“And I refuse to allow you to take such an unnecessary risk yourself.” He tilted his head. “It appears we are at an impasse, Miss Harper.” He studied her for a moment, his eyes neither green nor blue, but an interesting amalgamation somewhere in between. “Give me some time?”
Before she could protest, he lifted his hand to stop her and continued, “Two weeks to gently poke around and then we can reevaluate.”
She drank from the glass and contemplated his offer. “Will it put you at risk?”
He shook his head.
“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “But if I was involved with his arrest and he’s being held somewhere, we have to help.”
“Let me see what I can find first.”
In the distance, church bells tolled the hour. She would need to return to the embassy soon to begin the arduous task of taking picture after picture of various newspapers, magazines, and books.
“But nothing dangerous.” She shifted the messenger bag at her side where the corners of periodicals jutted out.
He watched her struggle with a slight curve of his lips. “I swear it.” He held out his hand for her empty glass. “And I think you need a larger sack.”
Yet another attempt to distract her. She gave him her cup. “One more thing…”
“Only one more?” he teased with a grin.
Heat flushed over her cheeks. She was asking for quite a lot. “I want to do something to help the refugees. I thought you might suggest…？”
A somberness touched his eyes and his smile melted away. “Allow me a few days.”
She nodded and tried to suppress the nettle of her forced dependence. In the past, she had always done the digging herself, flexing the acumen of her own ability to research. But this was a new world filled with new rules and going against any of them could tip the precarious scale of neutrality in a country that was allowing Americans to be there.
With that thought in mind, she had no choice but to bide her time and wait.
EIGHT
Elaine
The sky was overcast with a drizzle too light to require an umbrella, but substantial enough for the chilly dampness to seep into one’s bones. An ominous sensation, Elaine’s mother used to say with an exaggerated shiver and a laugh. But then, Maman was always cold.
It had been two long years since Elaine last saw her parents. They lived in Combs-la-Ville, a rural area about an hour by automobile from Paris where her father was the town’s doctor. Elaine hadn’t relished the quiet life there and had always been dazzled by Paris’s grandeur. Its lure had been irresistible after she completed her courses at lycée and set off on her own. As their only child, they had not been eager to see her leave, but supported her decision out of love for her.
Based on the last letter she’d received from her parents, the petrol shortage hindered travel between towns, which meant the supplies generated in Combs-la-Ville were likely to remain there. Certainly, food was more abundant in farming communities than in the city.
Elaine could only pray their circumstances remained tolerable. Sending and receiving letters into the occupied zone had become difficult previously, and once the Germans swept through the rest of France, it became truly impossible.
Nicole greeted her outside the apartment, wearing her usual tricolor combination with a shopping basket that held several bundles of rutabagas with the leaves still dangling from their purple-and-white bulbs. Along with those, she added a wrapped loaf of bread from her basket to Elaine’s. “We are picking up explosives to bring back into the city,” Nicole whispered. “These will cover them to avoid any suspicion.”
“Explosives?” Elaine asked in surprise, unable to keep from imagining those precarious objects bouncing about in her basket.