Weapon brandished, her heart pounding like a drum, she turned the corner.
A woman with dark hair pulled back from her face gazed up, a child cradled in her embrace. “Please.” Her arms tightened around the boy. “We have nowhere else to go.”
Caution prickled Elaine’s awareness. The press was not easy to discover, especially in a place where so many warehouses were abandoned, their stores depleted by the occupation.
Elaine scanned the room. “Is there anyone else here with you?”
The mother shook her head. “It’s only us.”
Elaine lowered the blade but kept it in her hand as a precaution.
“My husband, Lewis, is in America,” the woman stated, her stare fixed on the knife. “We are alone.” Her voice caught.
“Why did you come here and how did you get in?”
“We escaped.” She stroked a hand over her son’s dark hair and spoke in a gentle tone. “I heard the Gestapo at our door saying they had reports of movement in the home after the occupants left, where an older couple were keeping us hidden. We went out the back door and walked as far as we could. But when the curfew began, I panicked and climbed over the terrace wall at the back of the building. The door there was open and no one was around. That’s how we entered the warehouse…”
Elaine let out a slow exhale. Her foolish error could have been more disastrous. The noxious odor of grease and oil exacerbated her headache earlier, the fumes more than she could take with the press’s repeated banging. But she never suspected anyone would break onto the terrace, not with the neighborhood being so old and practically abandoned.
But then, desperation often led to impulsive decisions.
Both women watched one another with wariness. While Elaine had been drilled to always be vigilant, there was something innate in her that told her to trust this frightened woman. Her young child pressed against her chest nestled closer against the black outdoor coat the woman still wore.
At last, Elaine tucked the knife behind her, and the tension drained—mostly—from her taut muscles. “Have you had dinner?”
The woman swallowed. “Please, if you have just something for my son.”
“You may have some for yourself as well.” Elaine had seen too many starving women giving all their food to their children.
Still, the woman hesitated, her eyes wide and cautious, as obviously disinclined to trust as Elaine.
“I’m Elaine.” She waved for the woman to follow her.
The woman regarded her for a long moment. “I’m Sarah and this is Noah.” The little boy in her arms raised his head and blinked up with eyes like his mother—hazel and heavily lashed, his appearance angelic. Dark curls fell over his serious brow, and a crease lined one flushed cheek where he’d been sleeping against his mother.
He was small and thin, making it hard to place his age. Perhaps between two and four. Children were no longer plump with youth as they’d once been, their growth stunted by a lack of proper nutrition.
Sarah grasped Noah to her as she rose. He laid his head on her shoulder, more for comfort than weariness, his gaze alert.
Elaine led them to the kitchen. “Please have a seat.” She indicated the small wooden table that wobbled.
An old copy of Le Nouvelliste—the Nazis-approved publication for France’s public—was wadded beneath the shortened leg like a bit of trapped rubbish, its text ragged and torn from the sharp peg. Many people who purchased the newspaper did so with the intent to burn it for warmth with fuel being so scarce.
Sarah sank into one of the mismatched chairs with her son. His wrinkled gray pants showed his ankles, and his navy winter coat was buttoned up to his skinny neck.