Page 66 of The Librarian Spy

It was hope.

SIXTEEN

Elaine

The effort of putting everything at risk for the coded message had been in vain. Two weeks passed and still not one person had answered Elaine’s call for aid. At least Marcel had begun speaking to her again.

They argued over the matter for some time, but after she asked how he would feel if it was his wife and child, his protests floundered. Not only did he accept that she had done the right thing, he also agreed to allow her to place new sets of code in the next issues until someone offered assistance.

Truthfully, Elaine had been heartily disappointed when no one came to her after the first few days of the newspaper’s release. With taking such a risk, she’d been certain there would have been a brave soul willing to step forward.

While Elaine’s own optimism was somewhat dimmed by the lack of an immediate response, she did not share her reaction with Sarah, whose hope remained firmly in place.

Not that Elaine could fault her when she herself harbored her own secret wishes for Joseph’s miraculous survival. That the informant had been mistaken, that somewhere he was still alive, dreaming of her the way she dreamed of him, waiting for the day they could be reunited.

In the weeks Manon housed the mother and child, color had blossomed back into her pallid cheeks and smiles occasionally reached her eyes. Witnessing those glimpses of momentary joy was like watching the sun break through on a streak of cloudy days. True, the bedroom in the warehouse did not carry the comforts Elaine had grown used to, but the effects of Sarah and Noah on Manon were well worth the sacrifice.

Those were the times to be celebrated, the wisps of joy in an otherwise gray and painful world for Elaine.

December frosted over the chill of November, its dark days all the bleaker under the shroud of Elaine’s mourning. The work kept her busy, yes, but nothing seemed to fill the chasm in her soul left by Joseph’s death.

The following day would be the Fête des Lumières, a day to honor the Virgin Mary for having saved Lyon from the plague in the seventeenth century. Every year since, a procession was held for the virgin—dubbed the Lady of Lyon—in gratitude.

Elaine recalled one December she and Joseph vacationed in Lyon, before the Nazi occupation, when the river sparkled with thousands of lights and vendors called out to the crowds. Their kiosks were filled with cups of rich coffee and paper cones with frites straight from the fryer, crusted with granules of salt and steaming in the icy air when broken in half.

Across the Rhône, the houses stacked upon one another in pastel pinks and yellows and blues and at the peak’s crest, the statue of the virgin stood proud and tall on the Basilica of Fourvière. Joseph had wrapped his arms around her, his warmth enfolding her, his spicy scent even more comforting. That’s when the first set of fireworks shot into the night and sprinkled downward, their brilliance reflected on the choppy surface of the river. On and on they came as dozens of fireworks turned the sky to smoke and called to attention how the Lady of Lyon remained forever lit atop the basilica as she guarded them all below.

Elaine tried to hold on to the memory for as long as possible, but it swept from her thoughts, blown away like the billows of smoke from the fireworks that long ago night.

Such celebrations were a lifetime ago. Those quiet moments with Joseph seemed even further away. Elaine could not help but wonder if some felt the Lady of Lyon had abandoned their once hallowed city, leaving the Lyonnaise to be ravaged by starvation and fear amid the pall cast by the bloodred Nazi flag.

Especially with so many mourning the loss of their loved ones. As she did now with Joseph.

She had a job to do. The impending task jostled her from her reverie.

A glance at her watch confirmed it was nearly nine fifteen at night, the time Radio Londres broadcast from London.

The delicate watch was a Type 18 model from LIP, who had been making watches since the beginning of the nineteenth century. The band was a textured brown leather with an elegant, gold-plated rectangular face and had been a wedding present from Joseph. Until recently, she only wore it on occasion, like jewelry—depending on her outfit—otherwise it remained safely tucked away in its fine case.

Now the accessory had become a permanent fixture. Somehow just knowing Joseph thought of her when he picked it out, how gently his fingers moved over the slender strap as he helped her attach it to her wrist the first time, the way he always gave her a proud smile when she wore it—those were memories that brought her comfort.

The minute hand on the rectangular face settled on 9:15.

She leaned over her desk and fiddled with the knob to adjust the tuning as much as was possible. No matter how perfectly someone shifted the needle to the precise location, the message was still partially obscured by a sharp, warbling whine, Vichy’s paltry attempt at blocking London’s messages when forbidding people from listening had proved pointless.

“Ici Londres...” the voice began in a timbre distinct enough to be heard over the obnoxious background. “Before we begin, please listen to some personal messages.”

Elaine sat up, her pen poised over a piece of paper, ready to quickly scribe the nonsensical statements to follow, communications meant for the Resistance. Some for their Combat group, others for those throughout France, and some meant for no one at all, simply added to throw off enemies trying to break the code.

“Jean has a long mustache.”

“Cats are in a field of lavender.”

“Grandma found a large carrot.”

A string of similarly ridiculous proclamations followed. Marcel and Antoine were the only ones who could decode the phrases into the pertinent details needed. When the “personal messages” on Radio Londres ended, the usual program decrying Germany’s false news followed. The information shared on that general, uncoded broadcast was integral for the articles in their underground newspapers. Not only to counter the disinformation and propaganda, but also to call more French citizens to their ranks. In recent issues, they urged Resistants to look to Corsica’s example, the island that rose up with the Allies and, after twenty-five days of battle, was finally liberated.

Corsica had been a beacon breaking through turbulent seas, a beam of light that shot through the darkness to keep them all from crashing onto the rocks of despair. If Corsica could be wrested from Hitler’s fist, so too could France.