But the cherry trees were laden with pink petals so heavy that they sifted away to float in the air and dance across the water of the Tidal Basin like thick, soft snowflakes. How Ava loved to stroll down the path beneath those trees, letting the flowers whisper across her cheeks as they tumbled gracefully downward on an unseen breeze.
It was precisely the distraction she had needed to pull her thoughts from the upcoming plane ride and the trepidation of facing a place she knew so little of. Truly, she wasn’t sure which was worse.
At least, not until she joined the line on the runway to board and her nerves vibrated to an insistent hum.
Flying on the plane was far, far worse.
TWO
Hélène
April 1943
Lyon, France
Words had power.
Hélène Bélanger’s gaze lingered on the paper plastered to the wall, clean and white against the old stonework, its message in stark, black letters.
à bas les Boches.
Down with the Germans.
The recently applied poster hadn’t yet been pulled down by the Nazi forces who had occupied the Free Zone of France six months prior. She shouldn’t even be looking at the note, but could not tear her gaze away. Not when it made her heart pound harder with the need to do something.
The tract would likely be torn off soon and a new one would be put up in its place; a show of defiance against their oppressors.
The Resistance—brave men and women who rose against the German occupiers—made their presence known throughout Lyon, bold and without fear.
A finger of icy air slid down the collar of Hélène’s coat and a shiver rattled through her. The chill of the overcast April evening would have scarcely been felt in years before, but the limited food within the city whittled away at her body, leaving sharp bones protruding from what had once been supple curves. The Nazis did not suffer such deprivation. On the contrary, they dined lavishly on food stolen from the mouths of hungry families and consumed endless amounts of wine looted from French cellars. All for their rapacious pleasure.
She turned away from the wall and strode briskly down Rue Sala, the wooden soles of her shoes clacking against the cobblestones. The mostly empty streets and the heavy gray clouds overhead did not help the sense of dread knotting her stomach.
Her shopping basket held only a few knobby Jerusalem artichokes rolling about the braided wicker bottom. The yellow-flowered plants were once vegetation used for livestock, yet now the tubers of those weeds kept the people of France alive, replacing fats and meats that were almost impossible to find anymore.
She’d hoped to acquire some bread but arrived too late. All the stale goods had been sold with only the fresh loaves available on the back wall that could not be purchased until the following day. How she longed for the times when she could buy a loaf still hot from the oven. But that was before the ration laws demanded bakers sell bread no less than twenty-four hours old. Not only did the hardened loaf cut into precise slices for easier ration measurement, but it also kept the French from devouring their food too swiftly. Or so the officials said.
Not that any of that mattered. For the first time in years, Hélène’s empty stomach did not cramp with hunger. This time, her insides twisted and clenched with anxiety for who awaited her at the small apartment on Rue du Plat.
Or rather who did not await her.
Joseph.
Two days and one night had passed since their argument, the worst one yet. Words had power, and she’d turned the full brunt of them against her husband in her anger.
He was a man who fought and sacrificed in the Great War, who turned to pacifism after what he’d seen amid the Battle of Verdun, whose brilliant mind for chemistry caught her attention when she’d been a girl fresh out of secretary school.