“Or so the Germans think,” added Jean. “Marcel registered—”
Nicole swept into the room, heels clacking, her outfit chic in her usual white and blue motif, a matching hat tilted rakishly over one eye as the silky blond curls at the ends of her hair bounced midway down her back.
Jean’s mouth dropped open.
“The last time I lugged something about this heavy, it was a sack full of guns,” Nicole called out jovially as she exaggerated the strain of her bag.
“Who is that?” Jean asked under his breath.
“That is Nicole.” Elaine gave a knowing look at the besotted man, then indicated the Roneo. “Do you have the transfer sheets? And the fluid? And possibly a rag to wipe it down with?”
“Hmm?” Jean dragged his gaze from Nicole and his cheeks went scarlet. “Oui, of course.” He opened a drawer, displaying a stack of rags. From a bin sitting atop the desk, he presented the two-page master. She separated the paper form with its script penned in a neat, block letter text from its waxy back, which she carefully affixed to the rolling drum, wax-side out.
“And fluid.” He grabbed a tin from the shelf, the contents inside sloshing.
She took it with thanks and poured the methanol into the tank on the left side of the machine, its scent sharp and unmistakable. While the liquid gurgled its way into the wick, she scanned the paper used to create the necessary wax sheet. It was a call to the people of Lyon to gather at Place de la Croix-Rousse in the evening of the upcoming Bastille Day on July 14 and proudly bear the tricolor in defiance of their German oppressors.
Her heart thumped harder in her chest. She was a part of this compelling message.
After swiping away a layer of dust, she adjusted the paper into the feeder tray—a feature her own rustic machine never had. “How many copies?”
“As many as it will do.”
The Roneo could produce almost five hundred sheets, but the ink on the printed copy gradually degraded with each pass so the run likely would fall somewhere closer to four hundred and fifty if they were lucky.
She grasped the handle, rolling it forward in the way that was as familiar to her as the acrid aroma of the methanol. “I’m going to need more paper.”
Not only was Elaine proficient at running the mimeograph machine, but her ability to repair it with ease was especially welcome. So it was that she never resumed her work with Nicole, Denise, and Josette, though the absence of their constant companionship was felt keenly as the days turned into weeks and then a month.
They saw one another on occasion with deliveries, but visits were few and woefully far between. And through it all, Etienne had no further updates on Joseph.
In that time, Elaine continued to reside with Manon. Though never unkind, the woman seemed disinclined to engage with Elaine. Shrouded in her own solitude, she moved through the house like a specter, adorned in loose black dresses that accentuated the frailness of her slender body. Still, she always had a meal prepared for Elaine. Though the contents were meager, they were decorously waiting on a white plate painted with violets and delicate sunshine yellow roses.
The printing press’s assembly was underway, the skeleton fleshed out into a powerful beast—a machine worthy of discrediting Nazi propaganda.
There was a second press—the Minerva—that did not require electricity to make it run, but rather the pumping of one’s foot on a pedal at its base. It was a noisy thing once in operation, the ink plate thwacking against the blank page to imprint the text. Coordinated effort was involved as well, with the operator simultaneously stomping the treadle, removing the completed paper and replacing it with a clean, unprinted one.
Marcel operated the Minerva when he wasn’t puzzling through the myriad remaining pieces of the automatic press, until at last it was complete. The thing sounded like the five-ton monster it was, huffing and chuffing and slamming against the backdrop of the Minerva’s own thundering performance. Its noise was why the warehouse was set so far from Lyon’s heart and within the massive building.