The people her mother met with said Marie-Louise was perfect for the job of agent de liaison, like a courier. She was too young to be questioned. Too small to be suspected. The rules for her were simple: Carry. Nothing else. Don’t read. Don’t question. Don’t speak. Be brave.
Her routes were never the same, although the destinations often were. They took her to a small bookshop near the Latin Quarter, the back door of a café by the Seine, or a rundown bakery in Montmartre. Each place was a lifeline, a point of contact where the Resistance could safely exchange information. But the locations frequently had to change without warning.
She knew every delivery was extremely important and could be lifesaving. At times she was given posters, or leaflets printed in secret basements and backrooms. Carefully hidden in the pages of newspapers or school books, or in laundry baskets or the hollowed-out frames of bicycles, they would be distributed discreetly. Kids could appear to be going to school or ride past checkpoints without suspicion, particularly in the early years.
On the way home, her task complete, sometimes she took it as a challenge to change things up. Sometimes she dawdled, played hopscotch, looked in windows, went the wrong direction, had secret shortcuts.
For the most part, she learned to move fast, to stay alert. The streetlights cast long shadows, and every face seemed to carry the weight of suspicion. The Germans had begun raiding homes more often, rounding up anyone they suspected of Resistance activity.
Although so young, she could feel her neighborhood suffocating, the walls closing in around them all. Quiet was taking over. No one made eye contact. She tried to blend in, sometimes walking at a normal pace, sometimes not. Always with her heart pounding. She sensed danger around every corner.
Messages were often hidden in her school satchel or sewn into her clothing by her mother’s skillful hands. Notes from the bakery might be inside buns or a loaf. Before her shoes fell apart, in the heel or insole. From time to time, all she was given was a coded scribble in her notebook.
She had described her first frightening interaction to Nora.
One night, snow had begun to fall. Not soft, fluffy flakes but sharp, icy pellets that hurt her face. She tightened her coat against the wind and pulled her scarf higher. Her fingers, red and cracked, gripped the strap of her satchel.
Her mother had carefully stitched the message into the hem of her coat.
She walked with her head down against the elements. Then she heard someone say, “Halt.”
Two German soldiers. Young, with cold eyes and rifles across their backs. One was already stepping toward her, his palm raised. He demanded her identity papers. “Papière.”
She reached into her coat pocket, hands shaking slightly. She’d memorized this routine: present forged papers, smile politely, don’t run. Running was death.
The soldier looked her over—first her face, then her worn-out shoes, then her bag. He didn’t give the papers back.
He pointed to her satchel, and she told him it was for bread she was to pick up at her aunt’s shop.
She passed him the satchel slowly, eyes on the ground. Her heart thudded in her ears, loud enough she thought they might hear it.
Bread crusts in a wrapped handkerchief.
He dug deeper, felt around the seams.
She held her breath.
“Nothing,” the soldier grunted to his comrade, shrugging.
But the first man wasn’t done. He passed the bag back to her … and pointed to her coat.
“Take it off.”
Her blood turned to ice.
“What?”
“Off. Now.” His hand went to the strap of his rifle.
She unbuttoned her coat slowly, each button taking an eternity. Her scarf came loose. Her thin frame shivered in the cold.
He looked her over, arms folded. Then he inspected her coat but didn’t see anything. Not under the torn lining near the hem of the coat, where the message was hidden—carefully stitched inside.
He stared at her. For too long.
Then, behind them, a siren howled—the shrill wail of a truck turning onto the Quai. The soldiers turned. Just for a second.
They turned back and waved her on her way.
