“You did muster through,” Denise replied. “That spirit is why you are a good fit for our group. Nicole is as well.”
“And, of course, Josette,” Elaine amended, pulling her focus from food she would never have and back to the conversation at hand.
Denise shifted her basket to her other arm and nudged Elaine to the other side of the street. “This is not a life for a woman like Josette.”
No sooner had they crossed over the pavement than a group of Nazis strode by where Elaine and Denise had been. Their gray-green uniforms were immaculately pressed, belted at the waist and studded with medals, their hair cropped short beneath caps. Easy conversation flowed between them in their harsh tongue, without worry of retribution or concerns like hunger and cold.
Their carefree nature stoked the ire burning inside her, making it flare brighter. France had flopped on its side like a dog begging for its belly to be scratched, its people practically eager to conspire with the enemy for scraps of food.
The Nazis would face their day of reckoning. They had to.
Boys scuttled beneath the table the Germans had abandoned at the café, picking up the butts of their cigarettes. Their grandfathers likely waited at home for the gifts, eager to rewrap the remaining bits of tobacco. Rumor had it, Hitler detested smoking and ordered his men to forego cigarettes and alcohol, both of which the Nazis consumed in mass quantity regardless. The one order they were apparently willing to defy.
The men’s plates had not yet been cleared, most with food decadently left to be thrown away. Bits of potato. Chunks of fat-riddled meat sitting in pools of gravy. Thick slabs of white, soft bread.
A sharp hunger pain stabbed through Elaine. All that was available in bakeries now was brown in color, with an unpleasant texture and a bland taste that usually left the burn of indigestion in its wake.
She should look away as they passed, to avoid tormenting herself with the unfinished feast. The Germans had swept through France like locusts and used their gluttony as another means of oppression. Letting her gaze linger on the food was one more way they won.
But no matter what Elaine told herself, she could not tear her eyes from the plates. Especially not after she caught sight of a greasy smear of butter glistening atop an airy piece of white bread, its crust flaky and half sodden with juices from the meat.
She swallowed, but her mouth continued to water as they walked away from the laden table. At her side, Denise had also gone silent, no doubt plagued with the same infernal ravenous hunger as Elaine.
One intrepid boy cast a cursory glance before swiping the buttered bit of bread. Elaine couldn’t blame him. Even she was tempted. Not that it was worth the chance of being arrested or possibly shot.
This was why turning her focus on the Resistance was preferable to sitting home alone where boredom allowed the hunger to gnaw at her. With the café—and the distraction of food—behind them, Elaine could center her attention on more important matters.
Like why Denise had looked at her as she had the previous day when Elaine had mentioned Joseph. Her strange expression had been why Elaine had been eager to join her, but the familiarity of Bellecour had rattled Elaine and then there had been the food the Nazis left behind…
She leaned close to Denise as though sharing a tidbit of gossip for the benefit of anyone watching. “I want to free my husband from Montluc. Will you help me?”
Denise turned to her, slowing her pace but not stopping lest they call attention to themselves. Her expression remained as lugubrious as it had been when Elaine first mentioned Joseph’s imprisonment, a somberness Elaine had not forgotten. The memory of it picked at her thoughts every time she lay in the unfamiliar bed of yet another unfamiliar safe house and waited for sleep to claim her.
In truth, it was that look that had prompted Elaine to go to Denise with this request. If anyone could estimate the likelihood of freeing Joseph, it would be Denise.