Once her publications were properly acquired, she leaped aboard a tram that traveled the carved grooves in the street toward the American Embassy. The lines of refugees were always there, just as Mr. Sims had mentioned, and each time, those pleading faces struck Ava anew. The only difference between her and those queued was that she had been born an American. The visa in her desk had been a right of her birth and to the refugees in Europe, it was such a glowing privilege.
The unfairness of it dug into her every time she saw them. The worst part was, there was nothing she could do to help.
Once inside, Peggy always met her with a smile, Mr. Sims remained little more than a closed door, and Mike was always there to add a quip or two. That day, however, Peggy practically ran to her, flapping something resembling a card in the air like a strange one-winged bird. “You got mail.” She thrust the envelope with a red V stamped on it toward Ava.
“Looks like it’s from your brother.” Peggy leaned closer. “I didn’t want to infringe on your privacy, but Mike insisted I make sure it wasn’t from a beau.”
Ava only partially believed Peggy’s protest but accepted the letter with thanks regardless. Peggy was the well-meaning sort who knew everything about everyone. It was expected and, in some cases, could be helpful.
“Don’t you tell Mike I told you he asked.” Peggy’s mouth made an “O” of surprise as if she’d just realized the risk.
“I won’t,” Ava promised.
Peggy glanced around, then said conspiratorially, “But do you have one?”
Ava simply chuckled by way of an answer. There was absolutely no man she was writing to aside from her brother. Romance was hardly on her mind, and the last thing she wanted was Mike thinking she was available.
Messenger bag laden with fresh news at her side, Ava left Peggy and carried the envelope to the back room. Microfilm certainly played its role in the war, not only in the capture of documents to send back to DC, but also in communication between troops. Correspondence to and from soldiers were captured on microfilm for easier transport, then reprinted at the message’s desired location. The paper was less than half the size of a normal page and didn’t leave much room to be verbose, but the messages were printed clearly and were precious no matter their appearance.
It was the second letter she’d received from Daniel, and it filled her chest with a warm ache that was both painful and pleasant all at once. The love and gratitude she held for him, for all he’d sacrificed for her, the hurt of missing him, the fear for his safety. Such emotions were always there with her, tucked in a special place in her heart, and they rushed to the forefront with each letter, heightened and renewed.
The message within was similar to his last. Her eyes read the words, but it was Daniel’s rich timbre in her ears.
To give it all in a single, censor-friendly statement: I’m well with enough food to eat. I hope you are as well. You know I don’t like you putting your neck on the line too, but I still have to say it: I’m damn proud of you. Stay safe and keep your nose clean. I love you.
-D
She slid the paper back into the envelope with a smile. Setting it tenderly aside, she removed the bounty from that day’s collection and set to work photographing each one. In the beginning, she’d tried to read what she captured on microfilm, but eventually learned their role was one of speed. Their task was not to absorb all the information themselves, but to get as much to DC as was possible where it would be analyzed by the government for potential use against the Axis.
Truth be told, it could be terribly boring. Open a newspaper, adjust the image. Click. Wind the machine to ready the next exposure. Repeat. On and on through the course of the afternoon.
She still skimmed through the documents for anything she thought might be pertinent to bring to attention for those poring through their compilations in DC. It wasn’t only newspapers and periodicals, but texts and manuals and other foreign reading materials they could find, but had thus far not uncovered anything. Through it all, her thoughts continued to wander back to the refugees—not only those in line wrapping around the embassy, but those in Rossio Square—languishing in wait of escape.