Chapter Four #2
“As do I. Although . . . I’ve never been like them. You should know that. I have neither my brother’s daring nor my cousins’ fearlessness.”
At last, those blue eyes lifted, and her gaze met his as he trilled the next notes on the keys. “I don’t need your brother’s daring or your cousins’ fearlessness for this particular task, Marcel.”
“What do you need, then? Exactly?” The words came out normally enough, he hoped. But after he spoke them, his breath hitched in his chest.
How odd it was, to think their lives had so many potential ways to have crossed—at the conservatory, through their brothers, through the colonel even, perhaps. Yet this was the way they’d met, with her recruiting him to some sort of clandestine work.
What if he wasn’t what she needed? He’d never been good at anything but this—music. And though it might make for powerful propaganda, how in the world was he to leverage it?
Zelie stood straighter. She wore a blue dress that made her eyes all the more striking.
From the door he’d noted its fine lines, but up close he could see evidence of wear—the fraying of edges, the leather peeling off the belt.
“I have several things in mind for you. Any would be helpful. But if you can manage them all, then your country will be forever in your debt.”
Though the Ravel piece went on for several more minutes, he brought it to a quick close and let his hands go still on the keys. “Well, you have my attention.”
“The government in Vichy is eager to convince the people it’s building up France, not just catering to the Nazis.”
A snort slipped out. Even in the few letters he and his compatriots had received, the facts shared about Pétain’s puppet government, housed in the resort town of Vichy, had infuriated him.
When Zelie tilted her head, her dark hair rested against her shoulder. “I do agree, but you’ll have to learn to mask that reaction when you’re working for them.”
“When I’m . . . what?” Perhaps he was still in that dream.
But no, he never could have imagined the smile she gave him now, never thought to mix amusement with challenge and with something else, serious and unbending, that he had no name for.
“They have set aside funds for a youth orchestra and are looking for someone to lead it. Whoever does so will be given money for the program, of course, but far more than that—they and every member of the orchestra will receive passes allowing them to travel in and out of occupied territory. All over France, to take the orchestra on tour. Every major city, both in free and occupied territory.”
He leaned back, trying to take in what that meant from her perspective.
From the hints she’d dropped yesterday, she was involved in some kind of intelligence work.
That meant that getting information, messages, perhaps even resources across the checkpoints would be invaluable.
“And you and Grigoryan have me in mind for this?”
She leaned forward a bit. “If we can get our own man into the position, it would mean someone who had a legitimate reason to meet with contacts in all those cities. There’s even rumor the orchestra will have a spot on Radio Paris—which means the conductor will have the chance to speak to all of France. ”
“And say what?”
Her eyes flamed. “We’re building a lexicon of code phrases for use between us here and those in London—the BBC has agreed to broadcast certain messages at certain times to alert us to movements of agents, resources, raids .
. . we can do the same here, right under their noses.
Using their own funding to undermine them. ”
Marcel blinked. “We—wait. London? De Gaulle is there, I suppose.” He didn’t understand her wince.
“He is.” She waved a hand, no doubt in answer to whatever question was on his face. “He and my boss have been rivals since their academy days. They agree about endgames but never on processes.”
Her boss was military, then. Reasonable—as the wife of a colonel, she’d have moved in the circles of the military higher-ups.
“So you want me to apply for this position. Use the radio program to get verbal messages to your agents all over France as necessary, and gather information from your sources while I travel.”
She nodded. “Ideally, you would manage those contacts too—recruit new ones, decide who is trustworthy, and so on. We’re amassing agents in every possible field and sector, to pass along any detail they observe about the Germans, no matter how small, and we need someone to recruit them, manage them, decide what intelligence is worthy of passing on.
But if you aren’t comfortable with that, then you can simply be the courier. ”
“I . . . have no idea what I’m comfortable with.
I’ve never done this sort of work before.
” He finally lifted his fingers from the keys and ran them through his hair—they’d all had their heads shaved upon arrival at the camp, and then nothing.
No haircuts aside from what they managed themselves with whatever hygiene supplies came in the Red Cross packages.
He’d managed a shave a week or so ago, but he must look a fright.
He felt a fright. A shadow. A poor caricature of the man he’d once been. “I don’t know if those in Vichy will even look twice at me.”
“They will.” She straightened, letting her arms slide off the piano. “Grigoryan has guaranteed that. And none of us have done this work before—but we learn, because we must. We stand up, because lying down isn’t an option. We fight with our wits and our words, because that’s all they’ve left us.”
“Not quite all.” He stood too, though he cast another look at the piano. “We fight with our talents too.” Then he turned to face her, met her gaze. “I’ll learn. And if Grigoryan’s influence can get me this position, I’ll use it to help however I can.”
Relief sagged her shoulders. “Good.” Then a grin, brighter than the April sun. “We have a lot to do this afternoon, then. Starting, I think, with a trip to the barber.”