“I’m just lucky Françoise is a midwife.” Who also works with the local resistance circuit. I can only hope she is not out blowing up railway tracks when I go into labour. “I should get moving.”
“I’ll help you with the valise.”
We leave the flat and walk downstairs. Nosy Madame Blanchet peers out her front door. I’m positive she is a Nazi collaborator. She has asked me more questions than I would like, including ones about the father of my baby. My new cover has me as a widow again, only this time my husband was ineligible to fight in the war and recently died due to his declining health, but not before he got me with child. Lise is my cousin.
Outside, I walk one way, carrying my valise. Lise heads in the opposite direction for her meeting with the leader of thePirouettenetwork. I haven’t met him and likely won’t. They don’t want to take that risk after what happened to theCashmerenetwork. I have no idea if he’s aware of my impending motherhood or if he’d even care if he did know.
Despite my winter coat, the cold February wind bites at my skin. The coat was far from new when I got it, the fabric worn in places, but it’s better than nothing. Even prior to the war, it would have been big on me. Now, it drowns my slight frame, but it has the additional benefit of hiding my pregnant state, if I wish.
I keep walking along the cobbled street, ever vigilant of my surroundings. I have always been that way since coming to this country, but after my arrest, I’ve become even more so. It is one of the few times when I don’t let my thoughts drift to Johann and how much I miss him.
I disappear down a side street that sees little foot traffic and continue until I get to the third door on the left—the back door to a business that was abandoned a year ago due to the war. I glance around the area. Reassured I haven’t been followed or watched, I unlock the door and slip inside the building.
I descend the dingy stairs to the basement where the printing press is set up. The room is dimly lit and cold, and no less depressing than the world outside the brick walls.
“Bonjour,” I say to Armand as he looks up from the machine. As always, Conrad is standing guard in the doorway. The tall, imposing man doesn’t talk much. He gives me the standard nod in greeting.
“I have a new leaflet to be printed.” Leaflet writing is one of my tasks in thePirouettenetwork, along with distribution. I slip a sheet of paper from the secret compartment in my handbag and hand it to Armand.
He reads it. “Alright. I’ll do that now.” He gets to work setting up the printing press that creates the propaganda leaflets.
“How are you doing?” he asks after a few minutes. His gaze lands briefly on my belly hidden under my coat. He is one of the few people in the network who knows about my pregnant status—that I know of.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Why don’t you sit down? Rest while you can. You won’t have the opportunity once the baby is born.” He knows what he’s talking about. He has a toddler.
“Thank you.” I sit on the wooden chair a few feet from the press and wrap my coat tighter to myself. The basement isn’t any warmer than it is outside. I can’t imagine many buildings are much warmer, given the lack of heating these days. “Is there any news?”
He doesn’t look at me, his attention on the metal letters he’s placing on the press. “I’m sorry. Nothing substantial. There are whisperings about a man who could fit the description you gave me. And if it is him, then he’s alive. But that’s all I know. I sent a message to him that you are safe. I have no idea if he received it.”
“Thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
“You care about this man,non?”
I rest my hand on my belly. “Very much.”
“Well, I hope you get to see him again soon.”
All I can do is pray the man he’s talking about is Johann and my love is doing well. But that is the problem with rumours. They can fill you with hope and they can take it away, but at the end of the day, it’s hard to know if there is any truth to them.
I’ve reread Johann’s letter so many times in the past two months, I am surprised the ink is still readable and the paper doesn’t disintegrate in my hands.
I glance at Conrad, but he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to our conversation. The only thing I know about him is that he’s a communist and barely escaped from being rounded up as a political prisoner. The fate of an English operative and a political prisoner is the same once caught by the Milice or the Nazis. Neither of us will get to live to see the end of the war if that should happen.
If I am caught again, I won’t be as lucky as I was last time. I flex and extend the fingers of my damaged hand, reminding myself how fortunate I am. If not for Johann, the least of my problems would be how badly my hand aches in the cold weather and how much dexterity I have lost.
Armand prints the leaflets for me.
“Thank you. And this…” I remove another piece of paper from my handbag and pass it to him. “This is to be included in your next newspaper.”
He reads the article, which contains an update about the war, and nods. “I should have room for that.”
I place the leaflets in my valise and cover them with the few pieces of clothing in there. The clothing won’t deceive the Germans should they stop me and search the valise’s contents. But the clothing is enough to deceive the Germans should they only give the contents a cursory glance.
Armand gives me a copy of today’s newspaper. This isn’t the version he prints, with the truth about the war and the Allies successes. This newspaper is filled with Nazi propaganda.
I put several leaflets inside it, placing them far enough in so they’re secure, and slip the folded newspaper into my handbag.
