Ava was familiar with Combat and Libération, but Biuletyn Informacyjny was a Polish one she hadn’t seen before. The underground prints were easy to identify, not only by their smaller size, but by the single page, printed on the front and back. Even still, with a paper ration on and tight regulations in Nazi occupied areas, it was amazing the clandestine groups were able to find something to print on at all.
The creators of such publications would have to possess ingenuity and be utterly fearless. She often thought of all the people involved after her discussion on the matter with Lamant.
Time was of the essence while she settled them on the table in the embassy to photograph, but she couldn’t stifle her temptation to skim the French and German content. Most especially Combat, whose forthright text appealed to her. There was no prevaricating or added filler to expand an article. It was concise, to the point, and immaculately edited.
Which was why it was so strange to come across not one typo, but several in a recent issue.
The piece was about a series of bombs in factories throughout Lyon impacting Nazi production, the typos dispersed from start to finish.
Like breadcrumbs.
The thought whispered at the back of Ava’s mind, but she brushed it aside as whimsy and aimed the camera to capture the newspaper onto the roll of celluloid.
Mike entered the room with a stack of books. “Get a load of this. I found an entire set of German machinery guides in a stationery shop—that one in Chiado right next to the glove store.” Arms full, he danced a few jitterbug steps and flashed her a wide grin.
“That’s great.” Ava put aside the boxy camera and approached him to examine his find. “May I?”
“I was actually going to ask you to lay your Kraut-reading peepers on this and let me know if it’s as killer-diller as I’m hoping.” He wiggled his head back and forth in a manner that suggested he already knew his hoard would be “killer-diller.”
Ava laughed and held out her hand for the first book. “Let’s see.”
Mike placed the heavy text in her palm, and she drew open the cover. Drawings of machinery were labeled in intricate detail, the parts identified and explained in the sidelines with classic German precision. It was a tragedy that mechanical expertise as advanced as theirs was used for war and genocide when such knowledge could save the world rather than tear it apart.
She nodded in appreciation and took a second book. “This is incredible.”
“Isn’t it nuts to think it was there in a stationery shop?” Mike shook his head incredulously and peered at the newspapers lying beside Ava’s camera. “Are those more secret prints from France?”
“They are,” Ava replied, joining him. “And one from Poland. The engineer whose sister wrote the letter about Vél d’Hiv saved more for me.”
“Nice going,” Mike said with approval. “That’s why you’re so great at this job. You make personal connections. I can be kind of a fathead sometimes, I know.” He held up a hand as if to stop her from protesting his statement, then pointed in the direction of Sims’s office. “And we all know the big cheese isn’t exactly a people-person. But you, you got this, kid.”
It was genuine praise from someone who was deep down a good guy despite his bluster.
“I appreciate that.” Ava’s gaze wandered toward the edition of Combat she’d been photographing.
“Doesn’t hurt that you’re a real dish.” Mike waggled his brows.
Ava rolled her eyes heavenward, and Mike gave a wink that told her he knew how obnoxious he was before returning to his stack of German machinery texts. “I need to hop to it. If I want to get out of here on time tonight, I have to shoot these like crazy.”
Whistling merrily to himself as he was wont to do, he opened one of the books and flexed the binding back, so the spine crackled as its glue splintered apart. Ava’s mouth fell open at such abuse.