She tried again. “What if I compose an article with a code—”
“No.” He turned to the newspapers that were printed late the prior night.
There wouldn’t be any errors on the flimsy pages. Elaine saw to that with the same level of precision that Marcel himself applied. Her attention to detail was what made her such a good apprentice, and she knew it.
“We do coded messages all the time,” she countered.
“Not to arrange for relocation to America.” He continued to study the papers, flicking through the top fifty or so.
His disinclination to agree wasn’t indicative of cruelty by any means. In the months Elaine worked with Marcel, he faced many hard decisions. Through it all, his choices were for what bettered the newspaper first and foremost, and the greater population after that.
She also knew him well enough to understand this was an argument she would not win. “I’ll see if someone in the Maquis can help, perhaps.”
He hummed with distracted agreement. “You will need to find another place for them to stay.” He straightened from the stack of papers, his fingertips shaded with a dusting of ink. “They cannot remain here.”
All the safe houses Elaine had spent time in rushed back to her, the desolate locations with sparse furnishings that reeked of solitude and despondency. The ones whose brusque hosts hurried her out in the morning just after curfew, before anyone else walked the streets. All those options were no place for a family. Not for a small boy with big hazel eyes filled with ready trust.
“I can ask Manon,” Elaine volunteered.
Marcel lifted a brow. “Do your personalities not suit?”
Quite the opposite. They were both content to be left to their own demons in the tidy apartment. There was respect between them in that they never asked probing questions of one another, but they certainly had not bonded. That was yet another social relic of times before the occupation.
Without waiting for her reply, he marched over to the automatic press to examine the gears and switches, a father checking in on his child after a delayed absence.
“I’m content living with Manon, but I think her apartment would offer more of a home than other options,” Elaine said at last.
“You’ll need to ask Manon if she is willing to take the risk first.” Marcel pulled a rag from the pocket of his coat and wiped off a fresh streak of oil from his hands. “We can provide the necessary papers and ration cards, but you said she has a son…？”
He looked at her pointedly as he asked the question and the realization dawned. Noah would, of course, be circumcised, which couldn’t be hidden with false documents.
“As a father of a boy, I can tell you they aren’t quiet either.” An affectionate smile touched his mouth, the way it always did when he spoke of his family.
Imagining Noah with his pensive, mute stare being rambunctious didn’t seem possible. But then, he had been tired the night before. Perhaps after some rest, he would be terrorizing the world with shouts and jumps as any other child forcefully restrained indoors.
“I’ll speak to Manon and see if I can gather more supplies while I’m out.” Elaine smoothed the wrinkles from her clothes, collected her handbag complete with her broad wallet of black market ration cards in her name, and hooked the shopping basket handle at her elbow. Sarah and Noah had consumed the last of the bread, and there were no other provisions. Doubtless, they would wake hungry for something in their bellies.
As she waited four hours in the queue at the grocer in the hopes of finding a tin of peas or even a little milk, apprehension at her decision twisted in her chest. She could accept the risk of helping Sarah and Noah herself, but was it fair to put Manon in danger?
THIRTEEN
Ava