Clash by Night by Doreen Owens Malek

shook her head. “No thanks, I already had dinner.”
    He spread jelly on a crescent shaped roll and took a large bite. His hair was drying in finger width strands, darkened with moisture. This, combined with the odd fit of his borrowed duds, made him look like a kid who had climbed out of a swimming hole and into his brother’s clothes. Laura sat on a corner of the cloth and folded her hands in her lap, waiting for him to finish.
    Harris examined her as he polished off the last of the flaky croissant and washed it down with a drink. She was wearing a brown skirt with two large forked pleats in the front and a white puffed sleeve blouse. Her hair was parted in the middle and rolled back on either side to her ears, where it was held in place by a pair of ivory combs. He wondered how she managed to look so nice on what had to be very little money, and then decided she must make her own outfits. She seemed like the type who could do everything efficiently.
    He leaned back on his elbows and lit a cigarette, a Gauloise Curel had given him. He hadn’t been able to bring any American ones with him, in case he was stopped. Already he dreamed of pungent Lucky Strikes, and harsh, aromatic Camels. Smoking one of the French cigarettes was like puffing on a wad of donkey dung but it was better than nothing.
    “Thanks a lot,” Harris said, exhaling a stream of smoke. “I’m a new man.”
    Laura gathered up the remains of his repast and put them away. He watched her in silence until she said suddenly, “You volunteered for this mission, didn’t you?”
    “Yeah.” He took another deep drag, hollowing his cheeks.
    “Why?”
    He started to give a flip answer but looked into her wide green eyes and couldn’t do it. He thought for a moment and then said, “I love a good fight, and this is the best fight anybody’s ever been in. The things we’re struggling for, and more important, what we’re struggling against, will be remembered long after we’re both dust.” He lifted one shoulder expressively. “I just couldn’t sit it out any longer.”
    “But what you’re doing is so dangerous,” she said softly, her gaze fixed on his face, her brow furrowed with concern. “Aren’t you afraid?”
    Harris stared back at her, his blue eyes frank, the cigarette burning down between his fingers.
    “Yes, I am,” he answered quietly. “Aren’t you?”
    Behind them, Langtot opened the door. Harris and Laura looked away from one another uncomfortably, as if caught in a stolen embrace.
    In a few minutes the other members of the group had joined them. Laura saw Alain take in the vestiges of Harris’ meal, and his eyes flashed to her face. She returned his gaze steadily and he flushed, turning his back on her.
    “Ask them if they’ve noticed any roadblocks, if the Germans have been checking identity papers at random, things like that,” Harris began, speaking to Laura. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and stubbed it out.
    The response was negative and Harris seemed satisfied. Apparently the Germans didn’t know he had arrived and weren’t looking for him.
    “I’ll keep watch,” Langtot said, and moved to the door.  
    “What’s happening at the factory?” Harris asked, looking at Alain and the Thibeau boys. “Are they upgrading all the furnaces?”
    The young men described the changes taking place to convert the glass plant into a munitions factory.
    “Any timetable?” Harris asked. “When will it be ready to go?”
    “One month,” Patric Thibeau replied.
    “Five weeks at the most,” Michel chimed in.
    Harris looked from one brother to the other. “Pat and Mike,” he said in an English aside to Laura. “Sounds like a vaudeville routine.”
    She smiled at him and Alain interjected shortly, “That tells us how fast we have to move.”
    Laura said nothing. Simple statements in either language all of them could all understand, and already they were beginning to communicate without her in an expressive hybrid