Lucie braced herself. All day yesterday, the résistant had drilled Lucie about the plan and Colette Foucault’s story until they came automatically.
While they worked, Lucie had busied herself with needle and thread. She’d sewn a pocket in her slip for her US passport and a portion of the cash Paul had left them. She’d also sewn two of Josie’s undershirts together at the hem to create a pouch for the child’s papers, an envelope of Aubrey family photos, and more cash.
The hateful swastika flag flew over the sentry post, a hut next to a barricade painted with red and black and white stripes. People lined up to be interrogated by two armed German officials.
The men who might see through Lucie’s story, recognize her as a résistante wanted by the police, and separate her from Josie.
Lucie tightened her grip on the little girl’s hand. What would happen to Josie if Lucie were arrested? Would they take her to the US Embassy in Vichy or to Simone’s parents in Orléans? Or ... no, she refused to acknowledge anything else.
A sentry raised the bar crossing the road, and two Frenchmen walked their bicycles across. Then the bar came down.
A customs official in a gray uniform held out his hand to Lucie. “Carte d’identité? Ausweis?”
If Lucie looked tense, so did everyone else. She set down the suitcase and pulled the fake papers from her overcoat.
The résistant claimed his forger had never failed to fool the sentries, but Lucie had a child who could give her away.
A large and severe-looking man, the official scrutinized her papers. “Names?”
“Colette Foucault and my daughter, Josephine.”
His gaze shifted to Josie, and he grunted.
Josie slid behind Lucie’s legs.
“Reason for crossing?” the official asked.
“My father—he passed away. We are going to Marseille for the funeral.”
“But you live in Paris.” Bluish eyes narrowed at her.
“I came to Paris to study, and there I met my husband.”
“Where is your husband?”
Lucie held her gaze firm. “He is a prisoner of war.”
The official smirked. “In Marseille look for a man who will not surrender so easily.” He handed her the papers.
Lucie lowered her gaze. She mustn’t look defiant, but she also mustn’t look overly relieved. “Merci, monsieur.”
The official waved to his partner, who lifted the bar.
Every impulse told Lucie to run full speed, but she picked up her suitcase and led Josie under the gate as if truly on her way to her father’s funeral.
They crossed a long, low bridge over the Cher, and Lucie passed people on bicycles or pushing carts. How difficult to live in a town with families and businesses divided.
At the far end of the bridge stood another sentry station, this one manned by French soldiers in blue overcoats, a sight Lucie hadn’t seen in a year and a half. The Vichy government had been allowed to keep a small armistice army for defense.
“Papers?” A French soldier held out his hand with as brusque a manner as his German counterpart, but he gave the papers only a cursory look and let Lucie and Josie through.
The unoccupied zone, and Lucie’s breath came more freely. However, even though no Nazi soldiers patrolled Pétain’s FrenchState, the Vichy government pandered to the Germans and would gladly turn over a terroriste.
Lucie couldn’t let down her guard. Not one bit.
CERBÈRE, FRENCHSTATE
MONDAY, DECEMBER29, 1941
