Elaine
Witnesses say Manon was like an angel preparing to ascend into heaven. Amid the crimson waves of violence the Germans swept over Lyon, their cruelty played its wicked hand that night when the Gestapo pulled her into the street on Rue Lanterne. She did not fight their painful grip, nor did she cringe when they pointed the barrels of their submachine guns upon her.
Elaine did not know what they said to her, only that as their voices roused the attention of the neighborhood, Manon closed her eyes and tilted her head back, seraphic, as if basking in the warmth of heaven’s golden glow. The men released her, and she spread her arms at her sides in supplication as the bullets scored the night air and tore into her frail body.
Her loss was one of many etched upon Elaine’s heart, and every night thereafter for those following four months, she prayed Manon had finally found peace at last with her husband and her son.
Denise was taken that night while fleeing from the bomb she’d planted as a distraction. There were also stories about her—how she lashed out like a guivre to avoid capture. But in the end, even the dragon-like creature itself could not have held out against the considerable force of the Germans sent to arrest Sarah and Noah. Denise remained at Montluc for only a short week, her rescue impossible, before she was finally sent to a prisoners’ work camp, like Joseph.
There had been no news of Sarah and Noah since. Though perhaps that was a good thing. Regardless, they remained on Elaine’s mind. They likely always would as their absence in her life was one her thoughts constantly prodded.
The newspaper rolled through the machine, its rhythm lulling her as stacks of fresh newsprint piled up. It was the middle of the day and yet Elaine had to fight the weight of exhaustion tugging at her eyelids. Marcel had been arrested nearly two months ago on suspicion of operating the clandestine newspaper, though they were still uncertain if he was at Montluc or the Gestapo headquarters…or somewhere else entirely. Regardless of his location, he hadn’t talked, or they would all be with him.
So it was, they put in extra hours to compensate for his absence until he returned. If he would return.
Her head nodded forward, yielding to her fatigue when the machine’s sudden click-click-click snapped her awake once more, indicating the print job was complete. Fatigued, she gathered the newspapers and set them beside the stack she had completed an hour earlier on the Minerva.
The Gestapo had been relentless in their pursuit of Resistance fighters and Maquis. The kid gloves with which the Nazis handled the French populace before were ripped off, their claws now bared and dripping with blood.
A dozen prisoners were slain in retaliation for the death of one German, and in the country, those suspected of helping the Maquis were dragged from their homes and killed. Arrests were a constant threat as the Milice and Gestapo tightened their grip on the throat of Lyon. Bread rations were cut, curfews extended to ridiculous hours, and harsh shouts rang out through the narrow stone streets.
The Nazis had hovered over Lyon since the occupation, but now their breath whispered hot and fetid at the neck of the Resistance network. Most especially the printers as the Nazis attempted to destroy all clandestine presses.
It was for that reason, Elaine and the others did not mind the extra hours Marcel’s absence created. If the newspaper still went out on time, it would hopefully disprove his involvement to the Gestapo. Thus far, at the very least, there had been no news of his death. For that, they were all grateful.
And for every day the Gestapo didn’t storm into the warehouse from whatever they may have forced from Marcel’s lips, they were even more grateful.
The print job complete, Elaine dragged herself toward the kitchen to prepare a cup of chicory coffee to fortify herself and stifle the emptiness growling from her stomach as she waited on Nicole to come for the freshly printed papers. The darkened corridor was uncharacteristically quiet with the automatic machine having completed its task, and Elaine’s entire body was immediately on alert.
Every footstep outside might be the Milice surrounding the warehouse. Every murmured voice might be the Gestapo infiltrating their perimeter. Every person who strode by might be a collaborator who noticed something unusual about the facade of their geological business.