I leave the basement room and head for the university library. Like earlier, no one appears to be following me. I slip into the building and go to the science section. A few people are in the area, sitting at the tables, but no one seems to pay attention to me or my valise. Had this been Paris, my bags would have been searched before I was permitted to enter the building.
I open the valise, grab a stack of leaflets, and slip them into random books throughout the bookshelf. All the leaflets I left here two weeks ago have been removed. Each was taken by a member of the resistance circuit in the area and contained information needed to execute the latest round of sabotage. Only members of the circuit understand the instructions. The leaflets are meaningless should they fall into enemy hands. The French Milice won’t have any idea where the attack will occur. They won’t be able to ambush the men and women executing the plans.
I repeat the same task in several other sections of the library. Afterwards, I walk towards my flat, stopping at a park on the way to sit and catch my breath. I find an empty bench overlooking a garden that currently lacks any sign of life. I unbutton my coat, revealing my rounded belly.
I don’t have to pretend that I am tired. The lack of food, my pregnancy, and the constant moving around my job entails takes a lot out of me. The amount of sleep I get each night isn’t ideal either. I no longer have nightmares about the Gestapo going after my sister. Now, I’m forced to relive my arrest, my nightmares twisting it into something more horrific.
A tiny hand or a foot pokes at my side. I rest my damaged hand over the spot and smile softly at my daughter, sending her all my love. Once she has settled again, I slip the newspaper from my purse and pretend to read a story on the front cover. Then I place the paper next to me on the bench and yawn.
“Beautiful day for a walk, isn’t it?” a familiar female voice says.
I turn to find Lise approaching the bench with a tall, good-looking man who appears as exhausted as the majority of French inhabitants. His blond hair is a little on the long side and he’s carrying a walking stick. From the way they smile at each other, I would think they were lovers. But I know Lise does not have anyone special in her life, neither here nor in England.
I push to my feet. It’s harder to do that now than it was a month ago.
Lise and I air-kiss.
“Henri, this is my cousin, Éve,” she explains, introducing me to him with my new alias.
I recognise his name. The man is the head of thePirouettenetwork. And now he knows I’m pregnant. It’s unlikely he’s missed that detail.
“Enchanté, Éve.” His gaze drops to my bump, now hidden under my coat, and his eyebrow raises in question. “Lise never mentioned you’re pregnant.”
Lise giggles, but I cannot tell if it is real or faked. “Oh, heavens. I cannot imagine how I forgot that little detail. Silly me.”
“Does Mother Goose know about it?” he asks, Mother Goose being our code name for Baker Street.
I shrug, the rise of my shoulders barely noticeable under my coat. “I did mention it to my friend prior to his disappearance. I don’t know if he told Mother Goose.”
“And the father?” Henri looks around as if expecting the man to magically appear. He shares a glance between Lise and me, waiting for an explanation.
“I don’t know where he is. It’s likely he has gone underground.” The last part is spoken quietly.
“Is he aware that he’s going to be a parent?”
“He is. He just doesn’t know where to find me. We got separated after he helped me with my situation.” I lift my bad hand, indicating what situation I’m talking about.
Henri was apprised of what happened to my hand when I first joined his network. I told Lise that Johann was the one who rescued me. She knows about our love story. I don’t know how much of it she has recounted to Henri.
I suspect he knows a lot more about the situation than he is letting on.
“You do live a complicated life, Éve.”
A small smile curves my lips and heat flushes my wind-kissed cheeks. “I certainly do.”
“Lise and I should get moving. But you should know that Christian is no longer a problem. He was captured last week and executed.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, beaming broadly as if Henri just told us a great joke. I don’t feel an ounce of remorse at how Christian’s life ended.
“It was nice to meet you, Éve,” Henri says, the signal we need to go our separate ways so not to draw the wrong kind of attention.
It’s also the perfect cover for forgetting my newspaper on the park bench.
A cut-out will pick it up shortly. Her job is to pass it to one of the resistance circuit members responsible for propaganda, who will distribute the leaflets inside the newspaper to the appropriate parties. It’s not blowing up railway tracks and tunnels or attending parachute drops like I was doing before, but it is still a necessary task in the fight for freedom.
34
JESSICA
