arrested.” Etienne swallowed. “For political reasons.”
“Political reasons?” Her world spun around her. Joseph had been arrested. And she no longer even had her identity card to go to the police and do what she could to demand his release. “Is he…” She could hardly form the words. They felt too hypocritical after all the months of arguing. After everything he demanded of her and everything he forbade her from doing.
After she had called him a coward for turning his back on his country.
“Is he with the Resistance?” she asked. “Is he Pierre?”
Etienne took a drag off his cigarette. The tip glowed red and as he breathed out a gust of acrid smoke, his nod was almost imperceptible.
In that moment, Hélène’s world flipped on its axis. All the times Joseph had claimed the Resistance did nothing, all the ways he had restricted her. And he had been working with them the entire time. The warning prickle of impending tears burned in her eyes, but she clenched her hands until the sensation passed.
Dealing with her emotions would come later. Now was for questions.
Her gaze fell on the identity card as she considered the picture. The dress was dark, its color obscured by the black-and-white print. But she recognized the scalloped edges of the V-shaped neckline so popular then. The garment was a deep, luxurious green and still hung in her wardrobe back home. When she’d worn it last, Joseph had told her she looked beautiful and had insisted on taking her picture.
It was silly to stand there in her apartment for a photograph with only the blank wall behind her, which was why her lips were lightly lifted at the corners in an unsure smile. Now she understood. Joseph hadn’t taken the photo for a memory; he’d done it to make a false identity card. She only needed Etienne to confirm her suspicions.
Picking up the identity card, she held it toward him. “Did Joseph make this?”
“In case something happened.” Etienne sighed in capitulation. “To protect you. I couldn’t bring it to you until the Bosche released me.”
Her gaze shot back to Etienne’s bruised jaw. To the cut on his brow. He had been beaten. They would do the same to Joseph.
Pain tightened in her chest for her husband whose years as a battle-ready soldier ended long before they had met.
He had been injured by shrapnel in Verdun. He’d talked about it with her only once before, how the bomb had killed most of the men around him with the exception of himself and Etienne. Joseph had been struck in the leg. Evidence of the trauma was still visible where the skin gnarled beside his knee and curled around the back of his calf, leaving him with a slight limp.
Etienne had walked away from that battle unscathed, but then he had always been lucky. Even now, he sat before her while Joseph remained imprisoned.
“Why did they release you, but not him?” she demanded.
A fatigued look deepened the creases of his brow, and his stare drifted despondently into the void. “I am lucky.” His tone was flat as he stubbed out his cigarette.
“When will he be released?”
Etienne shook his head as his attention refocused on her. “We do not imagine he will be held much longer.”
“We,” she repeated. “The Resistance.”
He nodded.