No, going to the police was no longer an option.
A glance in the kitchen confirmed only a heel of bread remained, along with the few Jerusalem artichokes Hélène had managed to find the day before. Such limited stores would not be sufficient to get by.
Her stomach, deprived of even a meager supper the night before, gave a low growl of hunger. The food would not last the day, let alone long enough for her to come up with a viable solution.
She would have to go to Etienne once more and see if this time he might be home, for there was no one else she knew well enough to trust for help. Their current world was a lonely one, where people had to be careful what they said, what they did, and with whom they were acquainted. Theirs was a world of enemies, where the occupiers wielded submachine guns and fear while the French had only their empty shopping baskets and the power of forbidden words.
Realizing it would be better to wait until the streets were cluttered with people to avoid arousing suspicion, Hélène boiled the Jerusalem artichokes and ate them with the small heel of bread. Once the sun began to rise, she drew her shopping basket from the shelf along with her handbag, as she would any ordinary day, and left the apartment. She was seldom stopped for her papers and likely would not be troubled that day either. She needed only to act normal.
However, acting normal with one’s heart pounding was a very difficult feat. Initially she walked too fast, the clack of her shoes obvious even to her own ears. She slowed her pace and kept her gaze forward, intent on her purpose in the hopes that she would not be stopped.
She was close to Etienne’s apartment in Croix-Rousse where the streets pitched upward on an incline so steep, that she had to slow down to keep her breath from coming out in great huffs. A fresh smattering of papers lined one wall declaring Viva de Gaulle! Long live de Gaulle, the man who encouraged them all to resist the oppression of the Germans.
A Nazi officer rounded the corner, several feet from Hélène. The rising morning sun reflected off his highly polished black boots and winked at a medal pinned to his chest. His gaze sharpened as he caught sight of the tracts.
With a click of each booted heel on the cobblestones, he strode to the wall and yanked down one of the papers. The illegal note tore off in uneven strips, so only the top came free, and the message clung stubbornly, fully intact. He pulled again, this time succeeding in tearing the words so only a partial “le” remained.
He spun around, his jaw locked. “You. Stop.” A white-haired man at his right did as he was bade.
“Papers,” the officer ordered.
The man fished in his jacket pocket, his movements hindered by the arthritic curl of his fingers as he attempted to withdraw his identity card.
Hélène could be next. If she were caught without her papers, she would have to admit they were lost. She turned the next corner to avoid the irate officer lest she be looked to next. Her heart thudded in her chest with such rapidity that she found breathing suddenly difficult. But she forced herself to keep walking, her steps measured to match those around her.
“Halt.” The voice rang out from behind her.
She continued at her smooth stride.
“Madam,” the guard said in a harsh voice. “Halt.”
The area was unfortunately absent of women, leaving her his only victim. Three men on the other side of the street looked at her from where they stood, mute with the relief not to be the Nazi’s target. In another time, they would have been at her aid, armed with French gallantry and good intentions.
Hélène turned to face the officer. He thrust his hand out, palm up. “Papers.”
She tried to swallow but found her throat too dry. Her handbag felt unnaturally light where it hung on her shoulder, the tangible weight of the papers she’d given away poignantly absent.
“Of course.” She kept her reply casual as she rummaged through her purse. Sweat prickled at her palms despite the damp, cold day.