Chapter 25
Written and illustrated
By Elaine Troisi
4 Rue du Tresor,
Paris
November 26 to December 11, 1943
Colette watched Hannah approach the steps of the Hôtel Drouot auction house, her precious valise in hand. She stood in the shadow of a shuttered doorway across the street.
Her nerves were raw, her stomach tight and sour. Then she saw them—two Gestapo agents following at a measured distance. They stopped at the entrance and took positions on either side of the doors.
Waiting.
Not for Hannah, she told herself. Not for her. She prayed.
The minutes lengthened. Cold bit through her bare legs, yet sweat gathered beneath her leather coat. People drifted in and out carrying catalogues, wrapped parcels, and wishes. No one looked at the agents. No one lingered.
The men did not move.
A tremor passed through her legs. She steadied herself against the stone wall and began the breathing exercises the Resistance had drilled into her before night missions.
Inhale.
Hold.
Release.
She counted silently. Slowed her pulse. Let her hands grow still.
But this was not a message slipped beneath a door. Not a rendezvous in the underground headquarters.
This was personal.
The door opened.
Hannah stepped out, clutching her handbag close. She saw the agents at once. Her expression did not change, but her pace did—slightly quicker, angled away.
They moved in unison.
Each seized an arm.
The sound was small—fabric pulled tight, a sharp intake of breath.
Colette stepped from the shadow and crossed the street.
She forced herself to walk. Not run. Running would draw a pistol. Walking might buy seconds.
Think.
She stepped into their path and let her gloves fall onto the stone step. She bent to retrieve them.
Hannah stumbled over her.
Colette went down hard, the edge of the step striking her hip. Pain flared. She twisted as she fell, catching Hannah’s sleeve.
For a moment—brief, fragile—Hannah’s arm slipped free.
“Bastards!” Colette shouted.
One of the agents kicked her hand away. She dropped the purse—Hannah’s purse.
They hauled Hannah upright again. This time their grip was iron.
Hannah did not look back.
Around them, the street continued its wartime choreography. A woman adjusted the string on a parcel. A man lit a cigarette with careful deliberation. Two students stepped aside to let the agents pass.
No one spoke.
No one helped her rise.
They had learned the cost of interference. They had learned to become stone.
The agents dragged Hannah toward a waiting black car. Its engine idled softly, patient.
Colette pushed herself upright. Her hip burned. Blood dripped from somewhere. No matter. She gathered her belongings, lowered her eyes.
But she memorized everything.
The license plate.
The driver’s face.
The direction they turned.
When the car pulled away, the street exhaled.
Only then did the tremor return. She slipped into a narrow passageway and ran until her lungs burned.
She stopped at last, leaning against cold stone. Sweat chilled on her back. The tears would not stop.
How would she tell Jacob? How tell Max that his father’s most precious belonging had been reduced to money in Hannah’s purse?
She tried to scream. No sound came.
Darkness gathered.
Jacob stood at the window, staring through fogged glass.
He opened the door. Colette rushed inside.
He closed it quietly so as not to alarm Rachel upstairs.
“What’s happened?”
She gripped his hands. Could not speak.
He searched her face and saw it—tragedy, loss.
“Colette, no. Please tell me it isn’t so.”
“She’s not dead,” she gasped. “But she’s been taken. On the steps of the Drouot.”
“The Gestapo?”
“Yes.”
His head bowed. He sobbed once, sharply.
They went down to the bunker so Rachel would not hear. Colette told him everything.
From the wreckage, a plan began to form.
The presses were silent when Rachel came downstairs. She carried Madeleine’s large book, hoping for a friendly face to read to her.
She stopped. She heard the voices.
Her eyes went first to her father, then to Colette.
Children always knew.
“Papa?”
Jacob knelt so they were level. Ink from his hands smudged her sleeves.
“Ma petite,” he began—and stopped.
Rachel waited.
“You remember how Moishe and Golde had to go away.”
She nodded. They had gone to the beach, where lost people waited until the war ended. She had stopped asking about them a winter ago.
“And you remember what I told you.”
“Only brave people go away to the beach to rest.”
“Yes.” His voice thinned. “And now you must be brave too.”
She looked at Colette, tears bright.
“Your mama went there today,” he said. “But she’ll come back when the bombs stop.”
“And you,” he continued carefully, “are going on a journey. In an airplane. Just for a little while.”
“To the beach?”
“To England,” Colette said gently. “With me.”
Rachel considered this. “Will there be bombs there too?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Will you come later?” she asked her father.
“Yes.”
It was the lie he chose.
Rachel studied him, as if weighing the word.
“Papa, will you miss Mama and me?”
The question landed softly and shattered everything.
He nodded.
She accepted incomplete answers. War had trained her well.
Jacob held her tightly.
“Can I take my book?”
“If you can carry it,” Colette said.
“When?”
“The next full moon.”
Rachel wrapped her arms around his neck, closing her eyes as if memorizing his smell. Him.
Colette turned away.
She had seen men die without blinking. This was worse.
Max came later.
In the bunker, Colette told him everything. He embraced Jacob, then her.
When she placed Hannah’s purse in his hand and told him about the Grecian urn, he stared at it.
Not seeing.
At last he spoke.
“I feel the weight of it. Papa swore he would sell everything in the vault.”
He pulled Colette close, his face in her hair.
“Everything—except his father’s urn.”
He stepped back, tears unhidden.
“I decided a week ago to sell it. To break his trust.”
“We are broke.”
“We need food.”
“We need the press running.”
“We need to prepare for Rachel’s escape.”
He drew breath.
“If Colette goes, I’m going too.”
Jacob looked up sharply. “I can’t leave. Hannah needs me. I'll find her . Somewhere. The newspaper must go on.”
And so the decision was made.
The next day Colette scouted the safest field for the Lysander landing. She reported what she had seen at the Drouot—the license plate, the driver.
Max made arrangements through the Resistance.
Through quiet channels, word came: Hannah was alive. Sent either to Levitan or the Austerlitz warehouse.
Jacob clung to it.
Hope has wings.
The night arrived.
Jacob did not cry when he said goodbye to Rachel.
For the last time?
She smiled as she waved.
She took Colette’s hand and walked with Max toward the airfield. She turned once more to wave.
But Jacob was already gone.