“And our message is . . .”
“That not everybody in France is willing to collaborate with the enemy. That plenty of us are still fighting, with no plans to stop.”
“Tell me what I can do.”
Luc holds up the envelope he got from the box.
“These tracts are printed with De Gaulle’s cross. You can spread these everywhere you can, in places where people will find them. On the metro. In mailboxes. In your school lavatory. And you must make it all happen without being seen. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
I shall have to find a way to do all this without my family growing suspicious.
Instead of handing me the envelope, Luc slides his chair even closer to mine, so that our knees are almost touching. When he looks into my eyes again, it’s with a level of intensity I didn’t even think was possible. His gaze fills every corner of my soul.
“This is dangerous, Adalyn. The Nazis arrested teenagers for marching on Armistice Day. Took them to prison, beat them, made them stand outside all night in the rain. They lined some of the them up and made them think they were going to be executed. They could do the same to us. Or worse. If you have any hesitation—any at all—you can leave now. I wouldn’t think less of you.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You’re going to have to be careful. If they catch you, they’ll do whatever it takes to get information out of you. And you can’t tell a soul what you’re doing—do you understand that? Not a soul. Not your family. Not even people you think are loyal to our cause. Paris is crawling with Nazi informants.”
I swallow hard. “I can keep a secret,” I say firmly.
He searches my face one last time. I let him. I need him to know how badly I want this. Then, finally, he hands me the envelope, and I tuck it inside my book bag. I straighten up.
Luc smiles for the first time since I arrived, and I feel my own shoulders relax. I didn’t even realize they were up by my ears. I passed the test. I’m in. I’m a part of something bigger than myself, bigger than angry diary entries and torn-down posters. It’s like the tension has evaporated from Luc’s body, too. He springs to his feet, strides to the door on the far wall—the one we didn’t come in from—and gives it three short raps. It bursts open from the other side, and there is Arnaud, grinning and rosy-cheeked in the cold evening air.
“You’re one of us!” he cries, and my heart swells.
“Were you standing out there the whole time?”
“I was waiting for Luc’s signal,” he says. “It was three knocks if he approved of you, two if he sent you packing.”
I turn to Luc, beaming. I suppose I should be afraid right now, but I feel almost drunk on excitement.
“Thanks for not sending me packing.”
“It’s my pleasure, Adalyn,” Luc replies. When he says my name like that—with such confidence—I feel a jolt of excitement in my chest that has nothing to do with the assignment he’s just given me. Being around Luc makes me nervous, but at the same time, I’d like to stay in this strange room and talk to him for hours. Which reminds me:
“Luc, where are we right now?”
“My parents’ store,” he says. “They’ve always let me use this place to do whatever I want while they’re working.”
“Do they know what you’re doing here now?”
He shakes his head.
“They think I’m just back here with friends.”
“Little do they know you’re stuck back here with two people you absolutely can’t stand,” Arnaud chimes in, throwing his arm around Luc’s shoulder. Luc laughs and musses his friend’s hair affectionately. Then he clears his throat and jams his hands into his pockets. He’s back to business.
“You two get going,” Luc says. “Remember, Adalyn: Don’t say a word to anybody.”
Arnaud holds open the door for me. It’s like I’m stepping out into the world as a new person. I lock eyes with Luc one last time before I leave for the night.
“And what shall I do when I’m done?”
“You’ll come back here and let me know.”
His voice is like a sip of tea that warms me from the inside out.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Good luck.”
As the sky goes purple and pink in the fading daylight, Arnaud walks me back toward the Right Bank. It used to be the time of night when Paris would truly become the City of Lights. Now it’s the time when Parisians hurry home to drag the curtains over their windows. It’s all so very quiet. People roll past us on bicycles, now that we haven’t any cars left in the city. Exhausted housewives trudge home with vacant expressions after another fruitless day at the markets. Now that I’ve left the whirlwind of the shoe store and settled back down onto land, the very real, very terrifying questions start to creep into my mind. Things I wanted to ask Luc but didn’t, for fear of seeming afraid. He said that if the Nazis catch me, they’ll do “whatever it takes” to get information from me. Would they torture me? Or worse—and this thought really makes me feel sick—would they harm my family? As the panic mounts behind the brass fasteners on my coat, I interrupt the story Arnaud is telling about his two younger brothers.
“Arnaud, do you think I’ll end up arrested?”
He snorts. “I think we’ll all end up arrested.”
I stop in my tracks as the reality of what I’ve just committed to sinks in. What on earth am I doing, toting around these anti-German tracts?
“Don’t look so gloomy!” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “It’ll all be worth it in the end.”
When still I refuse to move, Arnaud says, “Come on, I’ll buy you an ice cream.”
Sure enough, I start walking again, but then I realize his mistake.
“There’s hardly anywhere to buy ice cream in Paris anymore,” I point out.
“Ah, right you are,” Arnaud concedes. “Well then. Ice cream’s on me when this goddamn war is over.”
I scatter the tracts.
I carry them with me everywhere, hiding them in my shopping basket and the pages of my schoolbooks, waiting for a chance to drop them without anybody seeing. Just the other day, on a crowded metro platform, I left a stack of them sitting on a bench! The papers are nothing, just a sheet with De Gaulle’s cross inked in the middle, and yet they are everything to me.
Unfortunately, the work is slow going, as it’s hard to get time alone. I’m with Chloe on my way to and from school, and in the evenings I’m in the apartment. If only Charlotte or Simone were still here, I could at least feign plans with one of them; instead, I must cram all my work into the hours I’m out fetching rations alone.
Yesterday I returned from the market triumphantly, the last of the papers slipped into housewives’ shopping baskets when they weren’t looking. I’m ready to see Luc for more, but that will mean sneaking back to the Latin Quarter without Maman and Papa wondering where I’ve gone. Even if I ride my bicycle or take the train, I shall still be gone for at least an hour in the evening.
Sitting in a history class I’m only half paying attention to, I make up my mind that I want to do it tonight. I cannot put it off any longer. If I sit around waiting for the perfect opening in my schedule, Luc may think I’ve lost interest in our cause, so when classes let out, I meet Chloe on the front steps of the school and tell her I can’t walk home with her today.
“There’s a really big history test coming up, and a few of us are getting together to review,” I say calmly. Inside, I feel terrible for lying.
Chloe puts her hand on her hip. “Can’t Papa help you study?”
Improvising, I tell her, “He doesn’t know this material very well. It isn’t the Revolution or Napoleon. It’s medieval stuff.”
“You could also not study at all,” Chloe points out. “Your perfect grades are making the rest of us look bad.”
We both laugh, and I know I’ve pulled it off.
“I’ll see you soon, okay? I won’t be gone long.”
“Oka
y. I’ll miss you on the walk home.” She frowns at the Germans patrolling with a big brown bulldog nearby. “You help take my mind off les boches.”
“If Papa isn’t asleep already, let’s play songs when I get back. You can sing, and I’ll accompany you.”
“I’d love that. Although be warned,” she says with a note of sarcasm, “my choir teacher said I sounded ‘screechy’ today.”
“‘Screechy’? You’re never screechy. I promise.”
“Thank you. I told her she was wrong.” Chloe smiles and shoulders her book bag. “She should have agreed with me instead of sending me out into the hall. Anyway, I’ll see you at home, Adalyn.”
“See you, Chloe.”
I watch Chloe until her blond head disappears around the corner at the end of the street, and then I turn on my heel and hurry to the nearest metro station. It’s going to be tough coming up with a different excuse every time I go to Luc’s—not only because I’ll have to get creative, but because I hate keeping secrets from my sister. She’s safer this way, I remind myself.
When no one is looking, I scurry down the alley to the right of the purple awning. Arnaud said I could go around the back this time. He also taught me the special knock they do on the door: one hard rap, followed by five that are light and quick. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. A minute goes by while I worry that Luc isn’t here, that I wasted a perfectly good studying excuse for nothing, but then he opens the door. His dark brown eyes glitter as though he was hoping to find me here.
I hear boys’ voices in the room behind him.
“Adalyn,” he says. My name sounds like music when it’s in his voice. A rich baritone.
I have to get straight to the point—I’m too excited to keep it in. “I finished, Luc. I came back for more.”
“Excellent,” he says. “Come in, we just made a fresh batch last week.”
Luc steps aside so I can enter. It’s more crowded than the last time I was here, owing to the presence of two boys I haven’t met yet. One is tall, gangly, and curly-haired, a human dandelion. The other is small and baby-faced. They’re seated around a table with Arnaud—or at least they were, for as soon as I walk into the room, Arnaud leaps out of his chair.
“Adalyn! I was worried I scared you off last time.”
“I managed not to get arrested yet,” I joke.
Luc motions to the gangly boy with the curls and says, “This is Pierre-Henri.” Pierre-Henri performs a mock military salute, and we both giggle—the drunken excitement has definitely returned. Then Luc motions to the small boy, who’s already grinning and waving. “This is Marcel,” he says. “The four of us go to school together. We started meeting in September to talk about the war, share any broadcasts or pamphlets we’ve come across, make plans to resist however we can . . . that sort of thing.”
“We’re essentially trying not to go mad,” Arnaud chimes in.
Luc smiles. “Exactly,” he says. “And Marcel’s dad has a mimeograph machine he smuggled out of his print shop before the Germans closed it down, so we’ve been able to make our tracts, as you know.”
I nod, trying to take it all in. My brain is buzzing with new information.
“Boys, this is Adalyn,” Luc continues. He sounds like a captain addressing his lieutenants. “Arnaud found her tearing down posters of the Führer—”
“Actually, she found me,” Arnaud says, holding up his index finger. He and I exchange a knowing grin.
“Adalyn has been helping spread our papers around the city, and she’s excellent at avoiding detection,” Luc says. “She’s an asset.”
An asset, he called me. I look down at my hands. I suppose I am an asset, the way the Germans never suspect me. . . .
“Welcome to the team!” Marcel chirps.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
“We’re happy you’re here,” says Pierre-Henri. “I know our tracts don’t seem like much, but trust me, it feels good to do something.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
My heart swells. Marcel and Pierre-Henri barely know who I am, but they welcomed me in immediately. It’s clear that Luc, the most serious of the bunch, is the unofficial leader here. They must trust his vetting process.
“We meet here every Monday,” Luc says. “You should join us whenever you can.”
“I’ll be here,” I answer immediately, even though I still haven’t worked out how I’m going to pull it off. Getting down here every Monday, on top of sneaking around spreading tracts? That’s a lot of time outside the apartment, and it’s especially suspicious nowadays, with the city making everyone so claustrophobic. People don’t go outside unless they have to.
Luc pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down with them. Only now do I notice the random assortment of novels strewn across the table.
“They’re a decoy,” Luc says without my having to ask. He must have been watching my face. “If anyone finds us and asks questions, we can say we’re a book club.”
“It was my idea,” Marcel says proudly.
The group falls naturally into conversation, and I drink it all in. I’ve been parched for so long, holding my tongue around Chloe so she won’t be emboldened; around Papa so he won’t become nervous; around Maman because she trusts in Pétain and wants to think positively.
The boys talk about the possibility of getting their tracts across the demarcation line, from Occupied to Unoccupied Zones.
“They need ’em more down there than they do up here,” says Pierre-Henri.
“Why is that?” asks Marcel.
“Because their streets aren’t crawling with les boches. Up here, the Germans do half the propaganda work for us.”
Arnaud’s wristwatch catches my eye; I’ve been gone for nearly two hours now. “I need to start heading home,” I whisper to Luc, so as not to disrupt the others’ conversation. “I don’t want my parents to ask questions.”
Luc nods. He gets up, goes to the boxes, and returns with another envelope. My next batch of deliveries.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
The intensity in his gaze makes it hard to look away, but I tuck the tracts into my book bag, say farewell to the others, and exit through the back door into the dark and bitterly cold evening.
Our elderly concierge is like a cat, in that he naps for the majority of the day. When I let myself into the building, the thud of the front door jolts him awake; he blinks, looks left and right, and finally locates the source of the noise.
“Miss Bonhomme,” he says sleepily, “a letter for you.”
“Thank you, Gilles.”
When he hands me the envelope, I immediately recognize the slanted cursive of my piano teacher, Mathilde, who’s been living with an aunt in the Free Zone since May. In truth, I haven’t missed our twice-weekly lessons all that much; she’s very strict, rapping my wrists with a ruler when I don’t have them lifted enough, which takes the joy right out of playing. That’s why I prefer practicing on my own. As I walk up the stairs, I open the envelope and read Mathilde’s message.
Dear Adalyn,
I hope that this message finds you and your family well. I am writing to inform you of my decision to remain with my aunt here in Avignon for the foreseeable future. She is unwell and in need of care, and in any case, it isn’t easy obtaining an Ausweis in order to travel. I regret that our lessons must come to an end, but trust that you shall find time to keep up with it on your own.
Sincerely,
Mathilde
The apartment smells like roasting meat, and Maman is setting the table for dinner when I walk through the door with the letter in my hand. I stop under the dining room archway to say hello, like normal. Like I haven’t just come from a secret meeting in the Latin Quarter.
“How was studying, my darling?”
“Quite helpful. Thanks, Maman.”
She looks at me adoringly, and I feel rather guilty for lying to her.
“Did someone sen
d you a letter?” Maman asks, noticing the piece of paper.
“Mathilde,” I reply.
“Oh! Did she say when she’ll be returning?”
“It sounds as though she won’t be coming back to Paris,” I tell her. “She says she’s staying in the south to care for her aunt.”
Maman stops positioning silverware and puts her hands on her hips. “I feared this might happen,” she says with a sigh. “What are we to do about your lessons? We really ought to find you somebody else. . . .”
And then the plan comes to me, fully formed and perfect. A simple idea that could make my whole new life possible. Before I say anything more, I slide the letter into my pocket so Maman won’t think to reach for it.
“Mathilde actually referred me to a new teacher,” I lie. “She’s a wealthy widow who gives lessons for free—she’s just happy to play the piano with somebody. She can take me on Mondays and Wednesdays, just like before. Mathilde already made the arrangements.”
Maman looks surprised. “That is very kind of her.”
“It is, isn’t it? She says it’s important I continue my lessons.”
Maman walks around the table, and I panic that the jig is up. She’s going to ask to see the letter, and she’ll see that Mathilde made no such arrangements. But instead, she lays her cool hand on my cheek.
“I agree with Mathilde,” she says with a smile. “You have a real talent, darling.”
“Thank you, Maman. I’m looking forward to going.”
“Good,” she says, smoothing my hair. “Now go wash up for dinner. I paid an arm and a leg for this chicken tonight.”
Later that night, when everyone else has gone to sleep, I creep into the kitchen with Mathilde’s note tucked inside my nightclothes. As quietly as I can, I open the door of the stove, prod the dying embers until they glow red, and place some fresh coal on top of them.
Kneeling on the floor, hoping that no one comes in, I manage to conjure up a small, bright flame. Next to it I put the letter, the only proof that my piano teacher didn’t, in fact, arrange any new lessons for me.
The Paper Girl of Paris Page 6
