Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
Every panicked instinct said to push past him, run, do whatever she could on her own. But then, when he said, “Trust me,” again, she heard it in a different voice. Echoing in her soul.
Trust me.
The Lord was here, even here. As he’d been in the mailbag.
As he’d been in her car. As he always was.
She nodded, let the gendarme grab her arm, and had no trouble doing what she was told when he whispered to keep struggling.
He guided her down the hallway, into the radio room, and shoved her toward the Nazi officer, who was waving their radio map in the air like a trophy.
Her captor-friend held out a hand, his face all authority. “I’ll take that.”
The German stilled, eyes narrowed.
The gendarme lifted his brows. “I will remind you that under the terms of surrender, you have no jurisdiction in Free France. This is my operation. My evidence. Now turn over the papers.”
Though he sneered, the Nazi shoved them at him.
Then they were all being forced from the room, down the stairs, out the doors. Zelie considered running again, but they had no opportunity. Especially when one man announced, “There’s a dead body in one of the rooms.”
The gendarme’s grip tightened on her.
“It wasn’t us,” she muttered, even though it would have been. If he was truly a friend, maybe he’d believe her. “He was a double agent. We caught him, and he took a cyanide pill.”
She didn’t know what the huff of breath from her captor meant, but in the next moment she was shoved into a police car, separate from Marcel and Henri.
The gendarme slid behind the wheel. Once they were moving, he met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Clearly the tip was correct that you’re Resistance. Is it also correct that those in that hotel are running a network that spans all of France?”
Her trust only went so far. Zelie pressed her lips together.
The man sighed. “My name is Albert Daviau. My two boys—they’ve recently joined the Resistance to evade deportation. Are they with you? Your group?”
The surname wasn’t familiar. And the question could be a trap in and of itself—much like Rollin’s approach, perhaps. Try to appeal to her. Get her to open up.
But he seemed sincere. Zelie chose her words carefully.
“From what I’ve heard, monsieur, most young men who are looking to escape deportation join the Maquis—the freedom fighters.
The evidence you now have in your possession would suggest that, if my friends and I are Resistance, ours is a more . . . hands-off approach.”
Daviau’s shoulders sagged a bit. “I thought it too much to hope. But even so. We are not the Nazis’ lapdogs, madame.
Some of us still uphold our oaths to defend the citizens of France—true France.
My men and I will do all in our power to help you.
I realize you have no reason to trust me, but we are on your side. ”
She slid to the edge of her seat. “Then destroy those papers you took from the Nazi. And let us go.”
Daviau’s jaw ticked for a moment. “We may not be their lapdogs, but they have us on a leash all the same. If we let you go, we’ll pay. And Mueller saw the papers. He’ll know if they vanish. But perhaps . . . perhaps you could make a duplicate of it, one with false information?”
Her mouth gaped at the very suggestion. That radio map had been nearly a year in the making. It had information on every single transmitter they’d received from England, where it was located, its designated frequencies, and times it was supposed to be turned on. “It would take days to copy over.”
His reflected eyes met hers again. “Then I shall endeavor to buy you a few days.”
10 NOVEMBER 1942
In their world, arrest meant the end, her mother being the sole exception.
Yet somehow, this jail felt like a haven.
Zelie sat at a large table, hunched over the enormous piece of paper they’d cut to match the dimensions of their radio map, with Henri and Marcel beside and across from her.
Each had pens in hand in various colors—hers black, Marcel’s red, Henri’s blue.
Duplicating the map was painstaking enough. But altering each bit of information, yet keeping those alterations consistent and non-contradictory . . . that was the real challenge. They’d been at it for almost three days already, taking as few breaks as possible to eat and sleep.
One of the policemen or another was on constant watch at the door. Twice they’d had to hide the map and rush back to their cells, pretend to be asleep or awake and belligerent. The gendarme always got rid of the Nazis who came as quickly as possible, but tension crackled in the air.
The invasion had begun in North Africa. Daviau had kept a radio turned on almost constantly, switching between Radio Paris and the BBC to try to get a clear picture of what was happening. Zelie listened to it all with half her attention while she worked with the other half.
Thus far, she’d heard only a passing mention of Giraud—enough to realize with relief that he had reached Algeria .
. . but also enough to realize her warnings about him had been justified.
What standing army France had retained after the surrender had not rallied to him.
Nor had the French troops remaining in Africa.
Even so, the Nazis were furious at the attack, the attempt, and had declared that if it didn’t halt at once, there would be no more Free France.
No more Free France. What would that mean for Alliance? She shifted, winced, and rubbed at her hip. Then regretted it when she felt Marcel’s gaze on her instead of his work.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly. “You should get up more. Move around.”
“I’ll move around once this map is finished.
” She smiled at him, because she appreciated his concern.
And then turned back to it, working another hour, until the cramp in her hand forced her to take a break.
She stood and tried her best not to hobble as she moved to the water pitcher. “Anyone else need a drink?”
Marcel and Henri both declined, so she stood with her glass of lukewarm water in the corner of the room, well out of view of the windows. And behind Marcel, so he wouldn’t see it when she rubbed at her hip again.