JulieTinard

She thought back to the little bookstore. Something about it pulled her in, and it didn’t disappoint. The musky aroma, the dustmote ribbon of sunshine filtering through the bay window. A muted rainbow of book spines as varied as the people who read them. They inhabited the shelves and tables—a little village of tall and thin, short and stout. Willowy paperbacks sharing racks with rigid hardbounds. Both flashy and plain Jane covers. But just as quickly, the magic had scattered at the echo of books tumbling in a distant corner of the store.

On the platform in Paris, I took in our surroundings—the place was a shadow of itself. As if stepping through a timewarp, we disembarked into an alternate version of a familiar space. No longer the music-filled, hazy blue aura of French culture, the station was draped in Nazi uniform. Blood-red banners hung from the ceilings with swastikas emblazoned in the center, and a beige haze clung to the air. Instantly, I second-guessed our decision to come back to Paris...

Amid the whirring spokes and rhythmic tire crush of roadway pebbles, I was keenly aware of the message stuffed deep in my pocket—the heat of it burning my thigh as I pedaled. Getting it into the right hands was vital; every extra minute I lagged was a stolen minute from the Resistance's preparations.

The flowering trees and vines thrived in the background while my children stood staring at the camera, unsmiling—their thorny expressions in an otherwise lush landscape punished me. I often caressed their cheeks in the photos, willing them to feel my comforting touch somehow. I longed to rescue them from their unhappiness, but I had no choice.