The orchestra of newsprint went on without stop throughout the day until their composition fell into the background. Only when an issue occurred did the production cease, rendering the silence off-putting as one abruptly missed the symphony of its operation.
Elaine and the three men found a comfortable rhythm in their routines, with Jean printing out text in blocks of metal slugs that had to cool before being touched and fitted to plates for the presses. Marcel hovered over the automatic machine in these first days, monitoring each printout with critical study before nodding to himself in approval and returning the paper back to its neat stack. Antoine was Elaine’s favorite to observe as he worked over thin sheets of zinc with a sharpened tool, etching out images with the precise skill of an artist.
“We should run the story,” Antoine said one morning when Elaine walked in.
“Absolutely not.” Marcel kept his stare fixed on the printing press, apparently not in the mood to argue.
Antoine slipped a finger beneath his bow tie as if easing the pressure building there. “But it is news that Max—Jean Moulin—is dead.”
Max was a code name Elaine knew—not through personal introduction, for she would never warrant as much with a man of his caliber, but he came up often in conversations and coded messages. He was the right-hand man in Lyon for General de Gaulle, the war hero who encouraged French Resistance from London. Max had been charged with uniting their different independent factions into one.
What did his death mean for the Resistance? For their future?
“Do you see her face?” Marcel nodded to Elaine with a hard expression. “If you tell France Max is dead, our people will be stricken too, and you will lose support, not gain more.”
Elaine immediately schooled her features to mask her emotions, a lesson she would not forget. Even among friends.
“It is news,” Marcel agreed solemnly. “But our job is to gather new recruits, not turn them away by informing them that General de Gaulle’s most trusted man was tortured to death by Hauptsturmführer Barbie.” He turned his attention to Elaine and spoke with a gentler tone. “Max was not the only man maintaining the networks in Lyon. We will endure.”
“I hear he did not talk despite the brutal torture he endured.” Jean’s voice was soft with an awed reverence.
“Still, it is not a story that needs to be published,” Marcel said with finality and walked away with a stack of fresh newsprint in his arms.
“Tortured?” Elaine asked through numb lips.
Jean nodded, brooding aloud. “It is true bravery and strength alone that keeps one from talking.”
Like Joseph.
Could she be so strong? No matter how hard she concentrated, it was impossible to weigh her own fortitude against such an unknown scale.
“None of us knows how we would react,” Jean said, as though he too were lost in the same macabre thought. “I think we all hope to be so valiant and pray we never have to find out.”
He tucked his hands into his pockets, his long form bent over, as if walking into a hearty wind, and returned to the small office they used for creating false identity cards.
“Ma chérie,” Nicole’s voice called out. She sauntered in with Josette at her side, their ever-present shopping baskets looped in the crooks of their elbows. Rather than go to Marcel, Nicole marched over to Elaine and hugged her. “How we’ve missed you.”
Elaine squeezed Nicole’s slim frame in return, noting the prominent outline of the other woman’s ribs and vertebrae as she did so. No doubt Elaine felt the same in their embrace.
It was a reminder of the pervasive hunger that gnawed at their unfulfilled bellies and fogged their minds with weariness. In any event, seeing Nicole and Josette again was still a rare and wonderful delight.