Page 27 of Summer of Fire
Jack had warned her to avoid contact with authority figures at all costs. ‘You have good identification papers and a plausible cover story, but avoid putting yourself into situations where your papers will be under scrutiny. Only use them when absolutely necessary.’
And here she was, admittedly through no fault of her own, attracting a young German soldier who was obviously set on flirting with her. She didn’t want to risk drawing any more attention to herself, or incurring his wrath, but there was also significant danger of being seen to collaborate with the occupiers.
She met his eyes briefly, and her lips formed into a small stiff smile which, by no stretch of the imagination, could be deemed as encouraging.
His eyes burned into hers as he marched by until she could see him no more. Lizzie slumped where she waited inthe never-moving queue in the burning hot sunshine, her heart palpitating and her throat parched.
One of the older women who had already been served paused beside her. ‘They have some nerve, don’t they? I saw him wink at you like that, the insolent bastard.’
Lizzie inclined her head and smiled politely. It was getting more difficult to avoid conversation with the locals.
‘I worry about my daughter. She must be around your age. The Boche have no respect for our young women. No decency at all. My husband would turn in his grave if he could see them marching around France again like they own it. It makes me wonder what the first war was for!’
The woman was in full flow, and Lizzie let her talk, making suitable noises of agreement, hoping she would let off steam and be on her way soon.
‘You’re not from these parts, are you?’ she said suddenly, studying Lizzie’s face as if it might reveal her birthplace.
‘I’m here visiting a friend.’
‘Ah, that explains it. I know most families around here. My family has lived in Reims for four generations, you know.’
Lizzie smiled again, but cursed inwardly. She’d somehow fallen into conversation with a woman who clearly loved to gossip. ‘That’s nice,’ she said, trying to think of a way to change the subject so the woman wouldn’t question her about which friend she was visiting and why.
‘It was heaven here, before this occupation,’ she said, shaking her head, malice glinting in her hard eyes.
Mercifully, someone further along in the queue waved to the woman who bustled off to talk to her. Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief. Looking across the square, she checked out the café. There was no one out of the ordinary as far as she could make out, but with mounting frustration she remembered the Resistance would aim to blend in.
Unless Lizzie could recognise Hannah from the photo, or whoever came for a rendezvous identified Lizzie by her yellow silk scarf, she was on a fool’s errand. Jack had told her the local Resistance network may have been compromised and perhaps no one would show up for fear of being arrested.
Jeanne had also laid out a colourful scarf to match the dress, not knowing how critical it was that Lizzie wear the yellow.
Hours passed and Lizzie’s feet ached, and she grew more restless with every passing minute. Eventually it was her turn to be served, and the butcher took a ration ticket, and then shrugged his shoulders and handed her a tiny package.
It must be ham because it was the only meat he had left, and if she had arrived later, that too would probably be gone. One piece was all they were allowed for the week.
She accepted it with thanks and sped out of the shop, avoiding anyone else’s eyes on the way out. Lizzie couldn’t bear the hopeless expressions on people’s faces as it dawned on them—they were probably not going to get any meat today. It was a blessing she would have something to contribute to Jeanne’s household. Her host had generously shared her own meagre rations with her for days, and she felt guilty.
By now, the sun was high in the bright blue sky, partially covered by a patch of white fluffy clouds, but the heat was still oppressive, and she was thirsty. Lizzie was about to leave the square when, on impulse, she walked past the café again.
The proprietor wasn’t behind the counter and someone else Lizzie had not seen before was working. She was dying for a drink, and yearned to make contact with someone who could connect her with the elusive Hannah, so she decided to risk it.
Taking a seat at a small table under the shade of theawning on the terrace, she ordered a coffee when the server appeared. Her stomach was rumbling, but she couldn’t afford food with her dwindling funds.
A coffee would bolster her energy for the long walk back. She would eat some of the ham with Jeanne in the safety of the cottage that evening, and the thought of sharing a modest meal with her new friend lifted her spirits.
Lizzie sat there for about ten minutes, reading a discarded newspaper she found on the table. It was full of Nazi propaganda. The French newspapers were heavily censored, but she passed the time sipping the coffee and scanning the pages to see if she could find anything of interest. When she looked up, preparing to leave, she felt someone’s eyes on her.
An attractive woman with straight jet-black hair was seated at a table further along the terrace. There was an open book on the table beside her. The woman cleared her throat and appeared to study her.
Lizzie looked back at her hesitantly and waited. What if the woman wasn’t a Resistance member and was merely curious? Lizzie shifted in her seat, unsure what to do next.
The woman picked up the book and began reading. Lizzie was relieved she had said nothing to arouse suspicion and her heartbeat slowly steadied. She could kick herself for being such an amateur.
She jumped when the woman spoke. Her head was buried in the book. ‘Your yellow silk scarf is very chic. Where did you get it?’
CHAPTER 13
Jack had instructed the RAF pilot to circle the field on the outskirts of Reims, but when someone started shooting at them, he had no choice but to abort the pickup.
