Page 7 of The Librarian Spy

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.

The officer flexed his hand. “Now.”

“Pardon.” She continued to rifle through nonexistent items at the bottom of her empty handbag. “I cannot seem to find them.”

Many of the Germans who paraded through Lyon did not speak much French. She hoped this was the case now. An inability to communicate might be her saving grace.

The gray of the officer’s eyes was like cold metal. “You do not have them?” he asked in perfect French.

Her stomach dropped. “I thought I did.” She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug and tried a pretty smile.

His expression did not soften. “You do not have your papers?”

Rather than acknowledge she did not, she turned her attention to her handbag once more and began to rummage. His hand shot out and caught her arm in a steely grip that pinched her skin.

She cried out in surprise. Her gaze flicked to the three men on the other side of the street in time to see them scuttle away, leaving no witnesses.

Cowards.

“If you do not have your papers, you are under arrest,” the German said in his immaculate French.

“Elaine,” a voice called out.

Hélène and the officer both looked to the breathless man jogging toward them, holding an identity card aloft.

Etienne.

“Elaine,” he chided. “You have left this at home yet again.” To the Nazi, he gave an easy, apologetic smile. “Women are more concerned about how they look when they leave the house than they are about having all their necessary papers.”

The Nazi officer gave him an irritated glower and held out his free hand for the papers Etienne extended toward him.

Hélène inwardly cringed, waiting to see what the officer would do to her when he realized it was not her identity card he had been given. The Nazi flicked the cover open one-handed, revealing an identity card for a woman named Elaine Rousseau whose picture was indeed Hélène.