When the guard came back, an officer alongside him, Marcel faced forward again, like the others on the street.
“Bonjour, Madame...?” the new voice said.
“Curie.” Again, she didn’t miss a beat. “Lucien Vallet’s mother.”
The officer let out a laugh of disbelief. Marcel went stiff... until the man said, “Impossible! You’re far too young to have a son that age.”
Oh, how he wished he could see Vivi’s face. She huffed, but when she said, “I’m not here for flattery,” it sounded mollified. “I just want to gather my son’s laundry. I’ve been told that’s allowed, yes? I have a change of clothes for him here—that’s what I heard we could do, bring a new set, exchange them, launder the old. Here. You need to search them, yes?”
“Of course, of course. I just need you to answer a few questions. Your son’s birthday is...?”
She rattled it off—Zelie had given him everything she knew about Lucien, and since he’d been brought on in the early days, that was quite a bit.
“Born in...?”
Vivi sighed. “Arcachon. Shall I tell you the tale of his birth as well? Twelve hours I labored with that one before—”
“That’s quite all right.” The officer sounded amused, Marcel would grant him that. “One more question. His last employment was what?”
A slight pause, but he had a feeling it was more for effect than anything. “LastIknew, he was in the army. Radio operator. After your people dismissed our army and left my son without a profession, despite it’s all he’d ever been trained to do? I don’t honestly know. I scarcely heard from him after the surrender, aside from a postcard at Christmas, and I intend to give him quite an earful about that if you let me see him.”
A snort of laughter escaped the two guards. “You will not, I’m afraid,” the officer said. “The prisoners aren’t allowedcommunication. But if you come with me,madame, I’ll show you inside to the room where you’ll wait while we have him change his clothes.”
She’d passed the test—good. They had only Anne’s account to go on, and it hadn’t been difficult for her to prove she was Gabriel’s sister given that, well, shewas. Marcel had known bluster would be their best shot at getting in, and Vivi was the queen of bluster.
Anne had warned him that they’d keep her waiting as they meticulously searched the clothing she’d brought with her, so Marcel folded his paper, rose, and strolled to their agreed rendezvous spot—a café a few blocks away.
He wasn’t all that concerned about them finding the cloth-like paper Vivi had sewn into the trousers yesterday while Marcel was meeting with Nicholy. It didn’t crinkle and was so thin it was impossible to detect as “extra” fabric in the cuff. And since she’d taken out both cuffs and rehemmed them, one with their note for him, the other with a blank section of the cloth-paper for him to write on, they wouldn’t note anything odd about the stitches or thread.
According to Anne, they were allowed pens and paper inside, so the writing itself wouldn’t be a problem. But the Nazis confiscated all paper after they’d written on it.
Marcel selected an outdoor table and sat, opening his newspaper again. Their next question had been how to signal Lucien to look for a message. They’d gone for the obvious—Vivi had hemmed the trousers deliberately too short, to encourage him to rip out the seam and lower the cuffs. In addition to the paper, he’d find thread in them—enough to sew his own message back in. They’d put a small needle into the zipper which he would hopefully find and the Nazis wouldn’t.
Not a bad piece of work, and he prayed it was successful.
They wouldn’t know for a week, though, when she would beallowed to come back. So Marcel had hinted to Nicholy that he needed to be called to another meeting, and of course he had to bring his assistant to join him. Nicholy had gotten the idea right away and prepared the official request he’d have to present at the demarcation line.
That was all for later. For now, he prayed as he sipped the coffee he’d ordered that Vivi wouldn’t be found out, that she’d come sashaying up the boulevard any moment.
After an excruciating forty minutes, she did just that, slipping into one of the little chairs with a hint of a smile. She put a cigarette between her lips and lit up. “I should have been in film.”
Marcel strode out of Durand Editions, feeling as though his limbs weighed twice as much as usual. Vivi’s victory last week had been theonlything worth crowing about in the seven days since. He’d failed to roust Blanchet, and worry for the man gnawed at him.
Marcel had sent a message to London while he was in Rouen, checking to see if perhaps the agent was traveling. He could still see their response in his mind.
PINE MARTEN STILL IN PLACE STOP CONFIRMED MESSAGES RECEIVED BY MI6 ON SCHEDULE STOP
But hewasn’t. He wasn’t in Rouen, and none of their agents had seen him anywhere else in Normandy. Had the fellow been compromised? What if... what if he’d been arrested, and the Nazis were using his equipment to feed Alliance false information?
Worry that paired, now, with the weight of dread turned certain. The orchestra’s exemption had been revoked, effective in a few short weeks. All those talented young men he’d been working with for over a year would have to either flee or face the very realpossibility of being sent to a German farm or factory after they finished their October schedule.
This was what France had come to—sending their most talented young artists to serve as laborers abroad, little more than slaves. His fingers curled into his palms.
“Marcel! Hold up.”
He paused at Lothar’s voice, the weight compounding. He had to admit that the Nazi had fought for him, for them. His official pleas were on file and had been included in the report Nicholy read to him. But apparently SS-Sturmbannführer Lothar Von Eberstein was not so high up the chain of command that his opinion on this mattered.
The frown the German wore said he felt the burden too. Strange, that. He jogged up to Marcel, expression taut as he nodded. “I’m sorry,mon ami. I did all I could.”
