An icy blast of wind made the tip of her nose burn and her eyes sting. She squinted as much as possible to minimize the discomfort while still allowing herself to see a slit of the street in front of her without crashing into a wall or falling off a curb. Easier said than done in the darkness of early winter sunsets.
The trams were down from a Resistance attack earlier that day. There was nothing for it but to walk. She would not have the newspaper late on her account.
Hurried along by the gusts, she rushed to the drop location on the outskirts of Croix-Rousse. The courtyard of the building inside was empty and dark. But then, winter was such a bleak time. Branches were stripped of their leaves to reveal skeletal limbs beneath and the sky was cast in a flat gray that reflected on the Rh?ne, washing the world in a bland, colorless existence.
A dim light shone on a corridor containing the buildings’ post boxes, only just illumining the dank open space cradled inside the building.
In the corner of the courtyard was a crate one might use to cart about goods or stand on to peer into a window. The wooden box seemed to have been there so long, the boards were stained dark with age and sagged in against themselves, a thick smattering of mud and grit coating the outside. Elaine slipped into the heavy shadow near the wall, lifted the crate to reveal the dry earth beneath and carefully set the papers within. When she withdrew her hand, her fingertips came away damp and filthy with a black and green organic substance she didn’t care to place.
She rubbed her hands together to clean them as best she could. Her surroundings were desolate—the chipped walls, the alcove with only one bare bulb, the illumination almost drown out by an eclipse of moths.
Something in the distance clicked and the light went out, blanketing her in a momentarily disorienting darkness.
In that instant, she was entirely alone in the cold blackness of the world.
The enormity of her sorrow swelled inside her, absent any warmth or life. In that moment, the courtyard became a direct reflection of her own soul, bearing the agony of her pain, of her grief. She stumbled back into the street and struggled to drag in a breath of air even as it burned in her lungs. By habit more than intent, she lifted her watch to find it was very nearly eight at night.
Radio Londres would be airing soon after her return if she hurried back. There might be more detail given on Sarah and Noah.
The thought roused her to her senses, tugging her up from the doldrums by her bootstraps.
“Halt.”
She spun around to find a German officer directly behind her.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in French.
“I was visiting a friend,” she said even as her mind tried to catch up with the lie her mouth expelled.
“A friend.” His narrowed eyes glittered in the darkness like something evil and soulless. “This building has been emptied, all the occupants arrested this afternoon.”
“That would explain why my friend was not home,” she replied smoothly, her pulse pounding. “What have they done that everyone would be taken?”
But even as she feigned ignorance, she knew. Fear prickled at her scalp and screamed for her to run. Several months before, she might have been able to. Before Corsica won the battle for its freedom from the Nazi oppressors.
Now, the Germans shot without question, bathing the streets in blood with their determination to maintain their viselike grip on France.
The officer called to someone in German. A fresh-faced boy-soldier who barely looked old enough to shave emerged from the shadows beyond a streetlamp’s perfect circle of yellow light.
“Go inside and see if any messages have been placed within.” The officer spoke in French, purposefully wanting her to have understood him.
Elaine used all her willpower to school her face into a bland expression, refusing to betray the fear vibrating through her. If they found the papers, she would be dead.