He grinned at her, revealing a missing lower left canine. “You did it, Elaine. You saved them, especially before these harrowing months.”
These harrowing months—even such strong words were a trite description for what they had endured. Every day there were reports of Nazi aggression as they ferreted out where Jews were being hidden. The worst of which was in Izieu, not far from Lyon, when three Nazi trucks arrived at an orphanage for Jewish children, arresting all forty-four innocent souls and the seven brave adults who stayed with them. Elaine had written the story for Combat herself, her heart heavy, the typed words interrupted often by the moments needed to blot away her free-flowing tears. The orphans and their caretakers had been taken to Drancy, an internment camp in Paris where they were then sent to work camps.
What could children possibly do in work camps?
Elaine had immediately thought of Sarah after learning of those poor children of Izieu. If Sarah had done what many suggested and placed Noah in the care of those meant to save Jewish children, perhaps he might have suffered a similar fate.
Elaine sat back in her seat as the news report of Radio Londres detailed the losses Germany faced recently despite how the Nazis boasted their specious claims of victory. She remained sitting there long after the program ended, ruminating over Sarah and Noah’s success.
The task of getting them to America had been deemed insurmountable, but Elaine’s actions set their liberation into motion, along with the heroic efforts of countless others who managed to make the impossible become a reality.
Finally, it felt as if there was hope for them all.
The clandestine papers made no mention of the Allied invasion in their newspapers, but the arms stored in the basement were distributed through the Resistance in Lyon as well as to the Maquis. The Allies were finally coming; the war for independence had begun in earnest.
Allied bombings in the past had been unsuccessful in Lyon, like the one that had occurred in late May. While the explosive power did its worst on the Gestapo headquarters, so too had its destruction wreaked havoc on the local area, killing over seven hundred civilians and wounding hundreds more.
An advancing army crawling over France’s verdant hills and cobbled streets, however, would be far more effective.
The printing press banged on through its process, but Elaine could scarcely concentrate enough to operate the old Minerva. She glanced down at her watch, the delicate arm stretching half past the hour. Nicole was late.
Anxiety brought an unwelcome sense of unease to the forefront of Elaine’s mind. At any moment, she expected the door to swing open and Nicole’s voice to tinkle out in her singsong welcome.
But it never came.
Nicole had never been late in the past. Not once.
A prickle of foreboding rippled over Elaine’s skin.
She stared at the door, willing it to swing open. When it finally did, however, it was not Nicole who entered through the entryway, but Marcel, returning from a meeting in Paris with the other news printers. The Allied advance meant further recruitment for the Resistance would likely no longer be necessary. The war would surely be over any day now.
Elaine rushed to him, following his long strides as he crossed the room. “Nicole is late.”
His gaze caught on Elaine’s desk where the stack of newspapers lay bound and ready for retrieval. Frowning, he glanced down at his watch.
“She should have been here forty-five minutes ago,” Elaine said solemnly. An ominous sensation fluttered in her chest. She looked to Marcel in the hopes he could quell the terrible feeling with a note of reassurance. “She has never been late before.”
“Let us wait a moment more.” A haggard exhaustion lined Marcel’s face and darkened the tender skin under his eyes to the point they were reminiscent of those bruises he once carried from German abuse over a month before.