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ToMatthewShear.Friend.Mentor.Champion.Youare

missed.AndtoKayleeNovaHannah,theneweststarinourworld:

Welcome,babygirl.

CONTENTS

TitlePageCopyrightNotice

Dedication

Chapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9

Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20

Chapter21Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29Chapter30Chapter31

Chapter32Chapter33Chapter34Chapter35Chapter36Chapter37Chapter38Chapter39

AcknowledgmentsAlsobyKristinHannah

AbouttheAuthorCopyright

ONE

April9,1995TheOregonCoast

If I have learned anything in

this long life of mine, it isthis:In lovewefindoutwhowewanttobe;inwarwefindout who we are. Today’syoung people want to knoweverything about everyone.They think talking about aproblemwill solve it. I comefromaquietergeneration.Weunderstand the value offorgetting, the lure of

reinvention.Lately, though, I find

myselfthinkingaboutthewarandmypast,aboutthepeopleIlost.

Lost.It makes it sound as if I

misplaced my loved ones;perhaps I left them wherethey don’t belong and thenturned away, too confused to

retracemysteps.Theyarenotlost.Norare

they in a better place. Theyare gone. As I approach theendofmyyears, Iknowthatgrief, like regret, settles intoourDNAandremainsforeverapartofus.

Ihaveagedinthemonthssincemyhusband’sdeathandmy diagnosis. My skin has

the crinkled appearance ofwax paper that someone hastriedtoflattenandreuse.Myeyes fail me often—in thedarkness, when headlightsflash, when rain falls. It isunnerving, this newunreliability in my vision.Perhaps that’s why I findmyself looking backward.ThepasthasaclarityIcanno

longerseeinthepresent.I want to imagine there

will be peace when I amgone,thatIwillseeallofthepeople I have lovedand lost.At least that I will beforgiven.

I know better, though,don’tI?

***

Myhouse, namedThe Peaksby the lumber baron whobuilt it more than a hundredyears ago, is for sale, and Iam preparing to movebecause my son thinks Ishould.

He is trying to take careofme,toshowhowmuchhelovesmeinthismostdifficultoftimes,andsoIputupwith

hiscontrollingways.WhatdoIcarewhereIdie?Thatisthepoint, really. It no longermatters where I live. I amboxing up the Oregonbeachside life I settled intonearly fifty years ago. Thereis not much I want to takewith me. But there is onething.

I reach for the hanging

handle that controls the atticsteps. The stairs unfold fromthe ceiling like a gentlemanextendinghishand.

The flimsy stairs wobblebeneath my feet as I climbintotheattic,whichsmellsofmust and mold. A single,hanging lightbulb swingsoverhead.Ipullthecord.

Itislikebeinginthehold

of an old steamship. Widewooden planks panel thewalls; cobwebs turn thecreases silver and hang inskeins from the indentationsbetween the planks. Theceiling is so steeply pitchedthat I can stand upright onlyinthecenteroftheroom.

I see the rocking chair Iused whenmy grandchildren

were young, then an old criband a ratty-looking rockinghorse set on rusty springs,and the chair my daughterwasrefinishingwhenshegotsick. Boxes are tucked alongthe wall, marked “Xmas,”“Thanksgiving,” “Easter,”“Halloween,” “Serveware,”“Sports.” In those boxes arethe things I don’t use much

anymorebutcan’tbeartopartwith.Forme,admittingthatIwon’t decorate a tree forChristmas is giving up, andI’ve never been good atletting go. Tucked in thecorner is what I am lookingfor: an ancient steamer trunkcoveredintravelstickers.

With effort, I drag theheavy trunk to the center of

the attic, directly beneath thehanging light. I kneel besideit,butthepaininmykneesispiercing, so I slide onto mybackside.

Forthefirst timeinthirtyyears, I lift the trunk’s lid.The top tray is full of babymemorabilia. Tiny shoes,ceramic hand molds, crayondrawings populated by stick

figures and smiling suns,report cards, dance recitalpictures.

I lift the tray from thetrunkandsetitaside.

The mementos in thebottom of the trunk are in amessy pile: several fadedleather-bound journals; apacketofagedpostcards tiedtogether with a blue satin

ribbon; a cardboard box bentin one corner; a set of slimbooks of poetry by JulienRossignol;andashoeboxthatholds hundreds of black-and-whitephotographs.

On top is a yellowed,fadedpieceofpaper.

MyhandsareshakingasIpick it up. It is a carted’identité, an identity card,

fromthewar.Iseethesmall,passport-sized photo of ayoung woman. JulietteGervaise.

“Mom?”I hear my son on the

creaking wooden steps,footsteps that match myheartbeats.Has he called outtomebefore?

“Mom?You shouldn’t be

up here. Shit. The steps areunsteady.”Hecomestostandbesideme.“Onefalland—”

Itouchhispantleg,shakemy head softly. I can’t lookup.“Don’t”isallIcansay.

Hekneels,thensits.Icansmell his aftershave,something subtle and spicy,andalsoahintof smoke.Hehas sneaked a cigarette

outside, a habit he gave updecades ago and took upagainatmy recentdiagnosis.There is no reason to voicemy disapproval: He is adoctor.Heknowsbetter.

My instinct is to toss thecard into the trunk and slamthe liddown,hiding it again.It’swhat I have done allmylife.

Now I am dying. Notquickly, perhaps, but notslowly, either, and I feelcompelled to look back onmylife.

“Mom,you’recrying.”“AmI?”I want to tell him the

truth, but I can’t. Itembarrasses and shames me,this failure. At my age, I

should not be afraid ofanything—certainly not myownpast.

Isayonly,“Iwanttotakethistrunk.”

“It’s too big. I’ll repackthe things you want into asmallerbox.”

I smile at his attempt tocontrolme.“IloveyouandIam sick again. For these

reasons, I have let you pushmearound,butIamnotdeadyet. I want this trunk withme.”

“What can you possiblyneed in it? It’s just ourartworkandotherjunk.”

IfIhadtoldhimthetruthlong ago, or had danced anddrunkandsungmore,maybehe would have seen me

instead of a dependable,ordinary mother. He loves aversion of me that isincomplete. I always thoughtit was what I wanted: to beloved and admired. Now Ithink perhaps I’d like to beknown.

“Think of this asmy lastrequest.”

Icansee thathewants to

tell me not to talk that way,but he’s afraid his voicewillcatch. He clears his throat.“You’ve beaten it twicebefore.You’llbeatitagain.”

We both know this isn’ttrue.Iamunsteadyandweak.I can neither sleep nor eatwithout the help of medicalscience.“OfcourseIwill.”

“I just want to keep you

safe.”Ismile.Americanscanbe

sonaïve.Once I shared his

optimism.Ithoughttheworldwassafe.Butthatwasalongtimeago.

“Who is JulietteGervaise?” Julien says and itshocksmealittletohearthatnamefromhim.

Iclosemyeyesandinthedarkness that smells ofmildewandbygonelives,mymind casts back, a linethrown across years andcontinents.Againstmywill—or maybe in tandem with it,who knows anymore?—Iremember.

TWO

Thelightsaregoingout

alloverEurope;

Weshallnotseethemlitagainin

ourlifetime.—SIREDWARD

GREY,ONWORLD

WARI

August1939France

VianneMauriacleft thecool,

stucco-walled kitchen andstepped out into her frontyard. On this beautifulsummermorningintheLoireValley, everything was inbloom. White sheets flappedin the breeze and rosestumbled like laughter alongtheancientstonewallthathidherpropertyfromtheroad.Apair of industrious bees

buzzed among the blooms;from far away, she heard thechugging purr of a train andthen the sweet sound of alittlegirl’slaughter.

Sophie.Viannesmiled.Hereight-

year-old daughter wasprobably running through thehouse, making her fatherdance attendance on her as

they readied for theirSaturdaypicnic.

“Your daughter is atyrant,” Antoine said,appearinginthedoorway.

Hewalkedtowardher,hispomaded hair glinting blackin the sunlight. He’d beenworking on his furniture thismorning—sanding a chairthat was already as soft as

satin—and a fine layer ofwood dust peppered his faceand shoulders. He was a bigman, tall and broadshouldered,witharoughfaceand a dark stubble that tookconstant effort to keep frombecomingabeard.

Heslippedanarmaroundher and pulled her close. “Iloveyou,V.”

“Iloveyou,too.”It was the truest fact of

her world. She lovedeverythingaboutthisman,hissmile,thewayhemumbledinhis sleep and laughed after asneeze and sang opera in theshower.

She’d fallen in love withhim fifteen years ago, on theschoolplayyard,beforeshe’d

even known what love was.Hewasherfirsteverything—first kiss, first love, firstlover.Beforehim,she’dbeena skinny, awkward, anxiousgirl given to stuttering whenshe got scared, which wasoften.

Amotherlessgirl.Youwillbetheadultnow,

her fatherhadsaid toVianne

astheywalkeduptothisveryhouseforthefirsttime.She’dbeen fourteen years old, hereyesswollenfromcrying,hergrief unbearable. In aninstant, this house had gonefrom being the family’ssummer house to a prison ofsorts.Maman had been deadless than two weeks whenPapa gave up on being a

father. Upon their arrivalhere, he’d not held her handor rested a hand on hershoulderorevenofferedherahandkerchieftodryhertears.

B-but I’m just a girl,she’dsaid.

Notanymore.She’dlookeddownather

younger sister, Isabelle, whostillsuckedherthumbatfour

and had no idea what wasgoingon.Isabellekeptaskingwhen Maman was cominghome.

When the door opened, atall, thinwomanwith a noselike a water spigot and eyesas small and dark as raisinsappeared.

These are the girls? thewomanhadsaid.

Papanodded.Theywillbenotrouble.It had happened so fast.

Vianne hadn’t reallyunderstood.Papadroppedoffhis daughters like soiledlaundry and left themwith astranger.Thegirlsweresofarapart in age itwas as if theywere from different families.Vianne had wanted to

comfortIsabelle—meantto—but Vianne had been in somuch pain it was impossibleto think of anyone else,especially a child as willfuland impatient and loud asIsabelle. Vianne stillremembered those first dayshere: Isabelle shrieking andMadame spanking her.Vianne had pleadedwith her

sister, saying, again andagain, Mon Dieu, Isabelle,quit screeching. Just do asshe bids, but even at four,Isabelle had beenunmanageable.

Vianne had been undonebyallof it—thegrief forherdeadmother, the pain of herfather’s abandonment, thesudden change in their

circumstances, and Isabelle’scloying,needyloneliness.

It was Antoine who’dsaved Vianne. That firstsummerafterMaman’sdeath,the two of them had becomeinseparable. With him,Vianne had found an escape.By the time shewas sixteen,she was pregnant; atseventeen, she was married

andthemistressofLeJardin.Twomonths later, she had amiscarriage and she lostherselfforawhile.Therewasnootherway toput it.She’dcrawled into her grief andcocooned it around her,unable to care about anyoneor anything—certainly not aneedy, wailing four-year-oldsister.

But that was old news.Not the sort of memory shewantedonabeautifuldayliketoday.

She leaned against herhusbandastheirdaughterranuptothem,announcing,“I’mready.Let’sgo.”

“Well,” Antoine said,grinning. “The princess isreadyandsowemustmove.”

Vianne smiled as shewentbackintothehouseandretrieved her hat from thehook by the door. Astrawberry blonde, withporcelain-thin skin and sea-blue eyes, she alwaysprotected herself from thesun.Bythetimeshe’dsettledthe wide-brimmed straw hatin place and collected her

lacyglovesandpicnicbasket,Sophie and Antoine werealreadyoutsidethegate.

Viannejoinedthemonthedirt road in front of theirhome. It was barely wideenough for an automobile.Beyond it stretched acres ofhayfields, the green here andthere studded with redpoppiesandbluecornflowers.

Forests grew in patches. Inthis corner of the LoireValley, fields were morelikelytobegrowinghaythangrapes. Although less thantwohoursfromParisbytrain,it felt like a different worldaltogether. Few touristsvisited,eveninthesummer.

Now and then anautomobilerumbledpast,ora

bicyclist,oranox-drivencart,but for the most part, theywerealoneontheroad.Theylived nearly a mile fromCarriveau,atownoflessthana thousand souls that wasknown mostly as a stoppingpoint on the pilgrimage ofSte.Jeanned’Arc.Therewasno industry in town and fewjobs—except for those at the

airfield that was the pride ofCarriveau.Theonlyoneofitskindformiles.

In town, narrowcobblestoned streets woundthrough ancient limestonebuildingsthatleanedclumsilyagainst one another. Mortarcrumbled from stone walls,ivy hid the decay that laybeneath, unseen but always

felt. The village had beencobbledtogetherpiecemeal—crookedstreets,unevensteps,blind alleys—over hundredsofyears.Colorsenlivenedthestone buildings: red awningsribbed in black metal,ironworkbalconies decoratedwith geraniums in terra-cottaplanters. Everywhere therewas something to tempt the

eye: a display case of pastelmacarons, rough willowbasketsfilledwithcheeseandham and saucisson, crates ofcolorful tomatoes andaubergines and cucumbers.The cafés were full on thissunny day. Men sat aroundmetal tables, drinking coffeeand smoking hand-rolledbrown cigarettes and arguing

loudly.A typical day in

Carriveau. Monsieur LaChoawas sweeping the street infront of his saladerie, andMadameClonetwaswashingthe window of her hat shop,andapackofadolescentboyswas strolling through town,shoulder to shoulder, kickingbits of trash and passing a

cigarettebackandforth.At the end of town, they

turned toward the river.At aflat, grassy spot along theshore, Vianne set down herbasket and spread out ablanket in the shade of achestnuttree.Fromthepicnicbasket,shewithdrewacrustybaguette, a wedge of rich,double-cream cheese, two

apples, some slices of paper-thin Bayonne ham, and abottle of Bollinger ’36. Shepouredherhusbandaglassofchampagne and sat downbeside him as Sophie rantowardtheriverbank.

The day passed in a hazeof sunshine-warmedcontentment.Theytalkedandlaughed and shared their

picnic. It wasn’t until late intheday,whenSophiewasoffwith her fishing pole andAntoine was making theirdaughter a crown of daisies,thathesaid,“Hitlerwillsuckusallintohiswarsoon.”

War.It was all anyone could

talk about these days, andViannedidn’twanttohearit.

Especially not on this lovelysummerday.

She tented a hand acrossher eyes and stared at herdaughter. Beyond the river,the green Loire Valley laycultivated with care andprecision. There were nofences, no boundaries, justmiles of rolling green fieldsand patches of trees and the

occasional stone house orbarn. Tiny white blossomsfloated like bits of cotton intheair.

She got to her feet andclapped her hands. “Come,Sophie.It’stimetogohome.”

“You can’t ignore this,Vianne.”

“Should I look fortrouble?Why? You are here

toprotectus.”Smiling (too brightly,

perhaps), she packed up thepicnic and gathered herfamily and led them back tothedirtroad.

Inlessthanthirtyminutes,they were at the sturdywoodengateofLeJardin,thestone country house that hadbeen in her family for three

hundred years. Aged to adozenshadesofgray,itwasatwo-story house with blue-shuttered windows thatoverlooked the orchard. Ivyclimbedupthetwochimneysand covered the bricksbeneath.Only seven acres ofthe original parcel were left.The other two hundred hadbeensoldoffover thecourse

of two centuries as herfamily’s fortune dwindled.Seven acres was plenty forVianne.Shecouldn’timagineneedingmore.

Vianne closed the doorbehind them. In the kitchen,copperandcast-ironpotsandpans hung from an iron rackabove the stove. Lavenderand rosemary and thyme

hung indryingbunches fromthe exposed timber beams ofthe ceiling. A copper sink,green with age, was bigenough to bathe a small dogin.

Theplasterontheinteriorwalls was peeling here andthere to reveal paint fromyears gone by. The livingroomwas an eclecticmix of

furniture and fabrics—tapestried settee, Aubussonrugs, antique Chineseporcelain, chintz and toile.Someof thepaintingson thewallwereexcellent—perhapsimportant—and some wereamateurish. It had thejumbled, cobbled-togetherlook of lost money andbygonetaste—alittleshabby,

butcomfortable.She paused in the salon,

glancing through the glass-paned doors that led to thebackyard,whereAntoinewaspushingSophie on the swinghe’dmadeforher.

Vianne hung her hatgently on the hook by thedoorand retrievedherapron,tying it in place. While

Sophie and Antoine playedoutside, Vianne cookedsupper. She wrapped a pinkpork tenderloin in thick-cutbacon, tied it in twine, andbrowned it in hot oil. Whilethe pork roasted in the oven,shemadetherestofthemeal.At eight o’clock—right ontime—she called everyone tosupper and couldn’t help

smiling at the thundering offeet and the chatter ofconversation and thesquealing of chair legsscraping across the floor astheysatdown.

Sophie sat at the head ofthe table, wearing the crownof daisies Antoine had madeforherattheriverbank.

Vianne set down the

platter.A delicious fragrancewaftedupward—roastedporkand crispy bacon and applesglazed in a rich wine sauce,resting on a bed of brownedpotatoes. Beside it was abowloffreshpeas,swimmingin butter seasoned withtarragon from the garden.And of course there was thebaguette Vianne had made

yesterdaymorning.As always, Sophie talked

all through supper. She waslikeherTanteIsabelleinthatway—a girl who couldn’tholdhertongue.

Whenatlasttheycametodessert—ile flottante, islandsof toasted meringue floatingin a rich crème anglaise—there was a satisfied silence

aroundthetable.“Well,” Vianne said at

last, pushing her half-emptydessert plate away, “it’s timetodothedishes.”

“Ahh, Maman,” Sophiewhined.

“No whining,” Antoinesaid.“Notatyourage.”

Vianne and Sophie wentinto the kitchen, as they did

eachnight,totheirstations—Vianne at the deep coppersink, Sophie at the stonecounter—and began washinganddryingthedishes.Viannecould smell the sweet, sharpscent of Antoine’s after-supper cigarette waftingthroughthehouse.

“Papa didn’t laugh at asingle one of my stories

today,”SophiesaidasVianneplaced thedishesback in theroughwoodenrackthathungon the wall. “Something iswrongwithhim.”

“No laughter? Well,certainly that is cause foralarm.”

“He’s worried about thewar.”

Thewar.Again.

Vianne shooed herdaughter out of the kitchen.Upstairs, in Sophie’sbedroom, Vianne sat on thedouble bed, listening to herdaughterchatterassheputonher pajamas and brushed herteethandgotintobed.

Vianne leaned down tokisshergoodnight.

“I’mscared,”Sophiesaid.

“Iswarcoming?”“Don’tbeafraid,”Vianne

said. “Papa will protect us.”But even as she said it, sheremembered another time,whenhermamanhad said toher,Don’tbeafraid.

It was when her ownfatherhadgoneofftowar.

Sophie lookedunconvinced.“But—”

“But nothing. There isnothing toworryabout.Nowgotosleep.”

She kissed her daughteragain, letting her lips lingeronthelittlegirl’scheek.

Vianne went down thestairs and headed for thebackyard. Outside, the nightwassultry; theairsmelledofjasmine. She found Antoine

sittinginoneof theironcaféchairs out on the grass, hislegs stretched out, his bodyslumped uncomfortably tooneside.

She came up beside him,put a hand on his shoulder.He exhaled smoke and tookanother long drag on thecigarette. Then he looked upat her. In the moonlight, his

face appeared pale andshadowed. Almostunfamiliar. He reached intothe pocket of his vest andpulledoutapieceofpaper.“Ihavebeenmobilized,Vianne.Along with most menbetween eighteen and thirty-five.”

“Mobilized? But … wearenotatwar.Idon’t—”

“IamtoreportfordutyonTuesday.”

“But … but … you’re apostman.”

He held her gaze andsuddenly she couldn’tbreathe.“Iamasoldiernow,itseems.”

THREE

Vianne knew something of

war.Not its clash and clatterand smoke and blood,perhaps, but the aftermath.Thoughshehadbeenborninpeacetime, her earliestmemories were of the war.She remembered watchingher maman cry as she saidgood-bye to Papa. Sheremembered being hungryand always being cold. But

most of all, she rememberedhow different her father waswhenhecamehome,howhelimped and sighed and wassilent. That was when hebegan drinking and keepingto himself and ignoring hisfamily. After that, sheremembered doors slammingshut, arguments erupting anddisappearing into clumsy

silences, and her parentssleepingindifferentrooms.

The father who went offto war was not the one whocame home. She had tried tobe loved by him; moreimportant, she had tried tokeep loving him, but in theend,onewasasimpossibleasthe other. In the years sincehe’d shipped her off to

Carriveau, Vianne had madeher own life. She sent herfatherChristmasandbirthdaycards, but she’d neverreceived one in return, andthey rarely spoke.What wasthere left to say? UnlikeIsabelle, who seemedincapable of letting go,Vianne understood—andaccepted—that whenMaman

had died, their family hadbeen irreparably broken. Hewas a man who simplyrefused to be a father to hischildren.

“I know how war scaresyou,”Antoinesaid.

“The Maginot Line willhold,” she said, trying tosoundconvincing.“You’llbehome by Christmas.” The

Maginot Line was miles andmiles of concrete walls andobstacles and weapons thathad been constructed alongthe German border after theGreatWar to protect France.TheGermanscouldn’tbreachit.

Antoine took her in hisarms. The scent of jasminewas intoxicating, and she

knewsuddenly,certainly,thatfrom now on, whenever shesmelled jasmine, she wouldrememberthisgood-bye.

“I love you, AntoineMauriac, and I expectyou tocomehometome.”

Later, she couldn’tremember them moving intothehouse,climbingthestairs,lyingdowninbed,undressing

each other. She rememberedonlybeingnakedinhisarms,lyingbeneathhimashemadelovetoherinawayheneverhad before, with frantic,searching kisses and handsthat seemed to want to tearher apart even as they heldhertogether.

“You’restrongerthanyouthink you are, V,” he said

afterward, when they layquietlyineachother’sarms.

“I’m not,” she whisperedtooquietlyforhimtohear.

***

The next morning, Viannewanted to keep Antoine inbed all day, maybe evenconvincehimthattheyshouldpack their bags and run like

thievesinthenight.Butwherewouldtheygo?

WarhungoverallofEurope.By the time she finished

making breakfast and doingthe dishes, a headachethrobbed at the base of herskull.

“You seemsad,Maman,”Sophiesaid.

“How can I be sad on a

gorgeoussummer’sdaywhenwearegoingtovisitourbestfriends?”Viannesmiledabittoobrightly.

Itwasn’tuntilshewasoutthe front door and standingbeneathoneoftheappletreesin the front yard that sherealizedshewasbarefoot.

“Maman,” Sophie saidimpatiently.

“I’mcoming,”shesaid,asshe followed Sophie throughthe front yard, past the olddovecote (now a gardeningshed) and the empty barn.Sophie opened the back gateand ran into the well-tendedneighboring yard, toward asmallstonecottagewithblueshutters.

Sophieknockedonce,got

noanswer,andwentinside.“Sophie!” Vianne said

sharply, but heradmonishment fell on deafears. Manners wereunnecessary at one’s bestfriend’shouse,andRacheldeChamplainhadbeenVianne’sbest friend for fifteen years.They’d met only a monthafter Papa had so

ignominiously dropped hischildrenoffatLeJardin.

They’d been a pair backthen:Vianne, slight and paleand nervous, and Rachel, astall as the boys, witheyebrows that grew fasterthan a lie and a voice like afoghorn. Outsiders, both ofthem, until theymet. They’dbecomeinseparable inschool

and stayed friends in all theyears since. They’d gone touniversity together and bothhad become schoolteachers.They’devenbeenpregnantatthe same time. Now theytaught in side-by-sideclassrooms at the localschool.

Rachel appeared in theopen doorway, holding her

newbornson,Ariel.A look passed between

the women. In it waseverything they felt andfeared.

Vianne followed herfriendintoasmall,brightlylitinterior thatwas as neat as apin. A vase full ofwildflowersgraced the roughwooden trestle table flanked

bymismatched chairs. In thecornerofthediningroomwasaleathervalise,andsittingontop of it was the brown feltfedorathatRachel’shusband,Marc, favored. Rachel wentinto the kitchen for a smallcrockeryplatefullofcanelés.Then the women headedoutside.

In the small backyard,

roses grew along a privethedge.Atableandfourchairssatunevenlyonastonepatio.Antique lanterns hung fromthe branches of a chestnuttree.

Viannepickedupacaneléand took a bite, savoring thevanilla-rich cream center andcrispy,slightlyburned-tastingexterior.Shesatdown.

Rachel sat down acrossfrom her, with the babyasleep in her arms. Silenceseemed to expand betweenthemand fillwith their fearsandmisgivings.

“I wonder if he’ll knowhisfather,”Rachelsaidasshelookeddownatherbaby.

“They’ll be changed,”Vianne said, remembering.

Her father had been in theBattle of the Somme, inwhich more than three-quartersofamillionmenhadlost their lives. Rumors ofGerman atrocities had comehome with the few whosurvived.

Rachel moved the infantto her shoulder, patted hisback soothingly. “Marc is no

good at changing diapers.AndArilovestosleepinourbed.Iguessthat’llbeallrightnow.”

Vianne felt a smile start.Itwasalittlething,thisjoke,but it helped. “Antoine’ssnoring is a pain in thebackside. I should get somegoodsleep.”

“And we can have

poachedeggsforsupper.”“Only half the laundry,”

she said, but then her voicebroke. “I’m not strongenoughforthis,Rachel.”

“Ofcourseyouare.We’llgetthroughittogether.”

“BeforeImetAntoine…”Rachel waved a hand

dismissively. “I know. Iknow.Youwereasskinnyas

a branch, you stutteredwhenyou got nervous, and youwere allergic to everything. Iknow. Iwas there.But that’sall over now. You’ll bestrong.Youknowwhy?”

“Why?”Rachel’s smile faded. “I

knowI’mbig—statuesque,asthey like tosaywhen they’reselling me brassieres and

stockings—but I feel …undonebythis,V.Iamgoingto need to lean on yousometimes, too. Not with allmyweight,ofcourse.”

“So we can’t both fallapartatthesametime.”

“Voilà,” Rachel said.“Ourplan.Shouldweopenabottle of cognac now, orgin?”

“It’s ten o’clock in themorning.”

“You’re right. Of course.AFrench75.”

***

On Tuesday morning whenVianne awoke, sunlightpoured through the window,glazingtheexposedtimbers.

Antoinesatinthechairby

the window, a walnut rockerhe’d made during Vianne’ssecond pregnancy. For yearsthat empty rocker hadmocked them. Themiscarriage years, as shethought of them now.Desolation in a land ofplenty. Three lost lives infour years; tiny threadyheartbeats, blue hands. And

then, miraculously: a babywho survived. Sophie. Therewere sad little ghosts caughtin the wood grain of thatchair, but there were goodmemories,too.

“Maybe you should takeSophie to Paris,” he said asshesatup.“Julienwouldlookoutforyou.”

“My father has made his

opinion on living with hisdaughtersquiteclear.Icannotexpectawelcomefromhim.”Vianne pushed thematelassecoverlet aside and rose,putting her bare feet on thewornrug.

“Willyoubeallright?”“SophieandIwillbefine.

You’ll be home in no timeanyway. The Maginot Line

will hold. And Lord knowstheGermansarenomatchforus.”

“Too bad their weaponsare. I took all of our moneyout of the bank. There aresixty-five thousand francs inthe mattress. Use it wisely,Vianne. Along with yourteaching salary, it should lastyouagoodlongtime.”

Shefeltaflutterofpanic.Sheknewtoolittleabouttheirfinances. Antoine handledthem.

He stood up slowly andtook her in his arms. Shewantedtobottlehowsafeshefelt in this moment, so shecould drink of it later whenloneliness and fear left herparched.

Remember this, shethought. The way the lightcaught inhisunrulyhair, thelove in his brown eyes, thechapped lips that had kissedher only an hour ago, in thedarkness.

Throughtheopenwindowbehind them, she heard theslow, even clop-clop-clop ofa horse moving up the road

and the clattering of thewagon being pulled alongbehind.

That would be MonsieurQuillianonhiswaytomarketwith his flowers. If shewereintheyard,hewouldstopandgive her one and say itcouldn’t match her beauty,and shewould smile and saymerci and offer him

somethingtodrink.Vianne pulled away

reluctantly. Shewent over tothe wooden dresser andpoured tepid water from thebluecrockerypitcherintothebowlandwashedherface.Inthealcovethatservedastheirwardrobe, behind a pair ofgoldandwhite toilecurtains,she put on her brassiere and

steppedintoherlace-trimmeddrawers and garter. Shesmoothed the silk stockingsupher legs, fastened them toher garters, and then slippedintoabeltedcottonfrockwitha squared yoke collar.Whenshe closed the curtains andturned around, Antoine wasgone.

Sheretrievedherhandbag

andwentdownthehallwaytoSophie’sroom.Liketheirs, itwas small, with a steeplypitched, timbered ceiling,wide plank wooden floors,and a window thatoverlooked the orchard. Anironwork bed, a nightstandwith a hand-me-down lamp,and a blue-painted armoirefilled the space. Sophie’s

drawingsdecoratedthewalls.Vianne opened the

shuttersandletlightfloodtheroom.

As usual in the hotsummer months, Sophie hadkicked the coverlet to thefloor sometime in the night.Her pink stuffed teddy bear,Bébé,sleptagainsthercheek.

Vianne picked up the

bear, staring down at itsmatted, much petted face.Last year, Bébé had beenforgotten on a shelf by thewindowasSophiemovedontonewertoys.

NowBébéwasback.Vianne leaned down to

kissherdaughter’scheek.Sophie rolled over and

blinkedawake.

“Idon’twantPapa togo,Maman,” shewhispered. Shereached out for Bébé,practically snatched the bearfromVianne’shands.

“I know.”Vianne sighed.“Iknow.”

Vianne went to thearmoire,whereshepickedoutthe sailor dress that wasSophie’sfavorite.

“Can I wear the daisycrownPapamademe?”

The daisy “crown” laycrumpled on the nightstand,the little flowers wilted.Vianne picked it up gentlyand placed it on Sophie’shead.

Vianne thought she wasdoing all right until shestepped into the living room

andsawAntoine.“Papa?” Sophie touched

the wilted daisy crownuncertainly.“Don’tgo.”

Antoine knelt down anddrew Sophie into hisembrace. “I have to be asoldier to keep you andMamansafe.ButI’llbebackbeforeyouknowit.”

Vianneheardthecrackin

hisvoice.Sophie drew back. The

daisy crown was saggingdown the side of her head.“You promise you’ll comehome?”

Antoine looked past hisdaughter’s earnest face toVianne’sworriedgaze.

“Oui,”hesaidatlast.Sophienodded.

The three of them weresilent as they left the house.Theywalkedhandinhandupthe hillside to the graywooden barn. Knee-highgolden grass covered theknoll, and lilacbushesasbigashaywagonsgrewalongtheperimeter of the property.Three small white crosseswereall thatremainedinthis

world to mark the babiesVianne had lost. Today, shedidn’tlethergazelingerthereat all. Her emotions wereheavy enough right now; shecouldn’t add the weight ofthosememories,too.

Inside the barn sat theirold, green Renault. Whenthey were all in theautomobile, Antoine started

up the engine, backed out ofthe barn, and drove onbrowning ribbons of deadgrass to the road. Viannestared out the small, dustywindow, watching the greenvalley pass in a blur offamiliar images—red tileroofs,stonecottages,fieldsofhayandgrapes,spindly-treedforests.

All too quickly theyarrived at the train stationnearTours.

The platform was filledwith young men carryingsuitcases and women kissingthem good-bye and childrencrying.

Agenerationofmenweregoingofftowar.Again.

Don’t think about it,

Vianne told herself. Don’tremember what it was likelast time when the menlimped home, faces burned,missingarmsandlegs…

Vianne clung to herhusband’s hand as Antoinebought their tickets and ledthem onto the train. In thethird-class carriage—stiflingly hot, people packed

in like marsh reeds—she satstiffly upright, still holdingher husband’s hand,withherhandbagonherlap.

At their destination, adozen or so mendisembarked. Vianne andSophieandAntoine followedthe others down acobblestonedstreetandintoacharming village that looked

likemostsmallcommunesinTouraine. How was itpossiblethatwarwascomingandthatthisquainttownwithits tumbling flowers andcrumbling walls wasamassingsoldierstofight?

Antoine tugged at herhand, got her moving again.Whenhadshestopped?

Up ahead a set of tall,

recently erected iron gateshad been bolted into stonewalls. Behind them wererowsoftemporaryhousing.

Thegates swungopen.Asoldieronhorsebackrodeoutto greet the new arrivals, hisleathersaddlecreakingat thehorse’s steps, his face dustyand flushed from heat. Hepulled on the reins and the

horse halted, throwing itshead and snorting. Anaeroplanedronedoverhead.

“You, men,” the soldiersaid. “Bring your papers tothe lieutenant over there bythegate.Now.Move.”

Antoine kissed Viannewith a gentleness that madeherwanttocry.

“I love you,” he said

againstherlips.“Iloveyou,too,”shesaid

but the words that alwaysseemedsobigfeltsmallnow.What was love when put upagainstwar?

“Me,too,Papa.Me,too!”Sophie cried, flinging herselfintohisarms.Theyembracedas a family, one last time,untilAntoinepulledback.

“Good-bye,”hesaid.Vianne couldn’t say it in

return.Shewatchedhimwalkaway, watched him mergeinto the crowd of laughing,talkingyoungmen,becomingindistinguishable. The bigiron gates slammed shut, theclang of metal reverberatingin the hot, dusty air, andVianne and Sophie stood

alone in the middle of thestreet.

FOUR

June1940France

Themedievalvilladominated

a deeply green, forestedhillside. It looked likesomethinginaconfectioner’sshopwindow; a castlesculpted of caramel, withspun-sugar windows andshutters the color of candiedapples. Far below, a deepblue lake absorbed thereflection of the clouds.Manicured gardens allowed

the villa’s occupants—and,more important, their guests—tostrollaboutthegrounds,where only acceptable topicsweretobediscussed.

Intheformaldiningroom,Isabelle Rossignol sat stifflyerect at the white-clothedtable that easilyaccommodated twenty-fourdiners. Everything in this

room was pale. Walls andfloor and ceiling were allcrafted of oyster-hued stone.Theceilingarchedintoapeaknearly twenty feet overhead.Sound was amplified in thiscold room, as trapped as theoccupants.

Madame Dufour stood attheheadof thetable,dressedin a severe black dress that

revealed the soup spoon–sized hollow at the base ofher long neck. A singlediamondbroochwasheronlyadornment (one good piece,ladies, and choose it well;everything makes astatement, nothing speaksquitesoloudlyascheapness).Her narrow face ended in abluntchinandwasframedby

curls so obviously peroxidedthe desired impression ofyouthwasquiteundone.“Thetrick,” she was saying in acultivated voice, clipped andcut,“istobecompletelyquietand unremarkable in yourtask.”

Each of the girls at thetable wore the fitted bluewoolen jacket and skirt that

was the school uniform. Itwasn’t so bad in the winter,but on this hot Juneafternoon, the ensemble wasunbearable. Isabelle couldfeel herself beginning tosweat, and no amount oflavender in her soap couldmask the sharp scent of herperspiration.

She stared down at the

unpeeledorangeplacedinthecenter of her Limoges chinaplate. Flatware lay in preciseformation on either side ofthe plate. Salad fork, dinnerfork, knife, spoon, butterknife, fish fork. It went onandon.

“Now,” Madame Dufoursaid. “Pick up the correctutensils—quietly, s’il vous

plaît, quietly, and peel yourorange.”

Isabelle picked up herfork and tried to ease thesharp prongs into the heavypeel, but the orange rolledaway from her and bumpedoverthegiltedgeoftheplate,clatteringthechina.

“Merde,” she muttered,grabbing theorangebefore it

felltothefloor.“Merde?” Madame

Dufourwasbesideher.Isabelle jumped in her

seat. Mon Dieu, the womanmoved like a viper in thereeds. “Pardon, Madame,”Isabelle said, returning theorangetoitsplace.

“MademoiselleRossignol,” Madame said.

“How is it that you havegracedourhallsfortwoyearsandlearnedsolittle?”

Isabelle again stabbed theorange with her fork. Agraceless—but effective—move.Then she smiledupatMadame. “Generally,Madame, the failing of astudent to learn is the failingoftheteachertoteach.”

Breaths were indrawn alldownthetable.

“Ah,” Madame said. “Sowe are the reason you stillcannot manage to eat anorangeproperly.”

Isabelle tried to slicethrough the peel—too hard,too fast. The silver bladeslippedoff thepuckeredpeeland clanged on the china

plate.Madame Dufour’s hand

snakedout;herfingerscoiledaroundIsabelle’swrist.

Allupanddownthetable,thegirlswatched.

“Polite conversation,girls,”Madame said, smilingthinly.“Noonewantsastatueforadinnerpartner.”

On cue, the girls began

speaking quietly to oneanother about things that didnot interest Isabelle.Gardening, weather, fashion.Acceptabletopicsforwomen.Isabelleheardthegirlnexttohersayquietly,“Iamsoveryfond of Alençon lace, aren’tyou?” and really, it was allshe could do to keep fromscreaming.

“MademoiselleRossignol,” Madame said.“You will go see MadameAllard and tell her that ourexperiment has come to anend.”

“Whatdoesthatmean?”“Shewillknow.Go.”Isabelle scooted back

from the table quickly, lestMadamechangehermind.

Madame’s facescrunchedin displeasure at the loudscreech the chair legs madeonthestonefloor.

Isabelle smiled. “I reallydo not like oranges, youknow.”

“Really?” Madame saidsarcastically.

Isabelle wanted to runfrom this stifling room, but

she was already in enoughtrouble, so she forcedherselftowalkslowly,hershouldersback, her chin up. At thestairs (which she couldnavigatewith three books onher head if required), sheglanced sideways, saw thatshe was alone, and rusheddown.

In thehallwaybelow,she

slowed and straightened. Bythe time she reached theheadmistress’s office, shewasn’tevenbreathinghard.

Sheknocked.AtMadame’s flat “Come

in,”Isabelleopenedthedoor.MadameAllardsatbehind

a gilt-trimmed mahoganywriting desk. Medievaltapestrieshungfromthestone

walls of the room and anarched, leaded-glass windowoverlooked gardens sosculpted they were more artthannature.Evenbirdsrarelylanded here; no doubt theysensedthestiflingatmosphereandflewon.

Isabelle sat down—remembering an instant toolate that she hadn’t been

offered a seat. She poppedbackup.“Pardon,Madame.”

“Sitdown,Isabelle.”She did, carefully

crossing her ankles as a ladyshould, clasping her handstogether. “Madame Dufouraskedme to tell you that theexperimentisover.”

Madame reached for oneof theMurano fountain pens

onherdeskandpickeditup,tapping it on thedesk. “Whyareyouhere,Isabelle?”

“Ihateoranges.”“Pardon?”“And if Iwere to eat an

orange—which, honestly,Madame,whywouldIwhenIdon’tlikethem—Iwouldusemyhands like theAmericansdo. Like everyone does,

really.Aforkandknifetoeatanorange?”

“I mean, why are you attheschool?”

“Oh. That. Well, theConvent of the Sacred HeartinAvignon expelledme. Fornothing,Imightadd.”

“And the Sisters of St.Francis?”

“Ah. They had reason to

expelme.”“And the school before

that?”Isabelledidn’tknowwhat

tosay.Madame put down her

fountainpen.“Youarealmostnineteen.”

“Oui,Madame.”“I think it’s time for you

toleave.”

Isabelle got to her feet.“Shall I return to the orangelesson?”

“You misunderstand. Imean you should leave theschool, Isabelle. It is clearthat you are not interested inlearning what we have toteachyou.”

“How to eat an orangeand when you can spread

cheese and who is moreimportant—thesecondsonofa duke or a daughter whowon’t inherit or anambassadortoanunimportantcountry?Madame,doyounotknowwhatisgoingonintheworld?”

Isabelle might have beensecreted deep in thecountryside, but still she

knew. Even here, barricadedbehind hedges andbludgeonedbypoliteness,sheknewwhatwashappening inFrance. At night in hermonastic cell, while herclassmates were in bed, shesat up, long into the night,listening to the BBC on hercontraband radio. France hadjoined Britain in declaring

war on Germany, and Hitlerwas on themove. All acrossFrance people had stockpiledfood and put up blackoutshadesandlearnedtolivelikemolesinthedark.

They had prepared andworriedandthen…nothing.

Month after month,nothinghappened.

At first all anyone could

talkaboutwastheGreatWarand the losses that hadtouchedsomanyfamilies,butas the months went on, andthere was only talk of war,Isabelle heard her teacherscallingitthedrôledeguerre,the phony war. The realhorror was happeningelsewhere in Europe; inBelgium and Holland and

Poland.“Willmanners notmatter

inwar,Isabelle?”“Theydon’tmatternow,”

Isabelle said impulsively,wishing a moment later thatshe’dsaidnothing.

Madamestood.“Wewerenevertherightplaceforyou,but…”

“Myfatherwouldputme

anywhere to be rid of me,”she said. Isabelle wouldratherblurtout the truth thanhear another lie. She hadlearned many lessons in theparade of schools andconvents thathadhousedherfor more than a decade—mostofall,she’dlearnedthatshe had to rely on herself.Certainly her father and her

sistercouldn’tbecountedon.Madame looked at

Isabelle.Hernoseflaredeverso slightly, an indication ofpolitebutpaineddisapproval.“It is hard for aman to losehiswife.”

“Itishardforagirltoloseher mother.” She smileddefiantly.“I lostbothparentsthough, didn’t I? One died,

and theother turnedhisbackonme.Ican’tsaywhichhurtmore.”

“MonDieu,Isabelle,mustyoualwaysspeakwhateverisonyourmind?”

Isabelle had heard thiscriticismallher life,butwhyshould she hold her tongue?No one listened to her eitherway.

“Soyouwill leave today.I will telegram your father.Tómas will take you to thetrain.”

“Tonight?” Isabelleblinked. “But… Papa won’twantme.”

“Ah. Consequences,”Madame said. “Perhaps nowyouwill see that they shouldbeconsidered.”

***

Isabellewas alone on a trainagain, heading toward anunknownreception.

She stared out the dirty,mottled window at theflashing green landscape:fieldsofhay,redroofs,stonecottages,graybridges,horses.

Everythinglookedexactlyas it always had and that

surprised her. War wascoming, and she’d imagineditwould leaveamarkon thecountryside somehow,changing the grass color orkilling the trees or scaringaway the birds, but now, asshesatonthistrainchugginginto Paris, she saw thateverythinglookedcompletelyordinary.

At the sprawlingGare deLyon, the train came to awheezing, belching stop.Isabellereacheddownforthesmall valise at her feet andpulleditontoher lap.Asshewatched the passengersshuffle past her, exiting thetrain carriage, the questionshe’d avoided came back toher.

Papa.She wanted to believe he

would welcome her home,that finally, he would holdout his hands and say hername in a loving way, theway he had Before, whenMamanhadbeenthegluethatheldthemtogether.

She stared down at herscuffedsuitcase.

Sosmall.Most of the girls in the

schools she’d attended hadarrived with a collection oftrunksboundinleatherstrapsandstuddedwithbrass tacks.They had pictures on theirdesksandmementoson theirnightstands and photographalbumsintheirdrawers.

Isabelle had a single

framed photograph of awoman she wanted toremember and couldn’t.Whenshetried,allthatcameto herwere blurry images ofpeople crying and thephysician shaking his headand her mother sayingsomething about holdingtightlytohersister’shand.

As if that would help.

Vianne had been as quick toabandonIsabelleasPapahadbeen.

She realized that shewasthe only one left in thecarriage. Clasping hersuitcase in her gloved hand,shesidledoutof theseatandexitedthecarriage.

Theplatformswerefullofpeople. Trains stood in

shuddering rows; smokefilled the air, puffed uptoward the high, archedceiling.Somewhereawhistleblared. Great iron wheelsbegan tochurn.Theplatformtrembledbeneathherfeet.

Herfatherstoodout,eveninthecrowd.

When he spotted her, shesaw the irritation that

transformed his features,reshaped his expression intooneofgrimdetermination.

Hewasatallman,atleastsixfoottwo,buthehadbeenbentby theGreatWar.Oratleast that was what Isabelleremembered hearing once.His broad shoulders slopeddownward,asifpostureweretoomuch to thinkaboutwith

all thatwasonhismind.Histhinning hair was gray andunkempt. He had a broad,flattenednose, likea spatula,and lips as thin as anafterthought. On this hotsummer day, he wore awrinkled white shirt, withsleeves rolled up; a tie hungloosely tied around hisfraying collar, and his

corduroy pants were in needoflaundering.

She tried to look …mature. Perhaps that waswhathewantedofher.

“Isabelle.”She clutched her suitcase

handleinbothhands.“Papa.”“Kicked out of another

one.”She nodded, swallowing

hard.“How will we find

another school in thesetimes?”

That was her opening. “Iwanttolivewithyou,Papa.”

“With me?” He seemedirritated and surprised. Butwasn’t it normal for a girl towanttolivewithherfather?

She took a step toward

him. “I could work in thebookstore.Iwon’tgetinyourway.”

She drew in a sharpbreath, waiting. Soundamplified suddenly. Sheheard people walking, theplatforms groaning beneaththem, pigeons flapping theirwings overhead, a babycrying.

Ofcourse,Isabelle.Comehome.Her father sighed in

disgustandwalkedaway.“Well,” he said, looking

back.“Areyoucoming?”

***

Isabelle lay on a blanket inthe sweet-smelling grass, abook open in front of her.

Somewhere nearby a beebuzzed at a blossom; itsounded like a tinymotorcycle amid all thisquiet.Itwasablisteringlyhotday,aweekaftershe’dcomehome to Paris. Well, nothome. She knew her fatherwas still plotting to be rid ofher, but she didn’t want tothink about that on such a

gorgeous day, in the air thatsmelledofcherriesandsweet,greengrass.

“You read too much,”Christophesaid,chewingonastalkofhay. “What is that, aromanticnovel?”

She rolled toward him,snapping the book shut. Itwas about Edith Cavell, anurse in the Great War. A

hero.“Icouldbeawarhero,Christophe.”

He laughed. “A girl? Ahero?Absurd.”

Isabelle got to her feetquickly, yanking up her hatandwhitekidgloves.

“Don’t be mad,” he said,grinning up at her. “I’m justtiredofthewartalk.Andit’safactthatwomenareuseless

inwar.Yourjobistowaitforourreturn.”

He propped his cheek inonehandandpeeredupatherthroughthemopofblondhairthatfellacrosshiseyes.Inhisyachting-style blazer andwide-legged white pants, helooked exactly like what hewas—a privileged universitystudent who was unused to

work of any kind. Manystudents his age hadvolunteered to leaveuniversity and join the army.NotChristophe.

Isabelle hiked up the hilland through the orchard, outto thegrassyknollwherehisopen-topped Panhard wasparked.

She was already behind

the wheel, with the enginerunning, when Christopheappeared,asheenofsweatonhis conventionally handsomeface, theemptypicnicbaskethangingfromhisarm.

“Just throw that stuff inthe back,” she said with abrightsmile.

“You’renotdriving.”“ItappearsthatIam.Now

getin.”“It’s my automobile,

Isabelle.”“Well,tobeprecise—and

I know how important thefactsaretoyou,Christophe—it’s your mother’sautomobile. And I believe awoman should drive awoman’sautomobile.”

Isabelle triednot to smile

when he rolled his eyes andmuttered “fine” and leanedover to place the basketbehind Isabelle’s seat. Then,moving slowly enough tomake his point, he walkedaround the front of theautomobileandtookhisplaceintheseatbesideher.

Hehadno soonerclickedthedoorshutthansheputthe

automobile in gear andstomped on the gas. Theautomobile hesitated for asecond,thenlurchedforward,spewingdustandsmokeasitgatheredspeed.

“MonDieu,Isabelle.Slowdown!”

She held on to herflapping straw hat with onehand and clutched the

steeringwheelwiththeother.She barely slowed as shepassedothermotorists.

“Mon Dieu, slow down,”hesaidagain.

Certainly he must knowthat she had no intention ofcomplying.

“Awomancango towarthese days,” Isabelle saidwhen the Paris traffic finally

forced her to slow down. “Icouldbeanambulancedriver,maybe. Or I could work onbreaking secret codes. Orcharming the enemy intotellingmeasecretlocationorplan. Remember that game—”

“War is not a game,Isabelle.”

“I believe I know that,

Christophe. But if it doescome, I can help. That’s allI’msaying.”

Ontheruedel’AmiraldeColigny, she had to slam onthe brakes to avoid hitting alorry. A convoy from theComédie Française waspulling out of the Louvremuseum. In fact, there werelorries everywhere and

uniformed gendarmesdirecting traffic. Sandbagswere piled up around severalbuildings and monuments toprotect from attack—ofwhich there had been nonesinceFrancejoinedthewar.

Whywere there somanyFrenchpolicemenouthere?

“Odd,”Isabellemumbled,frowning.

Christophe craned hisneck to see what was goingon. “They’re movingtreasures out of the Louvre,”hesaid.

Isabelle saw a break intraffic and sped up. In notime, she had pulled up infrontofherfather’sbookshopandparked.

She waved good-bye to

Christophe and ducked intothe shop. It was long andnarrow, lined from floor toceiling with books. Over theyears, her father had tried toincrease his inventory bybuilding freestandingbookcases. The result of his“improvements” was thecreation of a labyrinth. Thestacks led one this way and

that, deeper and deeperwithin.Attheverybackwerethe books for tourists. Somestackswerewell lit, some inshadows. There weren’tenough outlets to illuminateevery nook and cranny. Butherfatherkneweverytitleoneveryshelf.

“You’re late,” he said,looking up from his desk in

the back. He was doingsomething with the printingpress, probably making oneofhisbooksofpoetry,whichno one ever purchased. Hisblunt-tipped fingers werestainedblue.“Isupposeboysare more important to youthanemployment.”

She slid onto the stoolbehind the cash register. In

theweekshe’dlivedwithherfather she’d made it a pointnot to argue back, althoughacquiescing gnawed at her.She tapped her footimpatiently. Words, phrases—excuses—clamored to bespokenaloud.Itwashardnotto tell him how she felt, butshe knew how badly hewantedhergone, so sheheld

hertongue.“Do you hear that?” he

saidsometimelater.Hadshefallenasleep?Isabellesatup.Shehadn’t

heardherfatherapproach,buthe was beside her now,frowning.

Therewasastrangesoundin the bookshop, to be sure.Dustfellfromtheceiling;the

bookcases clattered slightly,making a sound likechattering teeth. Shadowspassedinfrontof theleaded-glass display windows at theentrance.Hundredsofthem.

People? So many ofthem?

Papa went to the door.Isabelleslidoffherstoolandfollowed him. As he opened

the door, she saw a crowdrunning down the street,fillingthesidewalks.

“What in the world?”Papamuttered.

IsabellepushedpastPapa,elbowed her way into thecrowd.

Amanbumpedintohersohard she stumbled, and hedidn’t even apologize. More

peoplerushedpastthem.“What is it? What’s

happened?” she asked aflorid, wheezing man whowastryingtobreakfreeofthecrowd.

“TheGermansarecomingintoParis,”hesaid.“Wemustleave.IwasintheGreatWar.Iknow…”

Isabelle scoffed.

“Germans in Paris?Impossible.”

He ran away, bobbingfrom side to side, weaving,hishandsfistingandunfistingathissides.

“We must get home,”Papa said, locking thebookshopdoor.

“It can’t be true,” shesaid.

“Theworstcanalwaysbetrue,”Papasaidgrimly.“Stayclose to me,” he added,movingintothecrowd.

Isabelle had never seensuch panic.All up and downthestreet,lightswerecomingon,automobileswerestarting,doors were slamming shut.People screamed to oneanother and reached out,

tryingtostayconnectedinthemelee.

Isabelle stayed close toherfather.Thepandemoniumin the streets slowed themdown. The Métro tunnelsweretoocrowdedtonavigate,so they had to walk all theway. It was nearing nightfallwhen they finally made ithome. At their apartment

building, it took her fathertwo tries to open the maindoor,hishandswere shakingso badly. Once in, theyignored the rickety cageelevator and hurried up fiveflights of stairs to theirapartment.

“Don’tturnonthelights,”her father said harshly as heopenedthedoor.

Isabellefollowedhimintothelivingroomandwentpasthimtothewindow,whereshelifted the blackout shade,peeringout.

From far away came adroning sound. As it grewlouder, the window rattled,soundinglikeiceinaglass.

She heard a highwhistlingsoundonlyseconds

before she saw the blackflotilla in the sky, like birdsflyinginformation.

Aeroplanes.“Boches,” her father

whispered.Germans.Germanaeroplanes,flying

over Paris. The whistlingsound increased,became likea woman’s scream, and then

somewhere—maybe in thesecond arrondissement, shethought—abombexplodedina flash of eerie bright light,andsomethingcaughtfire.

The air raid sirensounded.Herfatherwrenchedthe curtains shut and led herout of the apartment anddown the stairs. Theirneighbors were all doing the

same thing, carrying coatsandbabiesandpetsdownthestairs to the lobby and thendown the narrow, twistingstone stairs that led to thecellar. In the dark, they sattogether, crowded in close.The air stank of mildew andbodyodorandfear—thatwasthe sharpest scent of all.Thebombingwentonandonand

on, screeching and droning,the cellar walls vibratingaround them; dust fell fromthe ceiling. A baby startedcrying and couldn’t besoothed.

“Shut that child up,please,”someonesnapped.

“Iamtrying,M’sieur.Heisscared.”

“Soareweall.”

After what felt like aneternity, silence fell. It wasalmost worse than the noise.WhatofPariswasleft?

By the time the all clearsounded,Isabellefeltnumb.

“Isabelle?”She wanted her father to

reachout forher, to takeherhandandcomforther,evenifitwas just foramoment,but

he turnedaway fromherandheaded up the dark, twistingbasement stairs. In theirapartment, Isabelle wentimmediately to the window,peeringpasttheshadetolookfor the Eiffel Tower. It wasstillthere,risingaboveawallofthickblacksmoke.

“Don’t stand by thewindows,”hesaid.

She turned slowly. Theonly light in the room wasfrom his torch, a sicklyyellow thread in the dark.“Pariswon’tfall,”shesaid.

Hesaidnothing.Frowned.She wondered if he wasthinkingoftheGreatWarandwhat he’d seen in thetrenches. Perhaps his injurywas hurting again, aching in

sympathy with the sound offalling bombs and hissingflames.

“Gotobed,Isabelle.”“HowcanIpossiblysleep

atatimelikethis?”He sighed. “You will

learn that a lot of things arepossible.”

FIVE

Theyhadbeenliedtobytheir

government. They’d beenassured, timeand timeagain,that theMaginot Line wouldkeep the Germans out ofFrance.

Lies.Neitherconcreteandsteel

nor French soldiers couldstop Hitler’s march, and thegovernment had run fromParislikethievesinthenight.

It was said they were inTours, strategizing, but whatgood did strategy do whenParis was to be overrun bytheenemy?

“Areyouready?”“I am not going, Papa. I

have told you this.” She haddressed for travel—as he’dasked—in a red polka-dotsummerdressandlowheels.

“We will not have thisconversation again, Isabelle.The Humberts will be heresoon to pick you up. TheywilltakeyouasfarasTours.Fromthere,I leaveit toyouringenuity to get to yoursister’s house. Lord knowsyou have always been adeptatrunningaway.”

“So you throw me out.

Again.”“Enough of this, Isabelle.

Yoursister’shusbandisatthefront. She is alone with herdaughter. You will do as Isay.YouwillleaveParis.”

Did he know how thishurther?Didhecare?

“You’ve never caredaboutVianneorme.Andshedoesn’t want me any more

thanyoudo.”“You’regoing,”hesaid.“Iwant to stay and fight,

Papa. To be like EdithCavell.”

He rolled his eyes. “Youremember how she died?ExecutedbytheGermans.”

“Papa,please.”“Enough. I have seen

what they can do, Isabelle.

Youhavenot.”“If it’s that bad, you

shouldcomewithme.”“And leave the apartment

and bookshop to them?” Hegrabbed her by the hand anddragged her out of theapartment and down thestairs,herstrawhatandvalisebanging into the wall, herbreathcomingingasps.

Atlastheopenedthedoorand pulled her out onto theAvenuedeLaBourdonnais.

Chaos.Dust.Crowds.Thestreetwas a living, breathingdragon of humanity, inchingforward, wheezing dirt,honkinghorns;peopleyellingfor help, babies crying, andthe smell of sweat heavy intheair.

Automobiles clogged thearea, each burdened beneathboxes and bags. People hadtaken whatever they couldfind—carts and bicycles andevenchildren’swagons.

Those who couldn’t findor afford the petrol or anautomobile or a bicyclewalked. Hundreds—thousands—of women and

children held hands, shuffledforward, carryingasmuchasthey could hold. Suitcases,picnicbaskets,pets.

Already the very old andvery young were fallingbehind.

Isabelle didn’t want tojoin this hopeless, helplesscrowdofwomenandchildrenand old people. While the

young men were away—dyingfor themat thefront—their families were leaving,heading south or west,although, really, what madeanyofthemthinkitwouldbesafer there? Hitler’s troopshad already invaded Polandand Belgium andCzechoslovakia.

Thecrowdengulfedthem.

A woman ran intoIsabelle, mumbled pardon,andkeptwalking.

Isabelle followed herfather. “I can be useful.Please.I’llbeanurseordrivean ambulance. I can rollbandages or even stitch up awound.”

Beside them, a hornaah-ooh-gahed.

Her father looked pasther, and she saw the reliefthat lifted his countenance.Isabelle recognized that look:itmeanthewasgettingridofher. Again. “They are here,”hesaid.

“Don’t send me away,”shesaid.“Please.”

He maneuvered herthroughthecrowdtowherea

dusty black automobile wasparked. It had a saggy,stained mattress strapped toits roof, along with a set offishing poles and a rabbitcage with the rabbit stillinside.Thebootwasopenbutalso strapped down; insideshe saw a jumble of basketsandsuitcasesandlamps.

Inside the automobile,

Monsieur Humbert’s pale,plump fingers clutched thesteering wheel as if theautomobilewere a horse thatmightbolt at any second.Hewas a pudgymanwho spenthis days in the butcher shopnear Papa’s bookstore. Hiswife, Patricia, was a sturdywoman who had the heavy-jowled-peasant look one saw

so often in the country. Shewas smoking a cigarette andstaring out the window as ifshecouldn’tbelievewhatshewasseeing.

Monsieur Humbert rolleddown hiswindow and pokedhis face into the opening.“Hello,Julien.Sheisready?”

Papa nodded. “She isready.Merci,Edouard.”

Patricia leaned over totalktoPapathroughtheopenwindow. “Weare onlygoingasfarasOrléans.Andshehastopayhershareofpetrol.”

“Ofcourse.”Isabelle couldn’t leave. It

was cowardly.Wrong. “Papa—”

“Au revoir,” he saidfirmly enough to remind her

that she had no choice. Henodded toward the car andshemovednumblytowardit.

Sheopenedthebackdoorand saw three small, dirtygirls lying together, eatingcrackers and drinking frombottlesandplayingwithdolls.Thelastthingshewantedwasto join them, but she pushedherway in,madeaspacefor

herselfamongthesestrangersthat smelled vaguely ofcheese and sausage, andclosedthedoor.

Twisting around in herseat, she stared at her fatherthroughthebackwindow.Hisface held her gaze; she sawhis mouth bend ever soslightlydownward;itwastheonlyhintthathesawher.The

crowdsurgedaroundhimlikewaterarounda rock,until allshecouldseewasthewallofbedraggled strangers comingupbehindthecar.

Isabelle faced forward inher seat again. Out herwindow, a young womanstaredbackather,wildeyes,hair a bird’s nest, an infantsuckling on her breast. The

carmovedslowly,sometimesinching forward, sometimesstopped for long periods oftime. Isabelle watched hercountrymen—countrywomen—shuffle past her, lookingdazed and terrified andconfused. Every now andthen one of them wouldpound on the car bonnet orboot, begging for something.

Theykeptthewindowsrolledupeventhoughtheheatinthecarwasstifling.

Atfirst,shewassadtobeleaving, and then her angerbloomed,growinghottereventhantheairinthebackofthisstinkingcar.Shewassotiredof being considereddisposable. First, her papahad abandoned her, and then

Viannehadpushedheraside.She closed her eyes to hidetearsshecouldn’tsuppress.Inthe darkness that smelled ofsausage and sweat andsmoke, with the childrenarguing beside her, sheremembered the first timeshe’dbeensentaway.

The long train ride …Isabelle stuffed in beside

Vianne,who did nothing butsniff and cry and pretend tosleep.

And then Madamelookingdownhercopperpipeofanosesaying,Theywillbenotrouble.

Although she’d beenyoung—only four—Isabellethought she’d learned whatalone meant, but she’d been

wrong. In the three yearsshe’dlivedatLeJardin,she’dat least had a sister, even ifVianne was never around.Isabelle remembered peeringdown from the upstairswindow, watching Vianneand her friends from adistance, praying to beremembered, to be invited,and then when Vianne had

married Antoine and firedMadame Doom (not her realname,ofcourse,butcertainlythe truth), Isabelle hadbelievedshewasapartofthefamily. But not for long.When Vianne had hermiscarriage, it was instantlygood-bye, Isabelle. Threeweekslater—atseven—she’dbeen in her first boarding

school. That was when shereallylearnedaboutalone.

“You. Isabelle. Did youbring food?” Patricia asked.Shewasturnedaroundinherseat,peeringatIsabelle.

“No.”“Wine?”“I brought money and

clothesandbooks.”“Books,” Patricia said

dismissively,andturnedbackaround.“Thatshouldhelp.”

Isabelle looked out thewindow again. What othermistakes had she alreadymade?

***

Hours passed. Theautomobile made its slow,agonizingwaysouth.Isabelle

was grateful for the dust. Itcoated the window andobscured the terrible,depressingscene.

People. Everywhere. Infront of them, behind them,besidethem;sothickwasthecrowd that the automobilecould only inch forward infits and starts. It was likedriving through a swarm of

bees that pulled apart for asecond and then swarmedagain. The sun waspunishinglyhot. It turned thesmelly automobile interiorinto an oven and beat downon the women outside whowere shuffling toward …what? No one knew whatexactlywashappeningbehindthem or where safety lay

ahead.The car lurched forward

andstoppedhard.Isabellehitthe seat in front of her. Thechildren immediately startedtocryfortheirmother.

“Merde,” MonsieurHumbertmuttered.

“M’sieur Humbert,”Patricia said primly. “Thechildren.”

An old woman poundedon the car’s bonnet as sheshuffledpast.

“That’s it, then, MadameHumbert,” he said. “We areoutofpetrol.”

Patricia looked like alandedfish.“What?”

“Istoppedateverychancealong the way. You know Idid.Wehave nomore petrol

andthere’snonetobehad.”“But…well…what are

wetodo?”“We’ll find a place to

stay. Perhaps I can convincemybrothertocomefetchus.”Humbert opened hisautomobile door, beingcareful not to hit anyoneamblingpast,andsteppedoutonto the dusty, dirt road.

“See. There. Étampes is notfar ahead. We’ll get a roomandamealanditwillalllookbetterinthemorning.”

Isabelle sat upright.Surely she had fallen asleepand missed something.Weretheygoingtosimplyabandonthe automobile? “You thinkwecanwalktoTours?”

Patricia turned around in

her seat. She looked asdrained and hot as Isabellefelt. “Perhaps one of yourbookscanhelpyou.Certainlythey were a smarter choicethan bread or water. Come,girls.Outoftheautomobile.”

Isabellereacheddownforthe valise at her feet. It waswedged in tightly andrequired some effort to

extricate. With a growl ofdetermination, she finallyyankeditfreeandopenedthecardoorandsteppedout.

She was immediatelysurroundedbypeople,pushedandshovedandcursedat.

Someonetriedtoyankhersuitcaseoutofhergrasp.Shefoughtforit,hungon.Assheclutched it to her body, a

woman walked past her,pushing a bicycle laden withpossessions. The womanstared at Isabelle hopelessly,her dark eyes revealingexhaustion.

Someone else bumpedinto Isabelle; she stumbledforwardandalmostfell.Onlythe thicket of bodies in frontof her saved her from going

to her knees in the dust anddirt. She heard the personbeside her apologize, andIsabellewasabouttorespondwhen she remembered theHumberts.

She shoved her wayaroundtotheothersideofthecar, crying out, “M’sieurHumbert!”

Therewasnoanswer,just

theceaselesspoundingoffeetontheroad.

She called out Patricia’sname,buthercrywaslost inthe thud of somany feet, somany tires crunching on thedirt. People bumped her,pushedpasther.Ifshefell toher knees, she’d be trampledand die here, alone in thethrongofhercountrymen.

Clutching the smoothleather handle of her valise,she joined the march towardÉtampes.

She was still walkinghours later when night fell.Her feet ached; a blisterburned with every step.Hunger walked beside her,pokingherinsistentlywithitssharp little elbow, but what

could she do about it? She’dpacked for a visit with hersister,not anendlessexodus.She had her favorite copy ofMadameBovaryandthebookeveryone was reading—Autant en emporte le vent—andsomeclothes;nofoodorwater. She’d expected thatthiswholejourneywouldlasta few hours. Certainly not

that shewouldbewalking toCarriveau.

Atthetopofasmallrise,shecametoastop.Moonlightrevealed thousands of peoplewalking beside her, in frontof her, behind her; jostlingher, bumping into her,shovingherforwarduntilshehadnochoicebut to stumblealong with them. Hundreds

morehadchosen thishillsideas a resting place. Womenand children were campedalong thesideof the road, infieldsandguttersandgullies.

Thedirt roadwas litteredwith broken-downautomobiles and belongings;forgotten, discarded, steppedon, too heavy to carry.Women and children lay

entangled in the grass orbeneath trees or alongsideditches, asleep, their armscoiledaroundeachother.

Isabelle came to anexhausted halt on theoutskirts of Étampes. Thecrowd spilled out in front ofher, stumbling onto the roadtotown.

Andsheknew.

There would be nowhereto stay in Étampes andnothing to eat. The refugeeswho had arrived before herwould have moved throughthe town like locusts, buyingevery foodstuff on theshelves. Therewouldn’t be aroom available. Her moneywoulddohernogood.

Sowhatshouldshedo?

Head southwest, towardTours and Carriveau. Whatelse?As agirl, she’d studiedmaps of this region in herquest to return to Paris. Sheknew this landscape, if onlyshecouldthink.

Shepeeledawayfromthecrowd headed toward thecollection of moonlit graystone buildings in the

distance and picked her waycarefully through the valley.All around her people wereseatedinthegrassorsleepingbeneath blankets. She couldhear them moving,whispering. Hundreds ofthem. Thousands. On the farsideof the field, she foundatrail that ran south along alow stonewall.Turningonto

it, she found herself alone.Shepaused,lettingthefeelofthat settle through her, calmher. Then she beganwalkingagain.After amile or so thetrail led her into a copse ofspindlytrees.

She was deep in thewoods—trying not to focuson the pain in her toe, theache in her stomach, the

dryness in her throat—whenshesmelledsmoke.

And roasting meat.Hunger stripped her resolveand made her careless. Shesaw the orange glow of thefire andmoved toward it.Atthe last minute, she realizedher danger and stopped. Atwig snapped beneath herfoot.

“You may as well comeover,” said a male voice.“You move like an elephantthroughthewoods.”

Isabelle froze. She knewshe’d been stupid. Therecould be danger here for agirlalone.

“If I wanted you dead,you’dbedead.”

That was certainly true.

Hecouldhavecomeuponherinthedarkandslitherthroat.She’d been paying attentionto nothing except thegnawing in her emptystomach and the aroma ofroastingmeat.

“Youcantrustme.”She stared into the

darkness, trying tomakehimout. Couldn’t. “You would

say that if the opposite weretrue,too.”

A laugh. “Oui. And now,comehere.Ihavearabbitonthefire.”

She followed theglowoffirelight over a rocky gullyand uphill. The tree trunksaround her looked silver inthe moonlight. She movedlightly, ready to run in an

instant. At the last treebetween her and the fire shestopped.

A young man sat by thefire, leaning back against arough trunk, one leg thrustforward,onebentattheknee.He was probably only a fewyearsolderthanIsabelle.

It was hard to see himwell in the orange glow. He

had longish, stringy blackhair that looked unfamiliarwith a comb or soap andclothes so tattered andpatchedshewas remindedofthe war refugees who’d sorecently shuffled throughParis,hoardingcigarettesandbits of paper and emptybottles,beggingforchangeorhelp. He had the pale,

unwholesome look ofsomeone who never knewwhere his next meal wascomingfrom.

And yet he was offeringherfood.

“I hope you are agentleman,”shesaidfromherplaceinthedarkness.

Helaughed.“I’msureyoudo.”

Shestepped into the lightcastbythefire.

“Sit,”hesaid.Shesatacrossfromhimin

the grass. He leaned aroundthe fire and handed her thebottle of wine. She took along drink, so long helaughed as she handed himback the bottle and wipedwinefromherchin.

“What a pretty drunkardyouare.”

She had no idea how toanswerthat.

Hesmiled.“Gaëtan Dubois. My

friendscallmeGaët.”“IsabelleRossignol.”“Ah,anightingale.”She shrugged. It was

hardlyanewobservation.Her

surnamemeant“nightingale.”Maman had called Vianneand Isabelle her nightingalesas she kissed them goodnight.ItwasoneofIsabelle’sfew memories of her. “WhyareyouleavingParis?Amanlike you should stay andfight.”

“They opened the prison.Apparentlyitisbettertohave

us fight for France than sitbehind bars when theGermansstormthrough.”

“Youwereinprison?”“Doesthatscareyou?”“No. It’s just …

unexpected.”“You should be scared,”

he said, pushing the stringyhair out of his eyes.“Anyway, you are safe

enoughwithme.Ihaveotherthings on my mind. I amgoingtocheckonmymamanand sister and then find aregiment to join. I’ll kill asmany of those bastards as Ican.”

“You’re lucky,” she saidwith a sigh. Why was it soeasy formen in theworld todo as they wanted and so

difficultforwomen?“Comewithme.”Isabelle knew better than

tobelievehim.“Youonlyaskbecause I’m pretty and youthink I’ll end up in your bedifIstay,”shesaid.

Hestaredacrossthefireather. It cracked and hissed asfat dripped onto the flames.Hetooka longdrinkofwine

andhandedthebottlebacktoher. Near the flames, theirhands touched, the barestbrushing of skin on skin. “Icould have you in my bedright now if that’s what Iwanted.”

“Notwillingly,” she said,swallowing hard, unable tolookaway.

“Willingly,” he said in a

way that made her skinprickle and made breathingdifficult.“Butthat’snotwhatI meant. Or what I said. Iaskedyoutocomewithmetofight.”

Isabelle felt something sonew she couldn’t quite graspit. She knew she wasbeautiful.Itwassimplyafactto her. People said it

whenever they met her. Shesaw how men gazed at herwith unabashed desire,remarking on her hair orgreeneyesorplumplips;howthey looked at her breasts.She saw her beauty reflectedinwomen’seyes,too,girlsatschoolwhodidn’twanthertostand too near the boys theyliked and judged her to be

arrogant before she’d evenspokenaword.

Beauty was just anotherway to discount her, to notsee her. She had grown usedto getting attention in otherways. And she wasn’t acomplete innocent when itcame to passion, either.Hadn’tthegoodSistersofSt.Francis expelled her for

kissingaboyduringmass?Butthisfeltdifferent.He saw her beauty, even

in the half-light, she couldtell, but he looked past it.Either that, or he was smartenoughtoseethatshewantedto offer more to the worldthanaprettyface.

“I could do somethingthat matters,” she said

quietly.“Of course you could. I

could teachyou touseagunandaknife.”

“IneedtogotoCarriveauand make sure my sister iswell. Her husband is at thefront.”

Hegazedatheracrossthefire, his expression intent.“We will see your sister in

Carriveau and my mother inPoitiers, and thenwewill beofftojointhewar.”

He made it sound likesuch an adventure, nodifferent from running off tojoin the circus, as if theywould see men whoswallowed swords and fatwomenwithbeardsalongtheway.

It was what she’d beenlookingforallofherlife.“Aplan, then,” she said, unabletohidehersmile.

SIX

The next morning Isabelle

blinkedawaketoseesunlightgilding the leaves rustlingoverhead.

She sat up, resmoothingtheskirt thathadhikedup inher sleep, revealing lacywhite garters and ruined silkstockings.

“Don’t do that on myaccount.”

Isabelleglancedtoherleft

and saw Gaëtan comingtowardher.Forthefirsttime,she saw him clearly.Hewaslanky,wiry as an apostrophemark, and dressed in clothesthat appeared to have comefromabeggar’sbin.Beneatha fraying cap, his face wasscruffy and sharp, unshaven.He had a wide brow and apronouncedchinanddeep-set

gray eyes that were heavilylashed.Thelookinthoseeyeswas as sharp as the point ofhis chin, and revealed a kindofclarifiedhunger.Lastnightshe’dthoughtitwashowhe’dlooked at her. Now she sawthat itwas how he looked attheworld.

Hedidn’tscareher,notatall. Isabelle was not like her

sister,Vianne,whowasgivento fear and anxiety. ButneitherwasIsabelleafool.Ifshe was going to travel withthisman,shehadbettergetafewthingsstraight.

“So,”shesaid.“Prison.”He stared at her, raised a

black eyebrow, as if to say,Scared yet? “A girl like youwouldn’t know anything

about it. I could tell you itwas a Jean Valjean sort ofstay and you would think itwasromantic.”

It was the kind of thingshe heard all the time. Itcircled back to her looks, asmost snide comments did.Surelyaprettyblondgirlhadtobeshallowanddim-witted.“Were you stealing food to

feedyourfamily?”He grinned crookedly. It

gave him a lopsided look,with one side of his smilehiking up farther than theother.“No.”

“Areyoudangerous?”“Itdepends.Whatdoyou

thinkofcommunists?”“Ah. So you were a

politicalprisoner.”

“Something like that.ButlikeIsaid,anicegirllikeyouwouldn’t know anythingaboutsurvival.”

“You’d be surprised thethingsIknow,Gaëtan.Thereis more than one kind ofprison.”

“Is there, pretty girl?Whatdoyouknowaboutit?”

“Whatwasyourcrime?”

“I took things that didn’tbelong tome. Is that enoughofananswer?”

Thief.“Andyougotcaught.”“Obviously.”“That isn’t exactly

comforting, Gaëtan. Wereyoucareless?”

“Gaët,” he said, movingtowardher.

“I haven’t decided ifwe’refriendsyet.”

He touchedherhair, letafew strands coil around hisdirty finger. “We’re friends.Bankonit.Nowlet’sgo.”

When he reached for herhand, it occurred to her torefuse him, but she didn’t.Theywalkedoutoftheforestand back onto the road,

merging once again into thecrowd, which opened justenough to let them in andthen closed around them.Isabelle hung on to Gaëtanwith one hand and held hersuitcaseintheother.

Theywalkedformiles.Automobiles died around

them. Cartwheels broke.Horses stopped and couldn’t

be made to move again.Isabellefeltherselfbecominglistlessanddull,exhaustedbyheat and dust and thirst. Awoman limped along besideher, crying, her tears blackwith dirt and grit, and thenthat woman was replaced byanolderwoman ina furcoatwho was sweating profuselyand seemed to be wearing

every piece of jewelry sheowned.

The sun grew stronger,became stiflingly,staggeringly hot. Childrenwhined, women whimpered.The acrid, stuffy scent ofbody odor and sweat filledthe air, but Isabelle hadgrown so used to it that shebarely noticed other people’s

smellorherown.It was almost three

o’clock,thehottestpartoftheday, when they saw aregiment of French soldierswalking alongside them,dragging their rifles. Thesoldiers moved in adisorganized way, not information, not smartly. Atank rumbled beside them,

crunching over belongingsleft in the road; on it severalwhey-faced French soldierssatslumped,theirheadshunglow.

Isabelle pulled free ofGaëtanandstumbled throughthecrowd,elbowingherwayto the regiment. “You’regoing the wrong way!” shescreamed, surprised to hear

howhoarsehervoicewas.Gaëtan pounced on a

soldier, shoved him back sohardhestumbledandcrashedinto a slow-moving tank.“WhoisfightingforFrance?”

The bleary-eyed soldiershookhishead.“Noone.” Inaglint of silver, Isabelle sawthe knife Gaëtan held to theman’s throat. The soldier’s

gaze narrowed. “Go ahead.Doit.Killme.”

Isabelle pulled Gaëtanaway. In his eyes, she saw aragesodeepitscaredher.Hecoulddo it;hecouldkill thisman by slitting his throat.And she thought: Theyopened the prisons. Was heworsethanathief?

“Gaët?”shesaid.

Her voice got through tohim.He shookhisheadas ifto clear it and lowered hisknife. “Who is fighting forus?” he said bitterly,coughingatthedust.

“We will be,” she said.“Soon.”

Behindher,anautomobilehonked its horn. Aah-ooh-gah. Isabelle ignored it.

Automobiles were no betterthan walking anymore—thefew that were still runningwere moving only at thewhim of the people aroundthem; like flotsam in thereeds of a muddy river.“Come on.” She pulled himaway from the demoralizedregiment.

They walked on, still

holding hands, but as thehourspassed,IsabellenoticedachangeinGaëtan.Herarelyspokeanddidn’tsmile.

At each town, the crowdthinned.PeoplestumbledintoArtenay, Saran, and Orléans,their eyes alight withdesperation as they reachedinto handbags and pocketsand wallets for money they

hopedtobeabletospend.Still, Isabelle and Gaëtan

kept going. They walked allday and fell into exhaustedsleep in the dark and wokeagain to walk the next day.By their third day, Isabellewas numb with exhaustion.Oozing red blisters hadformed between most of hertoes and on the balls of her

feet and every step waspainful.Dehydrationgaveheraterrible,poundingheadacheand hunger gnawed at heremptystomach.Dustcloggedherthroatandeyesandmadehercoughconstantly.

She stumbled past afreshlyduggraveon thesideof the road, marked by acrudely hammered-together

wooden cross. Her shoecaughtonsomething—adeadcat—and she staggeredforward,almostfallingtoherknees.Gaëtansteadiedher.

She clung to his hand,remainedstubbornlyupright.

How much later was itthatsheheardsomething?

Anhour?Aday?Bees.Theybuzzedaround

her head; she batted themaway. She licked her driedlips and thought of pleasantdaysinthegarden,withbeesbuzzingabout.

No.Notbees.Sheknewthatsound.She stopped, frowning.

Her thoughts were addled.What had she been trying to

remember?The droning grew louder,

filling the air, and then theaeroplanes appeared, six orseven of them, looking likesmall crucifixes against theblueandcloudlesssky.

Isabelle tented a handover her eyes, watching theaeroplanes fly closer,lower…

Someone yelled, “It’s theBoches!”

In the distance, a stonebridgeexplodedinasprayoffireandstoneandsmoke.

The aeroplanes droppedloweroverthecrowd.

Gaëtan threw Isabelle tothe ground and covered herbody with his. The worldbecame pure sound: the roar

of the aeroplane engines, therat-ta-ta-tat of machine-gunfire, the beat of her heart,peoplescreaming.Bulletsateup the grass in rows, peoplescreamed and cried out.Isabellesawawomanflyintotheair likea ragdoll andhitthegroundinaheap.

Treessnappedinhalfandfell over, people yelled.

Flames burst into existence.Smokefilledtheair.

Andthen…quiet.Gaëtanrolledoffher.“Are you all right?” he

asked.She pushed the hair from

hereyesandsatup.There were mangled

bodies everywhere, and fires,and billowing black smoke.

People were screaming,crying,dying.

An old man moaned,“Helpme.”

Isabellecrawledtohimonherhandsandknees,realizingas she got close that theground was marshy with hisblood. A stomach woundgaped through his rippedshirt; entrails bulged out of

thetornflesh.“Maybe there’s a doctor”

was all she could think of tosay. And then she heard itagain.Thedroning.

“They’re coming back.”Gaëtanpulledhertoherfeet.She almost slipped in theblood-soaked grass. Not faraway a bomb hit, explodinginto fire. Isabelle saw a

toddler in soiled nappiesstanding by a dead woman,crying.

She stumbled toward thetoddler. Gaëtan yanked hersideways.

“Ihavetohelp—”“Your dying won’t help

thatkid,”hegrowled,pullingher so hard it hurt. Shestumbledalongbesidehimin

a daze. They dodgeddiscarded automobiles andbodies, most of which wereripped beyond repair,bleeding, bones sticking outthroughclothes.

At the edge of town,Gaëtan pulled Isabelle into asmall stone church. Otherswerealreadythere,crouchingin corners, hiding amid the

pews, hugging their lovedonesclose.

Aeroplanes roaredoverhead, accompanied bythe stuttering shriek ofmachine guns. The stained-glass window shattered; bitsof colored glass clattered tothefloor,slicingthroughskinon the way down. Timberscracked, dust and stones fell.

Bulletsranacrossthechurch,nailing arms and legs to thefloor.Thealtarexploded.

Gaëtan said something toher,andsheanswered,orshethought she did, but shewasn’t sure, and before shecould figure it out, anotherbomb whistled, fell, and theroofoverherheadexploded.

SEVEN

The école élementaire was

not a big school by citystandards,butitwasspaciousandwelllaidout,plentylargeenoughforthechildrenofthecommune of Carriveau.Beforeitslifeasaschool,thebuilding had been stables forarichlandowner,andthusitsU-shape design; the centralcourtyard had been agathering place for carriages

and tradesmen. It boastedgray stone walls, bright blueshutters, and wooden floors.Themanorhouse,towhichithad once been aligned, hadbeen bombed in the GreatWar and never rebuilt. Likesomanyschools in the smalltowns in France, it stood onthefaredgeoftown.

Vianne was in her

classroom, behind her desk,staring out at the shiningchildren’s faces in front ofher, dabbing her upper lipwith her wrinkledhandkerchief.Onthefloorbyeach child’s desk was theobligatorygasmask.Childrennow carried themeverywhere.

The open windows and

thick stone walls helped tokeep the sun at bay, but stillthe heat was stifling. Lordknew, it was hard enough toconcentratewithouttheaddedburdenof theheat.Thenewsfrom Paris was terrible,terrifying. All anyone couldtalk about was the gloomyfuture and the shockingpresent: Germans in Paris.

The Maginot Line broken.French soldiers dead intrenchesandrunningfromthefront.Forthelastthreenights—since the telephone callfrom her father—she hadn’tslept. Isabelle was God-knew-where between ParisandCarriveau, and there hadbeennowordfromAntoine.

“Whowants to conjugate

the verbcourir forme?” sheaskedtiredly.

“Shouldn’twebelearningGerman?”

Vianne realized whatshe’d just been asked. Thestudentswereinterestednow,sitting upright, their eyesbright.

“Pardon?” she said,clearing her throat, buying

time.“We should be learning

German,notFrench.”It was young Gilles

Fournier, the butcher’s son.Hisfatherandallthreeofhisolderbrothershadgoneofftothewar,leavingonlyhimandhismothertorunthefamily’sbutchershop.

“And shooting,” François

agreed, nodding his head.“My maman says we willneed to know how to shootGermans,too.”

“My grandmère says weshould all just leave,” saidClaire. “She remembers thelastwar and she sayswe arefoolsforstaying.”

“The Germans won’tcross the Loire, will they,

MadameMauriac?”In the front row, center,

Sophie sat forward in herseat, her hands clasped atopthe wooden desk, her eyeswide. She had been as upsetbytherumorsasVianne.Thechild had cried herself tosleep two nights in a row,worrying over her father.Now Bébé came to school

withher.Sarahsatinthedeskbeside her best friend,lookingequallyfearful.

“It is all right to beafraid,” Vianne said, movingtoward them. It was whatshe’dsaidtoSophielastnightand to herself, but thewordsranghollow.

“I’m not afraid,” Gillessaid. “I got a knife. I’ll kill

any dirty Boches who showupinCarriveau.”

Sarah’s eyes widened.“They’recominghere?”

“No,” Vianne said. Thedenialdidn’tcomeeasily;herown fear caught at theword,stretched it out. “The Frenchsoldiers—your fathers anduncles and brothers—are thebravestmenintheworld.I’m

sure they are fighting forParis and Tours and Orléansevenaswespeak.”

“But Paris is overrun,”Gilles said. “What happenedto the French soldiers at thefront?”

“Inwars, therearebattlesand skirmishes.Losses alongthe way. But our men willnever let the Germans win.

Wewill never give up.” Shemovedcloser toherstudents.“Butwe have a part to play,too; those of us left behind.We have to be brave andstrong, too, and not believethe worst. We have to keepon with our lives so ourfathers and brothers and …husbands have lives to comehometo,oui?”

“But what about TanteIsabelle?” Sophie asked.“Grandpère said she shouldhavebeenherebynow.”

“My cousin ran fromParis, too,” François said.“He is not arrived here,either.”

“My uncle says it is badontheroads.”

Thebellrangandstudents

popped from their seats likesprings.Inaninstantthewar,the aeroplanes, the fearwereforgotten. They were eight-and nine-year-olds freed atthe end of a summer schoolday, and they acted like it.Yelling, laughing, talking allat once, pushing one anotheraside,runningforthedoor.

Vianne was thankful for

the bell. She was a teacher,forGod’ssake.Whatdidsheknow to say about dangerssuchasthese?Howcouldsheassuage a child’s fear whenher own was straining at theleash? She busied herselfwith ordinary tasks—gathering up the detritus thatsixteen children left behind,banging chalk from the soft

erasers, putting books away.When everything was as itshouldbe,sheputherpapersand pencils into her ownleather satchel and took herhandbag out of the desk’sbottomdrawer. Then she putonherstrawhat,pinned it inplace,andleftherclassroom.

She walked down thequiet hallways, waving to

colleagues who were still intheir classrooms. Several ofthe rooms were closed upnow that the male teachershadbeenmobilized.

At Rachel’s classroom,she paused, watching asRachel put her son in hispram and wheeled it towardthe door. Rachel had beenplanningtotakethis termoff

from teaching to stay homewith Ari, but the war hadchangedallofthat.Now,shehadnochoicebuttobringherbabytoworkwithher.

“You look like I feel,”Vianne said as her friendneared. Rachel’s dark hairhad responded to thehumidityanddoubledinsize.

“That can’t be a

compliment but I’mdesperate,soIamtakingitasone.Youhavechalkonyourcheek,bytheway.”

Vianne wiped her cheekabsently and leaned over thepram.Thebabywassleepingsoundly.“How’shedoing?”

“Foraten-month-oldwhois supposed to be at homewithhismamanandisinstead

gallivanting around townbeneath enemy aeroplanesand listening to ten-year-oldstudentsshriekallday?Fine.”She smiled and pushed adampringletfromherfaceasthey headed down thecorridor.“DoIsoundbitter?”

“Nomorethantherestofus.”

“Ha!Bitternesswould do

you good. All that smilingand pretending of yourswouldgivemehives.”

Rachel bumped the pramdown the three stone stepsandontothewalkwaythatledto the grassy play area thathad once been an exercisearena for horses and adelivery area for tradesmen.A four-hundred-year-old

stone fountain gurgled anddrippedwaterinthecenteroftheyard.

“Come on, girls!” Rachelcalled out to Sophie andSarah, who were sittingtogetheronaparkbench.Thegirls responded immediatelyandfellintostepaheadofthewomen,chatteringconstantly,their heads cocked together,

theirhandsclasped.Asecondgenerationofbestfriends.

They turned into analleywayandcameoutonrueVictorHugo,rightinfrontofabistrowhereoldmensatonironwork chairs, drinkingcoffeeandsmokingcigarettesandtalkingpolitics.Aheadofthem, Vianne saw a haggardtrioofwomenlimpingalong,

their clothes tattered, theirfacesyellowwithdust.

“Poor women,” Rachelsaid with a sigh. “HélèneRuelle told me this morningthatat leastadozen refugeescame to town late last night.Thestoriestheybringarenotgood.ButnooneembellishesastorylikeHélène.”

Ordinarily Vianne would

make a comment aboutwhatagossipHélènewas, but shecouldn’tbeglib.AccordingtoPapa, Isabelle had left Parisdays ago. She still hadn’tarrived at Le Jardin. “I’mworried about Isabelle,” shesaid.

Rachel linked her armthrough Vianne’s. “Do youremember the first time your

sister ran away from thatboardingschoolinLyon?”

“She was seven yearsold.”

“Shemade it all the wayto Amboise. Alone. With nomoney. She spent two nightsin the woods and talked herwayontothetrain.”

Vianne barelyremembered anything of that

timeexceptforherowngrief.When she’d lost the firstbaby, she’d fallen intodespair. The lost year,Antoine called it. That washow she thought of it, too.When Antoine told her hewas taking Isabelle to Paris,andtoPapa,Viannehadbeen—Godhelpher—relieved.

Was it any surprise that

Isabelle had run away fromtheboarding school towhichshe’dbeensent?Tothisday,Viannefeltanabidingshameat how she had treated herbabysister.

“She was nine the firsttime she made it to Paris,”Vianne said, trying to findcomfort in the familiar story.Isabellewastoughanddriven

and determined; she alwayshadbeen.

“If I’m notmistaken, shewas expelled two years laterforrunningawayfromschoolto see a traveling circus. Orwas that when she climbedout of the second-floordormitory window using abedsheet?” Rachel smiled.“The point is, Isabelle will

makeithereifthat’swhatshewants.”

“God help anyone whotriestostopher.”

“Shewillarriveanyday.Ipromise. Unless she has metan exiled prince and fallendesperatelyinlove.”

“That is thekindof thingthatcouldhappentoher.”

“Yousee?”Rachelteased.

“Youfeelbetteralready.Nowcome to my house forlemonade. It’s just the thingonadaythishot.”

***

After supper, Vianne gotSophie settled into bed andwentdownstairs.Shewastooworried to relax. The silencein her house kept reminding

her that no one had come toher door. She could notremainstill.RegardlessofherconversationwithRachel,shecouldn’t dispel her worry—and a terrible sense offoreboding—aboutIsabelle.

Vianne stood up, satdown, then stood again andwalked to the front door,openingit.

Outside, the fields laybeneath a purple and pinkevening sky.Her yardwas aseries of familiar shapes—well-tended apple trees stoodprotectivelybetweenthefrontdoor and the rose-and-vine-covered stone wall, beyondwhich lay the road to townandacresandacresof fields,studded here and there with

thickets of narrow-trunkedtrees.Offtotherightwasthedeeperwoodswhere she andAntoine had often sneakedoff to be alone when theywereyounger.

Antoine.Isabelle.Wherewerethey?Washe

atthefront?WasshewalkingfromParis?

Don’tthinkaboutit.She needed to do

something. Gardening. Keephermindonsomethingelse.

After retrieving her worngardening gloves andsteppingintothebootsbythedoor,shemadeherwaytothegarden positioned on a flatpatch of land between theshed and the barn. Potatoes,

onions, carrots, broccoli,peas, beans, cucumbers,tomatoes, and radishes grewin its carefully tended beds.On the hillside between thegardenand thebarnwere theberries—raspberries andblackberries in carefullycontained rows. She kneltdown in the rich, black dirtandbeganpullingweeds.

Earlysummerwasusuallya time of promise. Certainly,thingscouldgowronginthismostardentseason,butifoneremained steady and calmand didn’t shirk the all-important duties of weedingandthinning,theplantscouldbeguidedand tamed.Viannealways made sure that thebedswerepreciselyorganized

and tended with a firm yetgentle hand. Even moreimportantthanwhatshegaveher garden was what it gaveher.Init,shefoundasenseofcalm.

She became aware ofsomething wrong slowly, inpieces. First, there was asound that didn’t belong, avibration, a thudding, and

then a murmur. The odorscamenext:somethingwhollyatoddswithhersweetgardensmell, something acrid andsharp that made her think ofdecay.

Vianne wiped herforehead, aware that shewassmearingblackdirtacrossherskin, and stood up. Tuckingherdirtyglovesinthegaping

hip pockets of her pants, sherose to her feet and movedtoward her gate. Before shereached it, a trio of womenappeared,asifsculptedoutofthe shadows. They stoodclumped together in the roadjust behind her gate. An oldwoman,dressed in rags,heldthe others close to her—ayoungwomanwithababe-in-

armsandateenagedgirlwhoheldanemptybirdcageinonehand and a shovel in theother. Each looked glassy-eyed and feverish; the youngmotherwasclearlytrembling.Their faces were drippingwith sweat, their eyes werefilled with defeat. The oldwomanheldout dirty, emptyhands. “Can you spare some

water?” she asked, but evenassheaskedherthequestion,she looked unconvinced.Beaten.

Vianne opened the gate.“Of course. Would you liketo come in? Sit down,perhaps?”

Theoldwomanshookherhead.“Weareaheadofthem.There’s nothing for those in

theback.”Vianne didn’t knowwhat

the woman meant, but itdidn’t matter. She could seethat the women weresufferingfromexhaustionandhunger.“Justamoment.”Shewent into the house andpacked themsomebreadandrawcarrotsandasmallbitofcheese. All that she had to

spare.Shefilledawinebottlewith water and returned,offering them the provisions.“It’snotmuch,”shesaid.

“Itismorethanwe’vehadsince Tours,” the youngwoman said in a tonelessvoice.

“You were in Tours?”Vianneasked.

“Drink, Sabine,” the old

woman said, holding thewatertothegirl’slips.

Vianne was about to askabout Isabelle when the oldwoman said sharply,“They’rehere.”

Theyoungmothermadeamoaningsoundandtightenedher hold on the baby, whowas so quiet—and his tinyfist so blue—that Vianne

gasped.Thebabywasdead.Vianne knew about the

kind of talon grief thatwouldn’t let go; she hadfallen into the fathomlessgray thatwarped amind andmade a mother keep holdingonlongafterhopewasgone.

“Go inside,” the oldwomansaidtoVianne.“Lock

yourdoors.”“But…”The ragged trio backed

away—lurched, really—as ifVianne’s breath had becomenoxious.

And then she saw themassofblackshapesmovingacross the field and cominguptheroad.

Thesmellpreceded them.

Human sweat and filth andbody odor. As they neared,the miasma of blackseparated, peeled into forms.She saw people on the roadand in the fields; walking,limping, coming toward her.Some were pushing bicyclesorpramsordraggingwagons.Dogs barked, babies cried.There was coughing, throat

clearing,whining.Theycameforward,throughthefieldandup the road, relentlesslymoving closer, pushing oneanother aside, their voicesrising.

Vianne couldn’t help somany. She rushed into herhouse and locked the doorbehind her. Inside, she wentfrom room to room, locking

doors and closing shutters.When she was finished, shestood in the living room,uncertain,herheartpounding.

Thehousebegantoshake,just a little. The windowsrattled, the shutters thumpedagainst the stone exterior.Dust rained down from theexposed timbers of theceiling.

Someone pounded on thefrontdoor.Itwentonandonand on, fists landing on thefront door in hammer blowsthatmadeVianneflinch.

Sophie came runningdown the stairs, clutchingBébétoherchest.“Maman!”

Vianne opened her armsand Sophie ran into herembrace. Vianne held her

daughter close as theonslaught increased.Someonepoundedonthesidedoor. The copper pots andpans hanging in the kitchenclanged together, made asound like church bells. Sheheard the high squealing oftheoutdoorpump.Theyweregettingwater.

Vianne said to Sophie,

“Wait here one moment. Sitonthedivan.”

“Don’tleaveme!”Vianne peeled her

daughterawayandforcedherto sit down. Taking an ironpoker from the side of thefireplace,shecreptcautiouslyupthestairs.Fromthesafetyof her bedroom, she peeredout the window, careful to

remainhidden.There were dozens of

people in her yard; mostlywomenandchildren,movinglikeapackofhungrywolves.Their voices melded into asingledesperategrowl.

Vianne backed away.Whatifthedoorsdidn’thold?So many people could breakdown doors and windows,

evenwalls.Terrified, she went back

downstairs, not breathinguntilshesawSophiestillsafeon the divan. Vianne satdownbesideherdaughterandtook her in her arms, lettingSophiecurlupas ifshewerea much littler girl. Shestroked her daughter’s curlyhair. A better mother, a

stronger mother, would havehad a story to tell right now,butViannewassoafraidthather voice had gonecompletely. All she couldthink was an endless,beginninglessprayer.Please.

She pulled Sophie closerand said, “Go to sleep,Sophie.I’mhere.”

“Maman,” Sophie said,

her voice almost lost in thepoundingon thedoor.“WhatifTanteIsabelleisoutthere?”

Vianne stared down atSophie’s small, earnest face,covered now in a sheen ofsweat and dust. “God helpher” was all she could thinkoftosay.

***

Atthesightofthegraystonehouse, Isabelle felt awash inexhaustion. Her shoulderssagged. The blisters on herfeet became unbearable. Infront of her, Gaëtan openedthe gate. She heard it clatterbrokenlyandtiltsideways.

Leaning into him, shestumbleduptothefrontdoor.She knocked twice, wincing

each time her bloodiedknuckleshitthewood.

Nooneanswered.Shepoundedwithbothof

herfists,tryingtocallouthersister’s name, but her voicewas too hoarse to find anyvolume.

She staggered back,almostsinkingtoherkneesindefeat.

“Where can you sleep?”Gaëtan said, holding heruprightwith his hand on herwaist.

“In the back. Thepergola.”

He led her around thehouse to thebackyard. In thelush, jasmine-perfumedshadows of the arbor, shecollapsed to her knees. She

hardly noticed that he wasgone, and then he was backwithsometepidwater,whichshe gulped from his cuppedhands. Itwasn’t enough.Herstomachgnarledwithhunger,sentanachedeep,deepinsideof her. Still, when he startedto leave again, she reachedout for him, mumbledsomething, a plea not to be

left alone, and he sank downbeside her, putting out hisarm for her to rest her headupon.Theylaysidebysideinthe warm dirt, staring upthrough the black thicket ofvines that looped around thetimbers and cascaded to theground.Theheadyaromasofjasmine and blooming rosesand rich earth created a

beautiful bower. And yet,evenhere,inthisquiet,itwasimpossible to forget whatthey’d just been through …and the changes that werecloseontheirheels.

Shehad seena change inGaëtan, watched anger andimpotent rage erase thecompassion in his eyes andthe smile from his lips. He

had hardly spoken since thebombing,andwhenhedidhisvoice was clipped and curt.They both knew more aboutwar now, about what wascoming.

“You could be safe here,withyoursister,”hesaid.

“I don’t want to be safe.And my sister will not wantme.”

She twisted around tolookathim.Moonlightcamethrough in lacy patterns,illuminating his eyes, hismouth, leaving his nose andchin in darkness. He lookeddifferentagain,olderalready,in just these few days;careworn, angry. He smelledof sweat and blood andmudand death, but she knew she

smelledthesame.“HaveyouheardofEdith

Cavell?”sheasked.“Do I strike you as an

educatedman?”Shethoughtaboutthatfor

a moment and then said,“Yes.”

Hewasquietlongenoughthatsheknewshe’dsurprisedhim.“Iknowwhosheis.She

savedthelivesofhundredsofAllied airmen in the GreatWar. She is famous forsaying that ‘patriotism is notenough.’ And this is yourhero, a woman executed bytheenemy.”

“A woman who made adifference,” Isabelle said,studying him. “I am relyingon you—a criminal and a

communist—tohelpmemakeadifference.Perhaps Iamasmad and impetuous as theysay.”

“Whoare‘they’?”“Everyone.” She paused,

felt her expectation gatherclose. She had made a pointofnever trustinganyone,andyet she believed Gaëtan. Helooked at her as if she

mattered. “Youwill takeme.Asyoupromised.”

“You know how suchbargainsaresealed?”

“How?”“Withakiss.”“Quit teasing. This is

serious.”“What’s more serious

than a kiss on the brink ofwar?” He was smiling, but

not quite. That banked angerwas in his eyes again, and itfrightened her, reminded herthat she really didn’t knowhimatall.

“Iwould kiss amanwhowasbraveenoughtotakemeintobattlewithhim.”

“Ithinkyouknownothingof kissing,” he said with asigh.

“Showswhat you know.”She rolled away from himand immediately missed histouch. Trying to benonchalant,sherolledbacktoface him and felt his breathon her eyelashes. “You maykiss me then. To seal ourdeal.”

He reached out slowly,putahandaroundthebackof

her neck, and pulled hertowardhim.

“Areyousure?”heasked,his lipsalmost touchinghers.She didn’t know if he wasaskingaboutgoingofftowaror granting permission for akiss, but right now, in thismoment, it didn’t matter.Isabelle had traded kisseswith boys as if they were

pennies to be left on parkbenches and lost in chaircushions—meaningless.Never before, not once, hadshereallyyearnedforakiss.

“Oui,” she whispered,leaningtowardhim.

At his kiss, somethingopenedupinsidethescraped,empty interior of her heart,unfurled. For the first time,

her romantic novels madesense; she realized that thelandscape of awoman’s soulcould change as quickly as aworldatwar.

“I love you,” shewhispered. She hadn’t saidthese words since she wasfour years old; then, it hadbeen to her mother. At herdeclaration, Gaëtan’s

expression changed,hardened. The smile he gaveherwassotightandfalseshecouldn’t make sense of it.“What? Did I do somethingwrong?”

“No. Of course not,” hesaid.

“We are lucky to havefoundeachother,”shesaid.

“We are not lucky,

Isabelle. Trust me on this.”Ashe said it, hedrewher inforanotherkiss.

She gave herself over tothe sensations of the kiss, letit become the whole of heruniverse, and knew finallyhow it felt to be enough forsomeone.

***

When Vianne awoke, shenoticed the quiet first.Somewhere a bird sang. Shelay perfectly still in bed,listening. Beside her Sophiesnored and grumbled in hersleep.

Vianne went to thewindow, lifting the blackoutshade.

In her yard, apple

branches hung like brokenarms from the trees; the gatehung sideways, two of itsthree hinges ripped out.Across the road, the hayfieldwas flattened, the flowerscrushed. The refugeeswho’dcome through had leftbelongingsandrefuseintheirwake—suitcases, buggies,coats too heavy to carry and

too hot to wear, pillowcases,andwagons.

Vianne went downstairsand cautiously opened thefrontdoor.Listeningfornoise—hearing none—sheunlatchedthelockandturnedtheknob.

They had destroyed hergarden, ripping up anythingthat looked edible, leaving

broken stalks andmounds ofdirt.

Everything was ruined,gone. Feeling defeated, shewalked around the house tothebackyard,whichhadalsobeenravaged.

Shewasabout togobackinside when she heard asound. A mewling. Maybe ababycrying.

There it was again. Hadsomeone left an infantbehind?

She moved cautiouslyacrosstheyardtothewoodenpergola draped in roses andjasmine.

Isabelle lay curled up onthe ground, her dress rippedtoshreds,herfacecutupandbruised, her left eye swollen

nearly shut, a piece of paperpinnedtoherbodice.

“Isabelle!”Her sister’s chin tilted

upward slightly; she openedone bloodshot eye. “V,” shesaid in a cracked, hoarsevoice. “Thanks for lockingmeout.”

Vianne went to her sisterand knelt beside her.

“Isabelle, you are covered inblood and bruised. Wereyou…”

Isabelle seemed not tounderstand for a moment.“Oh.Itisnotmyblood.Mostof it isn’t, anyway.” Shelooked around. “Where’sGaët?”

“What?”Isabelle staggered to her

feet, almost toppling over.“Did he leave me? He did.”She started to cry. “He leftme.”

“Come on,” Vianne saidgently. She guided her sisterinto the cool interior of thehouse, where Isabelle kickedoff her blood-splatteredshoes,letthemcrackintothewall and clatter to the floor.

Bloody footprints followedthem to the bathroom tuckedbeneaththestairs.

While Vianne heatedwater and filled the bath,Isabelle sat on the floor, herlegs splayed out, her feetdiscolored by blood,muttering to herself andwiping tears from her eyes,which turned to mud on her

cheeks.Whenthebathwasready,

Vianne returned to Isabelle,gently undressing her.Isabelle was like a child,pliable,whimperinginpain.

Vianne unbuttoned theback of Isabelle’s once-reddress and peeled it away,afraidthattheslightestbreathmight topple her sister over.

Isabelle’slacyundergarmentswere stained in places withblood. Vianne unlaced thecorseted midsection of thefoundationandeaseditoff.

Isabelle gritted her teethandsteppedintothetub.

“Leanback.”Isabelle did as she was

told, and Vianne poured hotwater over her sister’s head,

keeping the water from hersister’seyes.Allthewhile,asshe washed Isabelle’s dirtyhair and bruised body, shekept up a steady, soothingcroon of meaningless words,meanttocomfort.

ShehelpedIsabelleoutofthe tub and dried her bodywith a soft, white towel.Isabelle stared at her, slack-

jawed,blank-eyed.“Howaboutsomesleep?”

Viannesaid.“Sleep,” Isabelle

mumbled, her head lolling tooneside.

Viannebrought Isabelle anightdress that smelled oflavender and rose water andhelped her into it. Isabellecould hardly keep her eyes

openasVianneguidedhertothe upstairs bedroom andsettled her beneath a lightblanket. Isabelle was asleepbeforeherheadhitthepillow.

***

Isabelle woke to darkness.Sheremembereddaylight.

Wherewasshe?She sat up soquicklyher

head spun. She took a fewshallow breaths and thenlookedaround.

The upstairs bedroom atLe Jardin. Her old room. Itdid not give her a warmfeeling. How often hadMadameDoomlockedherinthe bedroom “for her owngood”?

“Don’t think about that,”

shesaidaloud.An even worse memory

followed: Gaëtan. He hadabandoned her after all; itfilled her with the kind ofbone-deep disappointmentsheknewsowell.

Had she learned nothinginlife?Peopleleft.Sheknewthat.Theyespeciallylefther.

She dressed in the

shapeless blue housedressViannehadleftdrapedacrossthefootof thebed.Thenshewent down the narrow,shallow-stepped stairs,holding on to the ironbanister. Every pain-filledstepfeltlikeatriumph.

Downstairs, the housewas quiet except for thecrackling,statickysoundofa

radioonatalowvolume.Shewas pretty sure MauriceChevalierwas singing a lovesong.Perfect.

Viannewasinthekitchen,wearing a gingham apronover a pale yellowhousedress. A floral scarfcovered her hair. She waspeelingpotatoeswithaparingknife.Behindher,acast-iron

pot made a cheery littlebubblingsound.

The aromas madeIsabelle’smouthwater.

Vianne rushed forward topull out a chair at the smalltable in the kitchen’s corner.“Here,sit.”

Isabelle fellonto theseat.Vianne brought her a platethatwas already prepared.A

hunk of still-warm bread, atriangleofcheese,asmearofquincepaste,andafewslicesofham.

Isabelle took thebread inher red, scraped-up hands,liftingittoherface,breathingintheyeastysmell.Herhandswere shaking as she pickedup a knife and slathered thebread with fruit and cheese.

Whenshesetdowntheknifeitclattered.Shepickedupthebread and bit into it; thesinglebestbiteoffoodofherlife. The hard crust of thebread, itspillow-soft interior,the buttery cheese, and thefruit all combined to makeherpracticallyswoon.Sheatethe rest of it like amadwoman, barely noticing

thecupofcafénoirhersisterhadsetdownbesideher.

“Where’s Sophie?”Isabelle asked, her cheeksbulging with food. It wasdifficult to stop eating, eventobepolite.Shereachedforapeach, felt its fuzzy ripenessin her hand, and bit into it.Juicedribbleddownherchin.

“She’s next door, playing

with Sarah. You remembermyfriend,Rachel?”

“I remember her,”Isabellesaid.

Vianne poured herself atiny cup of espresso andbrought it to the table,whereshesatdown.

Isabelle burped andcoveredhermouth.“Pardon.”

“I think a lapse in

manners can be overlooked,”Viannesaidwithasmile.

“You haven’t metMadame Dufour. No doubtshewouldhitmewithabrickfor that transgression.”Isabelle sighed. Her stomachhurt now; she felt like shemight vomit. She wiped hermoist chin with her sleeve.“What is the news from

Paris?”“The swastika flag flies

fromtheEiffelTower.”“AndPapa?”“Fine,hesays.”“Worried about me, I’ll

bet,” Isabelle said bitterly.“He shouldn’t have sent meaway. But when has he everdoneanythingelse?”

A look passed between

them. It was one of the fewmemories they shared, thatabandonment, but clearlyVianne didn’t want toremember it. “We hear thereweremorethantenmillionofyouontheroads.”

“The crowds weren’t theworst of it,” Isabelle said.“Weweremostlywomenandchildren,V,andoldmenand

boys. And they just …obliteratedus.”

“It’s over now, thankGod,”Vianne said. “It’s besttofocusonthegood.WhoisGaëtan?Youspokeofhiminyourdelirium.”

Isabelle picked at one ofthescrapesonthebackofherhand, realizing an instant toolatethatsheshouldhaveletit

alone. The scab ripped awayandbloodbubbledup.

“Maybehehastodowiththis,” Vianne said when thesilence elongated. She pulledacrumpledpieceofpaperoutof her apron pocket. It wasthenotethathadbeenpinnedto Isabelle’s bodice. Dirty,bloodyfingerprintsranacrossthe paper.On itwaswritten:

Youarenotready.Isabelle felt the world

drop out from under her. Itwas a ridiculous, girlishreaction, overblown, and sheknew it, but still it hit herhard, wounded deep. He hadwanted to take her with himuntil thekiss.Somehowhe’dtasted the lack in her. “He’sno one,” she said grimly,

taking thenote, crumpling it.“Just a boy with black hairand a sharp face who tellslies.He’snothing.”ThenshelookedatVianne.“I’mgoingoff to the war. I don’t carewhatanyonethinks.I’lldrivean ambulance or rollbandages.Anything.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,Isabelle.Parisisoverrun.The

Nazis control the city. Whatisaneighteen-year-oldgirltodoaboutallofthat?”

“Iamnothidingoutinthecountry while the NazisdestroyFrance.Andlet’sfaceit,youhaveneverexactlyfeltsisterly toward me.” Herachingfacetightened.“I’llbeleaving as soon as I canwalk.”

“You will be safe here,Isabelle.That’swhatmatters.Youmuststay.”

“Safe?” Isabelle spat.“You think that is whatmattersnow,Vianne?LetmetellyouwhatIsawoutthere.French troops running fromthe enemy. Nazis murderinginnocents. Maybe you canignorethat,butIwon’t.”

“You will stay here andbe safe. We will speak of itnomore.”

“When have I ever beensafe with you, Vianne?”Isabelle said, seeing hurtblossominhersister’seyes.

“I was young, Isabelle. Itriedtobeamothertoyou.”

“Oh, please. Let’s notstartwithalie.”

“AfterIlostthebaby—”Isabelle turned her back

onhersisterandlimpedawaybefore she said somethingunforgiveable. She claspedher hands to still theirtrembling.This waswhy shehadn’twantedtoreturntothishouseandseehersister,whyshe’d stayed away for years.There was too much pain

between them.She turnedupthe radio to drown out herthoughts.

Avoicecrackledovertheairwaves. “… MaréchalPétainspeakingtoyou…”

Isabelle frowned. Pétainwasaheroof theGreatWar,a beloved leader of France.She turned up the volumefurther.

Vianne appeared besideher.

“… I assumed thedirection of the governmentofFrance…”

Static overtook his deepvoice,crackledthroughit.

Isabellethumpedtheradioimpatiently.

“… our admirable army,which is fighting with a

heroism worthy of its longmilitary traditions against anenemy superior in numbersandarms…”

Static. Isabelle hit theradio again, whispering,“Zut.”

“…inthesepainfulhoursI think of the unhappyrefugees who, in extrememisery, clog our roads. I

express to them mycompassion and mysolicitude.ItiswithabrokenheartthatItellyoutodayitisnecessarytostopfighting.”

“We’ve won?” Viannesaid.

“Shhh,” Isabelle saidsharply.

“…addressedmyself lastnight to the adversary to ask

him if he is ready to speakwithme,assoldiertosoldier,after the actual fighting isover, and with honor, themeans of putting an end tohostilities.”

The old man’s wordsdronedon, saying things like“trying days” and “controltheir anguish” and, worst ofall, “destiny of the

fatherland.”Thenhe said theword Isabelle never thoughtshe’dhearinFrance.

Surrender.Isabelle hobbled out of

the room on her bloody feetand went into the backyard,needing air suddenly, unabletodrawadecentbreath.

Surrender. France. ToHitler.

“Itmust be for the best,”hersistersaidcalmly.

When had Vianne comeouthere?

“You’ve heard aboutMaréchalPétain.Heisaherounparalleled. If he says wemust quit fighting, we must.I’m sure he’ll reason withHitler.”Viannereachedout.

Isabelle yanked away.

The thought of Vianne’scomforting touch made herfeel sick. She limped aroundtofacehersister.“Youdon’treasonwithmenlikeHitler.”

“So you knowmore thanourheroesnow?”

“I know we shouldn’tgiveup.”

Vianne made a tskingsound, a little scuff of

disappointment. “IfMaréchalPétainthinkssurrenderisbestfor France, it is. Period. Atleastthewarwillbeoverandourmenwillcomehome.”

“Youareafool.”Vianne said, “Fine,” and

wentbackintothehouse.Isabelle tented a hand

over her eyes and stared upinto the bright and cloudless

sky. How long would it bebeforeall thisbluewasfilledwithGermanaeroplanes?

Shedidn’tknowhowlongshestoodthere,imaginingtheworst—rememberinghowtheNazis had opened fire oninnocentwomenandchildrenin Tours, obliterating them,turning the grass red withtheirblood.

“TanteIsabelle?”Isabelle heard the small,

tentative voice as if from faraway.Sheturnedslowly.

A beautiful girl stood atLe Jardin’s back door. Shehadskinlikehermother’s,aspale as fine porcelain, andexpressiveeyesthatappearedcoalblackfromthisdistance,as dark as her father’s. She

could have stepped from thepages of a fairy tale—SnowWhiteorSleepingBeauty.

“You can’t be Sophie,”Isabellesaid.“ThelasttimeIsawyou…youweresuckingyourthumb.”

“I still do sometimes,”Sophie said with aconspiratorial smile. “Youwon’ttell?”

“Me? I am the best ofsecret keepers.” Isabellemoved toward her, thinking,myniece.Family.“ShallItellyouasecretaboutme,justsothatwearefair?”

Sophie nodded earnestly,hereyeswidening.

“I can make myselfinvisible.”

“No,youcan’t.”

Isabelle saw Vianneappearatthebackdoor.“Askyourmaman. I have sneakedontotrainsandclimbedoutofwindows and run away fromconventdungeons.AllofthisbecauseIcandisappear.”

“Isabelle,” Vianne saidsternly.

Sophie stared up atIsabelle, enraptured.

“Really?”Isabelle glanced at

Vianne. “It is easy todisappear when no one islookingatyou.”

“I am looking at you,”Sophie said. “Will youmakeyourselfinvisiblenow?”

Isabelle laughed. “Ofcourse not. Magic, to be itsbest, must be unexpected.

Don’t you agree? And now,shall we play a game ofcheckers?”

EIGHT

Thesurrenderwasabitterpill

to swallow, but MaréchalPétainwasanhonorableman.A hero of the last war withGermany. Yes, he was old,but Vianne shared the beliefthat this only gave him abetterperspectivefromwhichto judge their circumstances.He had fashioned a way fortheirmentocomehome,soitwouldn’t be like the Great

War.Vianne understood what

Isabellecouldnot:Pétainhadsurrendered on behalf ofFrance to save lives andpreservetheirnationandtheirway of life. It was true thatthe terms of this surrenderwere difficult: France hadbeen divided into two zones.The Occupied Zone—the

northern half of the countryand the coastal regions(including Carriveau)—wastobetakenoverandgovernedby the Nazis. The greatmiddle of the country, theland that laybelowParisandabove the sea, would be theFree Zone, governed by anew French government inVichy, led by Maréchal

Pétain himself, incollaborationwiththeNazis.

Immediately uponFrance’s surrender, foodbecamescarce.Laundrysoap:unobtainable. Ration cardscould not be counted upon.Phone service becameunreliable, as did the mail.TheNazis effectively cut offcommunication between

cities and towns. The onlymail allowed was on officialGerman postcards. But forVianne, these were not theworstofthechanges.

Isabelle becameimpossible to live with.Several times since thesurrender, while Viannetoiled to reconstruct andreplant her garden and repair

her damaged fruit trees, shehad paused in her work andseen Isabelle standing at thegatestaringupattheskyasifsome dark and horrible thingwereheadedthisway.

All Isabelle could talkaboutwas themonstrosity ofthe Nazis and theirdetermination to kill theFrench. She had no ability—

of course—to hold hertongue, and since Viannerefused to listen, Sophiebecame Isabelle’s audience,her acolyte. She filled poorSophie’s head with terribleimages of what wouldhappen, so much so that thechildhadnightmares.Viannedared not leave the two ofthemalone,andsotoday,like

eachofthepreviousdays,shemade them both come totown with her to see whattheir ration cards would getthem.

Theyhadbeenstandinginafoodqueueat thebutcher’sshop for two hours already.Isabelle had beencomplaining nearly thatwhole time. Apparently it

madenosensetoherthatsheshouldhavetoshopforfood.

“Vianne, look,” Isabellesaid.

Moredramatics.“Vianne.Look.”She turned—just to

silence her sister—and sawthem.

Germans.Up and down the street,

windows and doors slammedshut. People disappeared soquicklyVianne found herselfsuddenly standing alone onthe sidewalk with her sisterand daughter. She grabbedSophieandpulledheragainstthe butcher shop’s closeddoor.

Isabelle stepped defiantlyintothestreet.

“Isabelle,”Viannehissed,butIsabellestoodherground,her green eyes bright withhatred, her pale, fine-bonedbeautiful face marred byscratchesandbruises.

Thegreenlorryintheleadcame to a halt in front ofIsabelle. In theback,soldierssat on benches, facing oneanother, rifles laid casually

acrosstheirlaps.Theylookedyoung and clean shaven andeager in brand-new helmets,withmedals glinting on theirgray-green uniforms. Youngmost of all. Not monsters;justboys,really.Theycranedtheir necks to see what hadstoppedtraffic.AtthesightofIsabelle standing there, thesoldiers started to smile and

wave.ViannegrabbedIsabelle’s

hand and yanked her out oftheway.

The military entouragerumbledpastthem,astringofvehiclesandmotorcyclesandlorries covered incamouflaged netting.Armored tanks rolledthunderously on the

cobblestonedstreet.Andthencamethesoldiers.

Two long lines of them,marchingintotown.

Isabelle walked boldlyalongsidethem,uprueVictorHugo.TheGermanswavedtoher,lookingmoreliketouriststhanconquerors.

“Maman,youcan’tlethergo off by herself,” Sophie

said.“Merde.” Vianne

clutched Sophie’s hand andran after Isabelle. Theycaughtupwithherinthenextblock.

The town square, usuallyfullofpeople,hadpracticallyemptied. Only a fewtownspeople dared to remainastheGermanvehiclespulled

up in front of the town hallandparked.

An officer appeared—orVianne assumed he was anofficerbecauseofthewayhebeganbarkingorders.

Soldiers marched aroundthe large cobblestonedsquare, claiming itwith theiroverwhelmingpresence.Theyripped down the flag of

France and replaced it withtheirNazi flag: a huge blackswastika against a red andblack background. When itwas in place, the troopsstoppedasone,extendedtheirright arms, and yelled,“HeilHitler.”

“If I had a gun,” Isabellesaid, “I’d show them not allofuswantedtosurrender.”

“Shhh,” Vianne said.“You’ll get us all killedwiththat mouth of yours. Let’sgo.”

“No.Iwant—”Vianne spun to face

Isabelle. “Enough. You willnot draw attention to us. Isthatunderstood?”

Isabelle gave one lasthate-filled glance at the

marchingsoldiersandthenletVianneleadheraway.

They slipped from themainstreetandenteredadarkcleftinthewallsthatledtoaback alley behind themilliner’s shop. They couldhear the soldiers singing.Then a shot rang out. Andanother.Someonescreamed.

Isabellestopped.

“Don’tyoudare,”Viannesaid.“Move.”

They kept to the darkalleys,duckingintodoorwayswhen they heard voicescoming their way. It tooklonger than usual to getthrough town, but eventuallytheymade it to thedirt road.Theywalkedsilentlypast thecemetery and all the way

home. Once inside, Vianneslammedthedoorbehindherandlockedit.

“You see?” Isabelle saidinstantly. She had obviouslybeenwaitingtothrowoutthequestion.

“Go to your room,”Vianne said to Sophie.Whatever Isabelle was goingtosay,shedidn’twantSophie

tohear.Vianneeased thehatfrom her head and set downher empty basket. Her handswereshaking.

“They’re here because ofthe airfield,” Isabelle said.She began pacing. “I didn’tthinkitwouldhappensofast,even with the surrender. Ididn’t believe … I thoughtour soldiers would fight

anyway.Ithought…”“Quitbitingatyournails.

You’llmake thembleed,youknow.”

Isabelle looked amadwoman, with her waist-lengthblondhairfallingloosefromitsbraidandherbruisedface twisted with fury. “TheNazis are here, Vianne. InCarriveau. Their flag flies

from the hôtel de ville as itflies from the Arc duTriomphe and the EiffelTower.Theyweren’t intownfive minutes and a shot wasfired.”

“Thewarisover,Isabelle.MaréchalPétainsaidso.”

“The war is over? Thewar is over? Did you seethem back there, with their

gunsandtheirflagsandtheirarrogance? We need to getout of here, V. We’ll takeSophieandleaveCarriveau.”

“Andgowhere?”“Anywhere.Lyon,maybe.

Provence. What was thattown in the Dordogne whereMamanwasborn?Brantôme.Wecouldfindherfriend,thatBasquewoman,whatwasher

name?Shemighthelpus.”“You are giving me a

headache.”“A headache is the least

of your problems,” Isabellesaid,pacingagain.

Vianne approached her.“You are not going to doanythingcrazyorstupid.AmIunderstood?”

Isabelle growled in

frustration and marchedupstairs, slamming the doorbehindher.

***

Surrender.The word stuck in

Isabelle’s thoughts. Thatnight, as she lay in thedownstairs guest bedroom,staring up at the ceiling, she

feltfrustrationlodgeinhersodeeplyshecouldhardlythinkstraight.

Was she supposed tospend the war in this houselikesomehelplessgirl,doinglaundry and standing in foodlinesandsweepingthefloor?Was she to stand by andwatch the enemy takeeverythingfromFrance?

Shehadalwaysfeltlonelyandfrustrated—oratleastshehad felt it for as long as shecould remember—but neveras sharply as now. She wasstuckhereinthecountrywithnofriendsandnothingtodo.

No.Theremust be something

shecoulddo.Evenhere,evennow.

Hidethevaluables.Itwasallthatcametoher.

The Germans would loot thehouses in town; of that shehadnodoubt,andwhen theydid they would takeeverythingofvalue.Herowngovernment—cowards thatthey were—had known that.Itwaswhy theyhademptiedmuch of the Louvre and put

fakepaintingsonthemuseumwalls.

“Notmuchofaplan,”shemuttered. But it was betterthannothing.

The next day, as soon asVianne and Sophie left forschool, Isabelle began. SheignoredVianne’s request thatshego to town for food.Shecouldn’t stand to see the

Nazis, and one day withoutmeat would hardly matter.Instead, she searched thehouse, opening closets andrummaging through drawersand looking under the beds.She tookevery itemofvalueand set it on the trestle tablein the dining room. Therewere lots of valuableheirlooms. Lacework tatted

by her great-grandmother, aset of sterling silver salt andpepper shakers, a gilt-edgedLimogesplatterthathadbeentheir aunt’s, several smallimpressionist paintings, atableclothmadeof fine ivoryAlençon lace, severalphotograph albums, a silver-framedphotographofVianneandAntoineandbabySophie,

hermother’spearls,Vianne’swedding dress and more.Isabelle boxed up everythingthat would fit in a wooden-trimmed leather trunk,whichshe dragged through thetrampledgrass,wincingeverytime it scraped on a stone orthudded into something. Bythetimeshereachedthebarn,she was breathing hard and

sweating.Thebarnwassmallerthan

she remembered.Thehayloft—once the only place in theworld where she was happy—was really just a small tieron the second floor, a bit offloor perched at the top of aricketyladderandbeneaththeroof, through which slats ofskycouldbeseen.Howmany

hours had she spent up therealonewithherpicturebooks,pretending that someonecared enough to comelooking for her?Waiting forher sister, who was alwaysoutwithRachelorAntoine.

She pushed that memoryaside.

Thecenterofthebarnwasnomorethanthirtyfeetwide.

Ithadbeenbuiltbyhergreat-grandfathertoholdbuggies—back when the family hadmoney. Now there was onlyan old Renault parked in thecenter. The stalls were filledwith tractor parts and web-draped wooden ladders andrustedfarmimplements.

She closed the barn doorand went to the automobile.

Thedriver’ssidedooropenedwith a squeaking, clatteringreluctance. She climbed in,started the engine, droveforward about eight feet, andthenparked.

Thetrapdoorwasrevealednow.Aboutfivefeetlongandfour feet wide and made ofplanks connected by leatherstraps, the cellar door was

nearly impossible to see,especially as it was now,covered in dust and old hay.Shepulledthetrapdooropen,letting it rest against theautomobile’s dinged-upbumper, and peered downintothemustydarkness.

Holding the trunk by itsstrap, she turned on hertorchlight and clamped it

under her other armpit andclimbed down the ladderslowly, clanking the trunkdown,rungbyrung,untilshewas at thebottom.The trunkclattered onto the dirt floorbesideher.

Like the loft, this hidey-holehadseemedbiggertoherasachild. Itwasabouteightfeet wide and ten feet long,

with shelving along one sideand an old mattress on thefloor. The shelves used tohold barrels forwinemaking,but a lantern was the onlythingleftontheshelves.

She tucked the trunk intothebackcornerandthenwentback to thehouse,where shegathered up some preservedfood, blankets, somemedical

supplies, her father’s huntingshotgun,andabottleofwine,all of which she put out ontheshelves.

When she climbed backup the ladder, she foundVianneinthebarn.

“What in the world areyoudoingouthere?”

Isabelle wiped her dustyhands on the worn cotton of

her skirt. “Hiding yourvaluablesandputtingsuppliesdown here—in casewe needtohidefromtheNazis.Comedown and look. I did a goodjob, I think.” She backeddown the ladder and Viannefollowed her into thedarkness. Lighting a lantern,Isabelle proudly showed offPapa’s shotgun and the

foodstuffs and medicalsupplies.

Vianne went straight totheir mother’s jewelry box,openingit.

Inside lay brooches andearrings and necklaces,mostlycostumepieces.Butatthe bottom, lying on bluevelvet, were the pearls thatGrandmère had worn on her

wedding day and given toMaman to wear on herweddingday.

“You may need to sellthemsomeday,”Isabellesaid.

Vianne clamped the boxshut. “They are heirlooms,Isabelle. For Sophie’swedding day—and yours. Iwould never sell them.” Shesighedimpatientlyandturned

to Isabelle. “What foodwereyouabletogetintown?”

“Ididthisinstead.”“Of course you did. It’s

more important to hideMaman’s pearls than to feedyour niece supper. Honestly,Isabelle.”Vianne climbed upthe ladder, her displeasurerevealed in tiny, disgustedhuffs.

Isabelleleftthecellaranddrove the Renault back intoplaceoverthedoor.Thenshehid thekeysbehindabrokenboard inoneof the stalls.Atthelastmoment,shedisabledthe automobile by removingthedistributorcap.Shehiditwiththekeys.

Whenshefinallyreturnedto the house, Vianne was in

thekitchen,fryingpotatoesina cast-iron skillet. “I hopeyouaren’thungry.”

“I’m not.” She movedpast Vianne, barely makingeye contact. “Oh, and I hidthekeysanddistributorcapinthefirststall,behindabrokenboard.” In the living room,she turned on the radio andscooted close, hoping for

newsfromtheBBC.There was a staticky

crackle and then anunfamiliarvoicesaid,“Thisisthe BBC. Général de Gaulleisspeakingtoyou.”

“Vianne!” Isabelle yelledtoward the kitchen. “Who isGénéraldeGaulle?”

Vianne came into thelivingroom,dryingherhands

onherapron.“Whatis—”“Shush,” Isabelle

snapped.“… the leaderswhohave

beenattheheadoftheFrencharmy for many years haveformedagovernment.Onthepretext that our army hasbeen defeated, thisgovernment has approachedthe enemy with a view to

ceasinghostilities.”Isabellestaredatthesmall

wooden radio, transfixed.Thisman they’d never heardof spoke directly to thepeopleofFrance,notatthemas Pétain had done, but tothem in an impassionedvoice. “Pretext of defeat. Iknewit!”

“… we certainly have

been,andstillare,submergedbythemechanicalstrengthofthe enemy, both on land andin the air. The tanks, theaeroplanes, the tactics of theGermans astounded ourgeneralstosuchanextentthattheyhavebeenbroughttothepainwhichtheyarein today.But has the last word beensaid? Has all hope

disappeared? Is the defeatfinal?”

“Mon Dieu,” Isabellesaid. This was what she’dbeen waiting to hear. Therewas something to be done, afight to engage in. Thesurrenderwasn’tfinal.

“Whatever happens,” deGaulle’s voice went on, “theflame of French resistance

mustnotandshallnotdie.”Isabelle hardly noticed

that she was crying. TheFrenchhadn’tgivenup.Nowall Isabelle had to do wasfigureouthowtoanswerthiscall.

***

Two days after the Nazisoccupied Carriveau, they

called a meeting for the lateafternoon. Everyone was toattend. No exceptions. Evenso, Vianne had had to fightwith Isabelle to get her tocome. As usual, Isabelle didnot think ordinary rulespertained to her and shewanted to use defiance toshow her displeasure. As ifthe Nazis cared what one

impetuous eighteen-year-oldgirl thought of theiroccupationofhercountry.

“Wait here,” Vianne saidimpatiently when she’dfinally gotten Isabelle andSophie out of the house. Shegentlyclosedthebrokengatebehind them. It gave a littleclickofclosure.

Moments later, Rachel

appeared in the road, comingtowardthem,withthebabyinher arms and Sarah at herside.

“That’s my best friend,Sarah,” Sophie said, gazingupatIsabelle.

“Isabelle,” Rachel saidwith a smile. “It is good toseeyouagain.”

“Isit?”Isabellesaid.

Rachel moved closer toIsabelle. “That was a longtimeago,”Rachelsaidgently.“We were young and stupidand selfish. I’m sorry wetreated you badly. Ignoredyou. That must have beenverypainful.”

Isabelle’s mouth opened,closed. For once, she hadnothingtosay.

“Let’s go,” Vianne said,irritated that Rachel had saidto Isabelle what Vianne hadnot been able to. “Weshouldn’tbelate.”

Even this late in the day,theweatherwasunseasonablywarm,andinnotime,Viannefelt herself beginning tosweat. In town, they joinedthe grumbling crowd that

filled the narrowcobblestoned street fromstorefront to storefront. Theshops were closed and thewindows were shuttered,even though the heat wouldbe unbearablewhen they gothome. Most of the displaycaseswereempty,whichwashardly surprising. TheGermans ate so much; even

worse, theyleftfoodontheirplates in the cafés. Carelessand cruel, it was, with somany mothers beginning tocount the jars in their cellarsso that they could dole outevery precious bite to theirchildren. Nazi propagandawaseverywhere,onwindowsand shop walls; posters thatshowed smiling German

soldiers surrounded byFrenchchildrenwithcaptionsdesigned to encourage theFrench to accept theirconquerors andbecomegoodcitizensoftheReich.

As the crowd approachedthe town hall, the grumblingstopped.Upclose,itfeltevenworse, this following ofinstructions, walking blindly

into a place with guardeddoorsandlockedwindows.

“We shouldn’t go in,”Isabellesaid.

Rachel, who stoodbetween the sisters, toweringover both of them, made atsking sound. She resettledthe baby in her arms, pattinghis back in a comfortingrhythm. “We have been

summoned.”“All the more reason to

hide,”Isabellesaid.“Sophie and I are going

in,”Viannesaid,althoughshehad to admit that she felt apricklysenseofforeboding.

“I have a bad feelingaboutit,”Isabellemuttered.

Like a thousand-leggedcentipede, the crowd moved

forward into the great hall.Tapestries had once hungfrom these walls, leftovertreasure from the time ofkings,when theLoireValleyhad been the royal huntingground,butall thatwasgonenow. Instead there wereswastikas and propagandistpostersonthewalls—Trustinthe Reich!—and a huge

paintingofHitler.Beneath the painting

stood amanwearing a blackfield tunic decorated withmedalsandironcrosses,kneebreeches, and spit-shinedboots. A red swastikaarmband circled his rightbicep.

When the hall was full,the soldiers closed the oak

doors, which creaked inprotest. The officer at thefront of the hall faced them,shot his right arm out, andsaid,“HeilHitler.”

The crowd murmuredsoftly among themselves.What should they do? “HeilHitler,” a few saidgrudgingly. The room beganto smell of sweat and leather

polishandcigarettesmoke.“I am Sturmbannführer

Weldt of the GeheimeStaatspolizei. The Gestapo,”theman in theblackuniformsaid in heavily accentedFrench. “I am here to carryoutthetermsofthearmisticeon behalf of the fatherlandand the Führer. It will be oflittlehardshiponthoseofyou

who obey the rules.” Heclearedhisthroat.

“The rules:All radiosareto be turned in to us at thetownhall,immediately,asareall guns, explosives, andammunition. All operationalvehicles will be impounded.Allwindowswillbeequippedwith material for blackout,and you shall use it. A nine

P.M. curfew is instantly ineffect. No lights shall be onafterdusk.Wewillcontrolallfood, whether grown orimported.”Hepaused,lookedout over the mass of peoplestandinginfrontofhim.“Notso bad, see? We will livetogetherinharmony,yes?Butknow this. Any act ofsabotage or espionage or

resistance will be dealt withswiftly and without mercy.The punishment for suchbehavior is death byexecution.”Hepulled a packof cigarettes from his breastpocketandextracteda singlecigarette. Lighting it, hestared out at the people sointently it seemed he wasmemorizingeachface.“Also,

although many of yourragged,cowardlysoldiersarereturning, we must informyou that the men takenprisonerbyusshallremaininGermany.”

Vianne felt confusionripple through the audience.She looked atRachel,whosesquare face was blotchy inplaces—a sign of anxiety.

“MarcandAntoinewillcomehome,” Rachel saidstubbornly.

The Sturmbannführerwent on. “You may leavenow, as I am sure weunderstand each other. I willhave officers here until eightforty-five tonight. They willreceive your contraband. Donot be late. And…” He

smiled good-naturedly. “Donot risk your lives to keep aradio. Whatever you keep—or hide—wewill find, and ifwefind it…death.”Hesaidit so casually, and wearingsuch a fine smile, that for amoment,itdidn’tsinkin.

The crowd stood there amoment longer, uncertainwhether itwas safe tomove.

Noonewanted tobe seenastakingthefirststep,andthensuddenly they were moving,pack-like, toward the opendoorsthatledthemoutside.

“Bastards,” Isabelle saidastheymovedintoanalley.

“AndIwassosurethey’dletuskeepourguns,”Rachelsaid, lighting up a cigarette,inhaling deeply and exhaling

inarush.“I’m keeping our gun, I

cantellyou,”Isabellesaidina loud voice. “And ourradio.”

“Shhh,”Viannesaid.“GénéraldeGaullethinks

—”“Idon’twant tohear that

foolishness.Wehave tokeepourheadsdownuntilourmen

comehome,”Viannesaid.“MonDieu,”Isabellesaid

sharply. “You think yourhusbandcanfixthis?”

“No,” Vianne said. “Ibelieve you will fix it, youand your Général de Gaulle,of whom no one has everheard.Now,come.Whileyouare hatching a plan to saveFrance, I need to tend tomy

garden.Comeon,Rachel, letusdullardsbeaway.”

Vianne held tightly toSophie’s hand and walkedbriskly ahead. She did notbothertoglancebacktoseeifIsabelle was following. Sheknew her sister was backthere, hobbling forward onher damaged feet. OrdinarilyViannewouldkeeppacewith

her sister, out of politeness,butjustnowshewastoomadtocare.

“Your sister may not beso wrong,” Rachel said asthey passed the Normanchurchontheedgeoftown.

“If you take her side inthis, I may be forced to hurtyou,Rachel.”

“That being said, your

sister may not be entirelywrong.”

Viannesighed.“Don’ttellher that. She’s unbearablealready.”

“She will have to learnpropriety.”

“You teach her. She hasproven singularly resistant toimprovingherselforlisteningto reason. She’s been to two

finishing schools and stillcan’tholdhertongueormakepoliteconversation.Twodaysago,insteadofgoingtotownfor meat, she hid thevaluables and created ahiding place for us. Just incase.”

“I should probably hidemine, too. Not that we havemuch.”

Vianne pursed her lips.Therewasnopointintalkingfurther about this. Soon,Antoine would be home andhe would help keep Isabelleinline.

At the gate to Le Jardin,Vianne said good-bye toRachelandherchildren,whokeptwalking.

“Whydowehavetogive

them our radio, Maman?”Sophie asked. “It belongs toPapa.”

“Wedon’t,”Isabellesaid,comingupbeside them.“Wewillhideit.”

“We will not hide it,”Viannesaidsharply.“Wewilldo as we are told and keepquiet and soon Antoine willbe home and he will know

whattodo.”“Welcome to the Middle

Ages,Sophie,”Isabellesaid.Vianne yanked her gate

open, forgettinga second toolate that the refugees hadbroken it. The poor thingclattered on its single hinge.It took all of Vianne’sfortitude toactas if ithadn’thappened.Shemarchedupto

the house, opened the door,and immediately turned onthe kitchen light. “Sophie,”she said, unpinning her hat.“Would you please set thetable?”

Vianne ignored herdaughter’sgrumbling—itwastobeexpected.Inonlyafewdays, Isabelle had taught herniecetochallengeauthority.

Vianne lit the stove andstarted cooking. When acreamy potato and lardonsoup was simmering, shebegan to clean up.Of courseIsabellewas nowhere aroundtohelp.Sighing,shefilledthesink with water to washdishes. She was so intent onher task that it took her amoment to notice that

someonewasknockingonthefront door. Patting her hair,she walked into the livingroom, where she foundIsabellerisingfromthedivan,abookinherhands.Readingwhile Vianne cooked andcleaned.Naturally.

“Are you expectinganyone?”Isabelleasked.

Vianneshookherhead.

“Maybe we shouldn’tanswer,” Isabelle said.“Pretendwe’renothere.”

“It’smostlikelyRachel.”There was another knock

atthedoor.Slowly, the doorknob

turned, and the door creakedopen.

Yes. Of course it wasRachel.Whoelsewould—

AGermansoldiersteppedintoherhome.

“Oh, my pardons,” theman said in terrible French.He removed hismilitary hat,tucked it in his armpit, andsmiled. He was a good-lookingman—tallandbroad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with pale skin andlight gray eyes. Vianne

guessed he was roughly herage. His field uniform wasprecisely pressed and lookedbrand new. An iron crossdecoratedhisstand-upcollar.Binocularshungfromastraparoundhisneckandachunkyleatherutilitybeltcinchedhiswaist. Behind him, throughthe branches of the orchard,she saw his motorcycle

parked on the side of theroad.A sidecarwas attachedto it, mounted with machineguns.

“Mademoiselle,” he saidtoVianne, giving her a swiftnod as he clicked his bootstogether.

“Madame,” she correctedhim, wishing she soundedhaughty and in control, but

even to her own ears shesounded scared. “MadameMauriac.”

“I am Hauptmann—Captain—Wolfgang Beck.”He handed her a piece ofpaper. “My French is not sogood. You will excuse myineptitude, please.”When hesmiled, deep dimples formedinhischeeks.

She took the paper andfrowned down at it. “I don’treadGerman.”

“What do you want?”Isabelledemanded,comingtostandbyVianne.

“Your home is mostbeautifulandveryclosetotheairfield. Inoticed ituponourarrival.Howmanybedroomshaveyou?”

“Why?” Isabelle said atthe same time Vianne said,“Three.”

“I will billet here,” thecaptain said in his badFrench.

“Billet?” Vianne said.“Youmean…tostay?”

“Oui,Madame.”“Billet? You? A man? A

Nazi? No. No.” Isabelle

shookherhead.“No.”The captain’s smile

neither faded nor fell. “Youwere to town,” he said,looking at Isabelle. “I sawyouwhenwearrived.”

“Younoticedme?”He smiled. “I am sure

everyred-bloodedmaninmyregimentnoticedyou.”

“Funny you would

mentionblood,”Isabellesaid.Vianne elbowed her

sister. “I am sorry, Captain.My young sister is obstinateon occasion. But I ammarried, you see, and myhusband is at the front, andthere is my sister and mydaughter here, so you mustsee how inappropriate itwouldbetohaveyouhere.”

“Ah, soyouwould ratherleave the house to me. Howdifficult that must be foryou.”

“Leave?”Viannesaid.“I believe you aren’t

understanding the captain,”Isabelle said, not taking hergazefromhim.“He’smovinginto your home, taking itover,really,andthatpieceof

paper is a requisition orderthat makes it possible. AndPétain’s armistice, of course.Wecaneithermakeroomforhim or abandon a home thathas been in our family forgenerations.”

Helookeduncomfortable.“This, I’m afraid, is thesituation. Many of yourfellowvillagersarefacingthe

samedilemma,Ifear.”“If we leave, will we get

our home back?” Isabelleasked.

“I would not think so,Madame.”

Vianne dared to take astep towardhim.Perhapsshecould reason with him. “Myhusband will be home anyday now, I imagine. Perhaps

you could wait until he ishere?”

“I am not the general,alas.Iamsimplyacaptaininthe Wehrmacht. I followorders,Madame,Idonotgivethem. And I am ordered tobillet here. But I assure youthatIamagentleman.”

“We will leave,” Isabellesaid.

“Leave?” Vianne said tohersisterindisbelief.“Thisismyhome.”Tothecaptainshesaid, “I can count on you tobeagentleman?”

“Ofcourse.”ViannelookedatIsabelle,

whoshookherheadslowly.Vianneknewtherewasno

real choice. She had to keepSophie safe until Antoine

came home, and then hewould handle thisunpleasantness. Surely hewould be home soon, nowthat the armistice had beensigned. “There is a smallbedroom downstairs. You’llbecomfortablethere.”

The captain nodded.“Merci, Madame. I will getmythings.”

***

As soon as the door closedbehind the captain, Isabellesaid, “Are you mad? Wecan’tlivewithaNazi.”

“He said he’s in theWehrmacht. Is that the samething?”

“I’m hardly interested intheirchainofcommand.Youhaven’t seen what they’re

willing todo tous,Vianne. Ihave. We’ll leave. Go nextdoor, to Rachel’s. We couldlivewithher.”

“Rachel’s house is toosmall for all of us, and I amnot going to abandon myhometotheGermans.”

To that, Isabelle had noanswer.

Viannefeltanxietyturnto

an itch along her throat. Anold nervous habit returned.“Yougoifyoumust,butIamwaitingforAntoine.Wehavesurrendered,sohe’llbehomesoon.”

“Vianne,please—”The front door rattled

hard.Anotherknock.Vianne walked dully

forward. With a shaking

hand, she reached for theknobandopenedthedoor.

CaptainBeckstood there,holdinghismilitaryhatinonehand and a small leathervalise in the other. He said,“Helloagain,Madame,”asifhe’d been gone for sometime.

Vianne scratched at herneck, feeling acutely

vulnerablebeneaththisman’sgaze. She backed awayquickly, saying, “This way,HerrCaptain.”

Assheturned,shesawtheliving room that had beendecorated by threegenerations of her family’swomen.Goldenstuccowalls,the color of freshly bakedbrioche, gray stone floors

coveredbyancientAubussonrugs, heavily carved woodenfurniture upholstered inmohair and tapestry fabric,lamps made of porcelain,curtainsofgoldandredtoile,antiques and treasures leftoverfromtheyearswhentheRossignols had beenwealthytradesmen. Until recentlytherehadbeenartworkonthe

walls. Now only theunimportantpieces remained.Isabelle had hidden the goodones.

Viannewalkedpastallofit to thesmallguestbedroomtucked beneath the stairs. Atthecloseddoor, to theleftofthe bathroom that had beenadded in the early twenties,she paused. She could hear

himbreathingbehindher.She opened the door to

reveal a narrow roomwith alarge window, bracketed byblue-graycurtainsthatpooledon the wooden floor. Apainted chest of drawerssupported a blue pitcher andewer. In the corner was anaged oak armoire withmirroreddoors.Bythedouble

bedsatanightstand;onit,anantique ormolu clock.Isabelle’s clothes layeverywhere, as if she werepacking for an extendedholiday. Vianne picked themup quickly, and the valise,too. When she finished, sheturned.

His suitcase plunked tothe floor. She looked at him,

compelled by simplepoliteness to offer a tensesmile.

“You needn’t worry,Madame,”hesaid.“Wehavebeen admonished to act asgentlemen.Mymotherwoulddemand the same, and, intruth, she scares me morethanmygeneral.”Itwassuchan ordinary remark that

Viannewastakenaback.She had no idea how to

respond to this stranger whodressed like the enemy andlooked like ayoungman shemight have met at church.And what was the price forsayingthewrongthing?

He remained where hewas, a respectful distancefromher.“Iapologizeforany

inconvenience,Madame.”“My husband will be

homesoon.”“We all hope to be home

soon.”Another unnerving

comment. Vianne noddedpolitelyand lefthimalone inthe room, closing the doorbehindher.

“Tell me he’s not

staying,” Isabelle said,rushingather.

“He says he is,” Viannesaidtiredly,pushingbackthehair from her eyes. Sherealizedjustnowthatshewastrembling. “I know how youfeel about these Nazis. Justmakesurehedoesn’tknowit.Iwon’t letyouputSophieatrisk with your childish

rebellion.”“Childish rebellion! Are

you—”The guest room door

opened,silencingIsabelle.Captain Beck strode

confidently toward them,smilingbroadly.Thenhesawthe radio in the room and hepaused. “Do not worry,ladies. I am most pleased to

deliver your radio to theKommandant.”

“Really?” Isabelle said.“You consider this akindness?”

Viannefeltatighteninginher chest.Therewas a stormbrewing in Isabelle. Hersister’scheekshadgonepale,herlipsweredrawninathin,colorless line, her eyes were

narrowed.Shewasglaringatthe German as if she couldkillhimwithalook.

“Of course.” He smiled,lookingalittleconfused.Thesudden silence seemed tounnerve him. Suddenly hesaid, “You have beautifulhair,M’mselle.”AtIsabelle’sfrown, he said, “This is anappropriate compliment,

yes?”“Do you think so?”

Isabellesaid,hervoicelow.“Quite lovely.” Beck

smiled.Isabelle walked into the

kitchenandcamebackwithapairofboningshears.

His smile faded. “Am Imisunderstood?”

Vianne said, “Isabelle,

don’t,” just as Isabellegathered up her thick blondhair and fisted it. Staringgrimly at Captain Beck’shandsome face, she hackedoff her hair and handed thelong blond tail to him. “Itmust be verboten for us tohave anything beautiful, is itnot,CaptainBeck?”

Vianne gasped. “Please,

sir. Ignore her. Isabelle is asilly,pridefulgirl.”

“No,” Beck said. “She isangry. And angry peoplemake mistakes in war anddie.”

“So do conqueringsoldiers,”Isabellesnapped.

Becklaughedather.Isabellemadeasoundthat

was practically a snarl and

pivoted on her heel. Shemarched up the stairs andslammed the door shut sohardthehouseshook.

***

“You will want to speak toher now, I warrant,” Becksaid.HelookedatVianneinaway that made it seem as ifthey understood each other.

“Such … theatrics in thewrong place could be mostdangerous.”

Vianne left him standingin her living room and wentupstairs. She found Isabellesitting on Sophie’s bed, soangryshewasshaking.

Scratches marred hercheeksandthroat;areminderof what she’d seen and

survived. And now her hairwas hacked off, the endsuneven.

Vianne tossed Isabelle’sbelongings onto the unmadebed and closed the doorbehind her. “What in thename of all that’s holy wereyouthinking?”

“I could kill him in hissleep,justslithisthroat.”

“And do you think theywouldnotcomelookingforacaptain who had orders tobillet here? Mon Dieu,Isabelle.” She took a deepbreath to calm her racingnerves. “I know there areproblems between us,Isabelle.IknowItreatedyoubadly as a child—I was tooyoungandscaredtohelpyou

—and Papa treated youworse.Butthisisnotaboutusnow,andyoucan’tbethegirlwho acts impetuouslyanymore. It is about mydaughter now. Your niece.Wemustprotecther.”

“But—”“France has surrendered,

Isabelle. Certainly this facthasnotescapedyou.”

“Didn’t you hearGénéraldeGaulle?Hesaid—”

“Andwho is thisGénéralde Gaulle? Why should welisten to him? MaréchalPétain is awar hero and ourleader. We have to trust ourgovernment.”

“Areyou joking,Vianne?The government in Vichy iscollaborating with Hitler.

How can you not understandthis danger?Pétain iswrong.Does one follow a leaderblindly?”

Vianne moved towardIsabelleslowly,halfafraidofher now. “You don’tremember the last war,” shesaid, clasping her hands tostill them. “I do. I rememberthe fathers and brothers and

uncles who didn’t comehome. I remember hearingchildren in my class cryquietlywhen bad news cameby telegram. I remember themen who came home oncrutches, their pant legsempty and flapping, or anarmgone, or a face ruined. Iremember how Papa wasbefore the war—and how

different he was when hecame home, how he drankand slammed doors andscreamed at us, and thenwhenhestopped.Irememberthe stories aboutVerdun andSomme and a millionFrenchmen dying in trenchesthat ran redwith blood.Andthe German atrocities, don’tforget that part of it. They

werecruel,Isabelle.”“That’smy point exactly.

Wemust—”“Theywerecruelbecause

we were at war with them,Isabelle. Pétain has saved usfrom going through thatagain.Hehaskeptussafe.Hehas stopped the war. NowAntoineandallourmenwillcomehome.”

“ToaHeilHitlerworld?”Isabelle said with a sneer.“‘The flame of Frenchresistancemust not and shallnot die.’ That’s what deGaullesaid.Wehavetofighthoweverwecan.ForFrance,V.SoitstaysFrance.”

“Enough,” Vianne said.Shemovedcloseenoughthatshe could have whispered to

Isabelle, or kissed her, butVianne did neither. In asteady, even voice, she said,“YouwilltakeSophie’sroomupstairsandshewillmoveinwithme.Andrememberthis,Isabelle, he could shoot us.Shoot us, and no one wouldcare. You will not provokethissoldierinmyhome.”

She saw the words hit

home. Isabelle stiffened. “Iwilltrytoholdmytongue.”

“Domorethantry.”

NINE

Vianne closed the bedroom

door and leaned against it,tryingtocalmhernerves.Shecould hear Isabelle pacing inthe roombehindher,movingwith an anger that made thefloorboards tremble. Howlong did Vianne stand therealone,trembling,tryingtogether nerves under control? Itfelt like hours passed whileshestruggledwithherfear.

In ordinary times, shewould have found thestrength to talk rationallywithhersister,tosaysomeofthe things thathad longbeenunspoken. Vianne wouldhave told Isabelle how sorryshe was for the way she’dtreated her as a little girl.Maybe she could have madeIsabelleunderstand.

Vianne had been sohelplessafterMaman’sdeath.When Papa had sent themaway, to live in this smalltown, beneath the cold, sterneyes of a woman who hadshown the girls no love,Viannehad…wilted.

Inanothertime,shemighthave shared with Isabellewhat they had in common,

how undone she’d been byMaman’s death, how Papa’srejection had broken herheart. Or how he treated heratsixteenwhenshe’dcometohim,pregnant and in love…and been slapped across theface and called a disgrace.How Antoine had pushedPapaback,hard,andsaid,I’mgoingtomarryher.

AndPapa’sanswer:Fine,she’sallyours.Youcanhavethehouse.Butyou’lltakehersquallingsister,too.

Vianne closed her eyes.Shehatedtothinkaboutallofthat; for years, she’dpractically forgotten it. Now,howcould shepush it aside?She had done to Isabelleexactly what their father had

done to them. It was thegreatest regret of Vianne’slife.

But thiswas not the timetorepairthatdamage.

Now she had to doeverything in her power tokeep Sophie safe untilAntoine came home. Isabellewould simply have to bemadetounderstandthat.

With a sigh, she wentdownstairs to check onsupper.

In the kitchen, she foundher potato soup simmering abit too briskly, so sheuncovered it and lowered theheat.

“Madame? Are yousanguine?”

She flinched at the sound

of his voice. When had hecome in here? She took adeep breath and patted herhair. It was not the word hemeant.Really,hisFrenchwasterrible.

“That smells delicious,”he said, coming up behindher.

Shesetthewoodenspoondown on the rest beside the

stove.“May I see what you are

making?”“Of course,” she said,

both of them pretending herwishes mattered. “It’s justpotatosoup.”

“My wife, alas, is notmuchofacook.”

He was right beside hernow, taking Antoine’s place,

a hungry man peering downatacookingdinner.

“You are married,” shesaid,reassuredbyit,althoughshecouldn’tsaywhy.

“And a baby soon to beborn.WeareplanningtocallhimWilhelm,althoughIwillnotbetherewhenheisborn,andofcourse,suchdecisionsmust inevitably be his

mother’s.”It was such a … human

thing to say. She foundherself turning slightly tolook at him. He was herheight, almost exactly, and itunnerved her; lookingdirectly into his eyes madeherfeelvulnerable.

“Godwilling, wewill allbehomesoon,”hesaid.

He wants this over, too,shethoughtwithrelief.

“It’s suppertime, HerrCaptain.Will you be joiningus?”

“It would be an honor,Madame. Although you willbe pleased to hear that mostevenings I will be workinglate and enjoying my supperwith the officers. I shall also

often be out on campaigns.You shall sometimes hardlynoticemypresence.”

Vianne left him in thekitchenandcarriedsilverwareinto the dining room, whereshealmostranintoIsabelle.

“You shouldn’t be alonewithhim,”Isabellehissed.

Thecaptaincameintotheroom. “You cannot think I

wouldacceptyourhospitalityand then do harm? Considerthisnight.Ihavebroughtyouwine.AlovelySancerre.”

“You brought us wine,”Isabellesaid.

“As any good guestwould,”heanswered.

Vianne thought, oh, no,but there was nothing shecoulddotostopIsabellefrom

speaking.“You know about Tours,

Herr Captain?” Isabelleasked. “How your Stukasfiredoninnocentwomenandchildrenwhowerefleeingfortheir lives and droppedbombsonus?”

“Us?” he said, hisexpressionturningthoughtful.

“Iwas there.You see the

marksonmyface.”“Ah,”hesaid.“Thatmust

havebeenmostunpleasant.”Isabelle went very still.

Thegreenofhereyesseemedtoblazeagainsttheredmarksand bruises on her pale skin.“Unpleasant.”

“Think about Sophie,”Vianneremindedherevenly.

Isabelle gritted her teeth

and then turned it intoa fakesmile. “Here, Captain Beck,let me show you to yourseat.”

Vianne took her firstdecent breath in at least anhour. Then, slowly, sheheaded into the kitchen todishupsupper.

***

Vianne served supper insilence. The atmosphere atthetablewasasheavyascoalsoot,settlingonallofthem.ItfrayedVianne’snervestothebreaking point. Outside, thesun began to set; pink lightfilledthewindows.

“Would you care forwine, Mademoiselle?” Becksaid to Isabelle, pouring

himself a large glass of theSancerre he had brought tothetable.

“If ordinary Frenchfamilies can’t afford to drinkit, Herr Captain, how can Ienjoyit?”

“Asipperhapswouldnotbe—”

Isabelle finished her soupand got to her feet. “Excuse

me. I am feeling sick to mystomach.”

“Me, too,” Sophie said.She got to her feet andfollowed her aunt out of theroomlikeapuppyfollowstheleaddog,withherheaddown.

Vianne sat perfectly still,her soup spoon held aboveher bowl. Theywere leavingheralonewithhim.

Her breathing was aflutter in her chest. Shecarefully set down her spoonanddabbedathermouthwithher serviette. “Forgive mysister, Herr Captain. She isimpetuousandwillful.”

“My oldest daughter issuch a girl. We expectnothingbut troublewhenshegetsalittleolder.”

That surprised Vianne somuch that she turned. “Youhaveadaughter?”

“Gisela,” he said, hismouth curving into a smile.“She is six and already hermotherisunabletogethertoreliably do the simplest oftasks—like brush her teeth.OurGiselawouldratherbuilda fort than read a book.” He

sighed,smiling.It flustered her, knowing

this about him. She tried tothink of a response, but hernervesweretoooverwrought.Shepickedupher spoonandbeganeatingagain.

Themealseemedtogoonforever, in a silence thatwasher undoing.Themoment hefinished, saying, “A lovely

meal.My thanks,” shegot toher feet and began clearingthetable.

Thankfully, he didn’tfollow her into the kitchen.He remained in the diningroom,atthetablebyhimself,drinking the wine he’dbrought, which she knewwould have tasted of autumn—pearsandapples.

Bythetimeshe’dwashedanddried the dishes, and putthem away, night had fallen.She left the house, steppingintothestarlitfrontyardforamoment’speace.Onthestonegarden wall, a shadowmoved;itwasacatperhaps.

Behind her, she heard afootfall, then a match strikeandthesmellofsulfur.

She took a quiet stepbackward, wanting to meltintotheshadows.Ifshecouldmovequietlyenough,perhapsshe could return by the sidedoor without alerting him toher presence.She steppedona twig, heard it snap beneathherheel,andshefroze.

He stepped out from theorchard.

“Madame,” he said. “Soyou love the starlight also. Iam sorry to intrude uponyou.”

Shewasafraidtomove.He closed the distance

between them, taking up aplace beside her as if hebelonged there, looking outacrossherorchard.

“You would never know

thereisawaronouthere,”hesaid.

Vianne thought hesounded sad and it remindedher that theywere alike in away, both of them far awayfrom the people they loved.“Your…superior…hesaidthat all prisoners of war willremain in Germany. Whatdoes thismean?Whatofour

soldiers? Surely you did notcaptureallofthem.”

“Idonotknow,Madame.Some will return.Many willnot.”

“Well. Isn’t this a lovelylittle moment between newfriends,”Isabellesaid.

Vianneflinched,horrifiedthat she had been caughtstanding out here with a

German,theenemy,aman.Isabelle stood in the

moonlight, wearing acaramel-coloredsuit;sheheldher valise in one hand andVianne’s best Deauville intheother.

“You have my hat,”Viannesaid.

“Imayhave towait foratrain. My face is still tender

from the Nazi attack.” Shewas smiling at Beck as shesaid this. It wasn’t really asmile.

Beck inclinedhis head inacurtnod.“Youhavesisterlythingstodiscuss,obviously.Iwill take my leave.” With abrisk, polite nod, he returnedtothehouse,closingthedoorbehindhim.

“I can’t stay here,”Isabellesaid.

“Ofcourseyoucan.”“I have no interest in

making friends with theenemy,V.”

“Damn it, Isabelle. Don’tyoudare—”

Isabelle stepped closer.“I’ll put you and Sophie atrisk. Sooner or later. You

know I will. You told me Ineeded to protect Sophie.ThisistheonlywayIcandoit. I feel like I’ll explode if Istay,V.”

Vianne’s anger dissolved;without it, she feltinexpressibly tired. Thisessential difference hadalways been between them.Vianne the rule follower and

Isabelle the rebel. Even ingirlhood, in grief, they hadexpressed their emotionsdifferently. Vianne had gonesilent after Maman’s death,tried to pretend that Papa’sabandonment didn’t woundher, while Isabelle hadthrown tantrums and runaway and demandedattention. Maman had sworn

that one day they would bethebestoffriends.Neverhadthis prediction seemed lesslikely.

Inthis,rightnow,Isabellewas right. Vianne would beconstantly afraid ofwhat hersisterwouldsayordoaroundthe captain, and truthfully,Viannehadn’tthestrengthforit.

“How will you go? Andwhere?”

“Train. To Paris. I’lltelegram you when I arrivesafely.”

“Be careful. Don’t doanythingfoolish.”

“Me? You know betterthanthat.”

Vianne pulled Isabelleintoafierceembraceandthen

lethergo.

***

TheroadtotownwassodarkIsabellecouldn’tseeherownfeet. It was preternaturallyquiet,assuspensefulasaheldbreath, until she came to theairfield. There, she heardboots marching on hard-packed dirt, motorcycles and

trucks rolling alongside theskeinofbarbedwirethatnowprotected the ammunitionsdump.

A lorry appeared out ofnowhere, its headlamps off,thundering up the road; shelurched out of its way,stumblingintotheditch.

In town, it was no easierto navigate with the shops

closedandthestreetlampsoffandthewindowsblackedout.The silence was eerie andunnerving. Her footstepsseemed too loud.With everystep, she was aware that acurfewwas in effect and shewasviolatingit.

She ducked into one ofthe alleys, feeling her wayalongtheroughsidewalk,her

fingertips trailing along thestorefronts for guidance.Whenever she heard voices,she froze, shrinking into theshadows until silencereturned. It seemed to takeforever to reach herdestination: the train stationontheedgeoftown.

“Halt!”Isabelleheardthewordat

the same time a floodlightsprayedwhite light over her.She was a shadow hunchedbeneathit.

A German sentryapproachedher,his rifleheldin his arms. “You are just agirl,” he said, drawing close.“Youknowaboutthecurfew,ja?”hedemanded.

She rose slowly, facing

himwithacourageshedidn’tfeel. “I know we aren’tallowed tobeout this late. Itis an emergency, though. ImustgotoParis.Myfatherisill.”

“WhereisyourAusweis?”“Idon’thaveone.”He eased the rifle off his

shoulder and into his hands.“No travel without an

Ausweis.”“But—”“Go home, girl, before

yougethurt.”“But—”“Now,beforeIdecidenot

toignoreyou.”Inside, Isabelle was

screaming in frustration. Ittook considerable effort towalk away from the sentry

withoutsayinganything.On the way home, she

didn’t even keep to theshadows. She flaunted herdisregard of the curfew,daringthemtostopheragain.A part of her wanted to getcaught so she could let loosethe string of invectivesscreaminginsideherhead.

Thiscouldnotbeherlife.

Trapped in a house with aNaziinatownthathadgivenup without a whimper ofprotest.Viannewasnotalonein her desire to pretend thatFrance had neithersurrendered nor beenconquered. In town, theshopkeepers and bistroowners smiled at theGermans and poured them

champagneandsoldthemthebest cuts of meat. Thevillagers, peasants mostly,shrugged and went on withlife; oh, they muttereddisapprovingly and shooktheir heads and gave outwrongdirectionswhenasked,but beyond those smallrebellions, therewasnothing.No wonder the German

soldiers were swollen witharrogance. They had takenover this town without afight.Hell,theyhaddonethesamethingtoallofFrance.

But Isabelle could neverforgetwhat she’dseen in thefieldnearTours.

At home, when she wasupstairsagain,inthebedroomthathadbeenhersasachild,

she slammed the door shutbehind her. A few momentslater, she smelled cigarettesmoke and it made her soangryshewantedtoscream.

He was down there,smoking a cigarette. CaptainBeck,withhis cut-stone faceand fake smile, could tossthem all out of this house atwill. For any reason or no

reason at all. Her frustrationcurdledintoanangerthatwaslike nothing she’d everknown. She felt as if herinsides were a bomb thatneeded togooff.Onewrongmove—or word—and shemightexplode.

She marched over toVianne’s bedroom andopenedthedoor.“Youneeda

passtoleavetown,”shesaid,her anger expanding. “Thebastards won’t let us take atraintoseefamily.”

From the darkness,Viannesaid,“Sothat’sthat.”

Isabelle didn’t know if itwas relief or disappointmentshe heard in her sister’svoice.

“Tomorrow morning you

will go to town forme.YouwillstandinthequeueswhileI am at school and get whatyoucan.”

“But—”“No buts, Isabelle. You

areherenowandstaying.It’stimeyoupulledyourweight.Ineed tobeable tocountonyou.”

***

For the next week, Isabelletried to be on her bestbehavior, but it wasimpossible with that manliving under the same roof.Night after night she didn’tsleep. She lay in her bed,alone in the dark, imaginingtheworst.

Thismorning,wellbefore

dawn, she gave up thepretense and got out of bed.She washed her face anddressed in a plain cotton daydress, wrapping a scarfaround her butchered hair asshewentdownstairs.

Vianne sat on the divan,knitting,anoillamplitbesideher. In the ring of lamplightthat separated her from the

darkness,Vianne lookedpaleand sickly; she obviouslyhadn’t sleptmuch thisweek,either. She looked up atIsabelle in surprise. “You’reupearly.”

“I have a long day ofstandinginlinesaheadofme.Might as well get started,”Isabelle said. “The first inlinegetthebestfood.”

Vianne put her knittingaside and stood. Smoothingher dress (another reminderthat he was in the house:neither of them camedownstairs in nightdresses),shewentintothekitchenandthen returned with rationcards.“It’smeattoday.”

Isabellegrabbedtherationcards from Vianne and left

the house, plunging into thedarkness of a blacked-outworld.

Dawnroseasshewalked,illuminatingaworldwithinaworld—one that looked likeCarriveau but felt entirelyforeign. As she passed theairfield, a small green carwith the letters POL on therearroaredpasther.

Gestapo.Theairfieldwasalreadya

hiveofactivity.Shesawfourguards out front—two at thenewly constructed gatedentrance and two at thebuilding’sdoubledoors.Naziflags snapped in the early-morning breeze. Severalaeroplanes stood ready fortakeoff—to drop bombs on

England and across Europe.Guards marched in front ofredsignsthatread:VERBOTEN.KEEP OUT UNDER PENALTY OF

DEATH.Shekeptwalking.There were already four

womenqueuedupinfrontofthe butcher’s shop when shearrived.Shetookherplaceatthebackoftheline.

Thatwaswhenshesawapiece of chalk lying in theroad, tucked in against thecurb.Sheknewinstantlyhowshecoulduseit.

She glanced around, butno one was looking at her.Why would they be whenthere were German soldierseverywhere?Meninuniformsstrode through town like

peacocks, buying whatevercaught their eye.Rambunctious and loud andquick to laugh. They wereunfailingly polite, openingdoors forwomenand tippingtheirhats,butIsabellewasn’tfooled.

She bent down andpalmed the bit of chalk,hidingit inherpocket.It felt

dangerousandwonderfuljusthavingit.Shetappedherfootimpatientlyafterthat,waitingforherturn.

“Good morning,” shesaid, offering her ration cardtothebutcher’swife,a tired-lookingwomanwiththinninghairandeventhinnerlips.

“Hamhocks,twopounds.That’swhatisleft.”

“Bones?”“TheGermanstakeallthe

goodmeat,M’mselle.You’relucky, in fact. Pork isverbotenfortheFrench,don’tyou know, but they don’twantthehocks.Doyouwantthemornon?”

“I’ll take them,”someonesaidbehindher.

“SowillI!”yelledanother

woman.“I’ll take them,” Isabelle

said. She took the smallpacket, wrapped up inwrinkled paper and tiedwithtwine.

Across the street, sheheard the sound of jackbootsmarchingoncobblestone, therattling of sabers inscabbards, the soundofmale

laughter and the purringvoices of the French womenwho warmed their beds. AtrioofGermansoldierssatatabistrotablenotfaraway.

“Mademoiselle?” one ofthem said, waving to her.“Comehavecoffeewithus.”

She clutched her willowbasketwithitspaper-wrappedtreasures, small and

insufficientastheywere,andignored the soldiers. Sheslippedaroundthecornerandintoanalley thatwasnarrowand crooked, like all suchpassageways in town.Entrances were slim, andfromthestreet,theyappearedtobedeadends.Localsknewhow to navigate them aseasily as a boatman knows a

boggy river. She walkedforward, unobserved. Theshopsinthealleyhadallbeenshutdown.

Aposterintheabandonedmilliner’s shopwindowshowed a crooked old manwith a huge, hooked nose,looking greedy and evil,holding a bag of money andtrailing blood and bodies

behind him. She saw theword—Juif—Jew—andstopped.

Sheknewsheshouldkeepwalking. It was justpropaganda, after all, theenemy’s heavy-handedattempt to blame the Jewishpeople for the ills of theworld,andthiswar.

Andyet.

She glanced to her left.Not fifty feet away was rueLa Grande, a main streetthrough town; to her rightwas an elbow bend in thealleyway.

She reached into herpocket and pulled out herpieceofchalk.Whenshewassure the coast was clear, shedrewahugeV forvictoryon

the poster, obliterating asmuch of the image as shecould.

Someone grabbed herwristsohardshegasped.Herpiece of chalk fell, clatteredto the cobblestones, androlledintooneofthecracks.

“Mademoiselle,” a mansaid, shoving her against theposter she’d just defaced,

pressing her cheek into thepapersothatshecouldn’tseehim, “do you know it isverboten to do that? Andpunishablebydeath?”

TEN

Vianne closed her eyes and

thought, Hurry home,Antoine.

It was all she allowedherself, just that one smallplea. How could she handleall of this—war, andCaptainBeck,andIsabelle—alone?

She wanted to daydream,pretend that her world wasuprightinsteadoffallenonitsside; that the closed guest

room door meant nothing,that Sophie had slept withVianne last night becausethey’d fallen asleep reading,that Antoine was outside onthis dewy dawn morning,chopping wood for a winterthat was still months away.Soon he would come in andsay,Well,Iamofftoadayofdelivering mail. Perhaps he

would tell her of his latestpostmark—a letter in fromAfrica or America—and hewouldspinheraromanticallyimagined tale to go alongwithit.

Instead, she returned herknitting to the basket by thedivan, put on her boots, andwentoutsidetochopwood.Itwouldbeautumnagaininno

time,andthenwinter,andthedevastation of her garden bythe refugees had remindedher how perilously balancedher survival was. She liftedthe axe and brought it down,hard.

Grasp. Raise. Steady.Chop.

Every chop reverberatedup her arms and lodged

painfully in the muscles ofher shoulders. Sweatsqueezed from her pores,dampenedherhair.

“Allow me please to dothisforyou.”

She froze, the axe inmidair.

Beck stood nearby,dressed in his breeches andboots,with only a thinwhite

T-shirtcoveringhischest.Hispale cheeks were reddenedfromamorningshaveandhisblond hairwaswet.DropletsfellontohisT-shirt,makingapattern of small graysunbursts.

She felt acutelyuncomfortable in her robeandworkboots,withherhairpinned in curls. She lowered

theaxe.“There are some things a

man does around the house.You are much too fragile tochopwood.”

“Icandoit.”“Of course you can, but

why should you? Go,Madame. See to yourdaughter. I can do this smallthing for you. Otherwise my

mother will beat me with aswitch.”

She meant to move, butsomehowshedidn’t,andthenhewas there, pulling the axegently out of her hand. Sheheld on instinctively for amoment.

Theirgazesmet,held.Shereleasedherholdand

stepped back so quickly she

stumbled. He caught her bythe wrist, steadied her.Mumbling a thank-you, sheturnedandwalkedawayfromhim, keeping her spine asstraight as she could. It tookallofher limitedcouragenotto speed up. Even so, by thetime she reached her door,she felt as if she’d run fromParis. She kicked free of the

oversized gardening boots,sawthemhitthehousewithathunkandfall inaheap.Thelast thing she wanted waskindness from this man whohadinvadedherhome.

She slammed the doorshut behind her and went tothekitchen,where she lit thestove and put a pot of wateron to boil. Then shewent to

the bottom of the stairs andcalled her daughter down tobreakfast.

She had to call twomoretimes—and then threaten—before Sophie came trudgingdown the stairs, her hair amess, the look in her eyessullen. She was wearing hersailordress—again.Inthetenmonths Antoine had been

gone, she’d outgrown it, butsherefusedtostopwearingit.“I’m up,” she said, shufflingtothetable,takingherseat.

Vianne placed a bowl ofcornmealmushinfrontofherdaughter. She had splurgedthis morning and added atablespoon of preservedpeachesontop.

“Maman? Can’t you hear

that? There’s someoneknockingatthedoor.”

Vianne shook her head(all she’d heard was thethunk-thunk-thunkoftheaxe)andwenttothedoor,openingit.

Rachel stood there, withthe baby in her arms andSarah tucked in close to herside.“Youareteachingtoday

withyourhairpinned?”“Oh!” Vianne felt like a

fool. What was wrong withher? Today was the last dayof school before the summerbreak. “Let’sgo,Sophie.Weare late.” She rushed backinside and cleared the table.Sophie had licked her plateclean,soViannelaiditinthecoppersinktowashlater.She

covered the leftover pot ofmush and put the preservedpeaches away. Then she ranupstairstogetready.

In no time, she hadremoved her hairpins andcombed her hair into smoothwaves. She grabbed her hat,gloves, and handbag and leftthe house to findRachel andthe children waiting in the

orchard.Captain Beck was there,

too,standingbytheshed.Hiswhite T-shirt was soaked inplacesandclungtohischest,revealing the whorls of hairbeneath.Hehadtheaxeslungcasuallyagainstoneshoulder.

“Ah,greetings,”hesaid.Vianne could feel

Rachel’sscrutiny.

Beck lowered the axe.“This is a friend of yours,Madame?”

“Rachel,” Vianne saidtightly.“Myneighbor.ThisisHerr CaptainBeck.He is…theonebilletingwithus.”

“Greetings,” Beck saidagain,noddingpolitely.

Vianne put a hand onSophie’s back and gave her

daughter a little shove, andthey were off, trudgingthrough the tall grass of theorchard and out onto thedustyroad.

“He’s handsome,”Rachelsaid as they came to theairfield, which was abuzzwithactivitybehind thecoilsof barbed wire. “You didn’ttellmethat.”

“Ishe?”“I’mprettysureyouknow

he is, so your question isinteresting.What’shelike?”

“German.”“Thesoldiersbilletedwith

Claire Moreau look likesausages with legs. I heartheydrinkenoughwinetokillajudgeandsnorelikerootinghogs.You’relucky,Iguess.”

“You’re the lucky one,Rachel. No one has movedintoyourhouse.”

“Povertyhasitsrewardatlast.” She linked her armthrough Vianne’s. “Don’tlook so stricken, Vianne. Ihear they have orders to be‘correct.’”

Vianne lookedatherbestfriend. “Last week, Isabelle

chopped off her hair in frontofthecaptainandsaidbeautymustbeverboten.”

Rachel couldn’t stifle hersmilecompletely.“Oh.”

“It’s hardly funny. Shecould get us killed with hertemper.”

Rachel’s smile faded.“Canyoutalktoher?”

“Oh,Icantalk.Whenhas

sheeverlistenedtoanyone?”

***

“You are hurting me,”Isabellesaid.

Themanyankedherawayfromthewallanddraggedherdown the street, moving sofast she had to run alongbeside him; she bumped intothe stone alley wall with

every step.Whenshe trippedon a cobblestone and almostfell,hetightenedhisholdandheldherupright.

Think,Isabelle.Hewasn’tin uniform, so he must beGestapo. That was bad. Andhe’d seen her defacing theposter.Did it countasanactof sabotage or espionage orresistance to the German

occupation?Itwasn’t like blowing up

a bridge or selling secrets toBritain.

Iwasmakingart…itwasgoing to be a vase full offlowers … Not a V forvictory,avase.Noresistance,justasillygirldrawingontheonly paper she could find. Ihave never even heard of

GénéraldeGaulle.And what if they didn’t

believeher?Theman stopped in front

of an oak door with a blacklion’s head knocker at itscenter.

He rapped four times onthedoor.

“W-where are you takingme?”Wasthisabackdoorto

the Gestapo headquarters?There were rumors aboutthese Gestapo interrogators.Supposedly they wereruthless and sadistic, but nooneknewforsure.

The door opened slowly,revealing an old man in aberet.Ahand-rolledcigarettehung from his fleshy, liver-spotted lips. He saw Isabelle

andfrowned.“Open up,” the man

beside Isabelle growled andtheoldmansteppedaside.

Isabellewaspulled intoaroomfullofsmoke.Hereyesstungasshelookedaround.Itwas an abandoned noveltystore that had once soldbonnets and notions andsewingsupplies.Inthesmoky

light, she saw empty displaycasesthathadbeenshovedupagainst the walls, emptymetalhat rackswerepiled inthe corner. The window outfronthadbeenbrickedupandthe back door that faced rueLa Grande was padlockedfromtheinside.

There were four men intheroom:atall,grayingman,

dressed in rags, standing inthe corner; a boy seatedbeside the old man who hadopened the door, and ahandsome young man in atattered sweater and wornpantswithscuffedbootswhosatatacafétable.

“Who is this, Didier?”asked the old man who hadopenedthedoor.

Isabellegot thefirstgoodlook at her captor—he wasbig and brawny, with thepuffed-up look of a circusstrong man and a heavilyjowled,oversizedface.

She stood as tall aspossible, with her shoulderspressed back and her chinlifted. She knew she lookedridiculously young in her

plaid skirt and fitted blouse,but she refused to give themthe satisfaction of knowingshewasafraid.

“I foundherchalkingV’son theGermanposters,” saidthe swarthy man who’dcaughther.Didier.

Isabelle fisted her righthand,tryingtorubtheorangechalk away without them

noticing.“Have you nothing to

say?” said the old manstanding in the corner. Hewastheboss,obviously.

“Ihavenochalk.”“Isawherdoingit.”Isabelle took a chance.

“You’re not German,” shesaid to the strong man.“You’re French. I’d bet

money on it. And you,” shesaid to theoldmanwhowasseatedbytheboy,“you’rethepork butcher.” The boy shedismissed altogether, but tothe handsome young man inthe tattered clothes, she said,“You look hungry, and Ithink you’re wearing yourbrother’s clothes, orsomethingyoufoundhanging

on a line somewhere.Communist.”

He grinned at her, and itchangedhiswholedemeanor.

But it was the manstanding in the corner shecared about. The one incharge. She took a steptoward him. “You could beAryan.Maybeyou’re forcingtheotherstobehere.”

“I’ve known him all mylife, M’mselle,” the porkbutchersaid.“Ifoughtbesidehis father—and yours—atSomme. You’re IsabelleRossignol,oui?”

Shedidn’tanswer.Wasitatrap?

“No answer,” said theBolshevik. He rose from hisseat,cametowardher.“Good

for you. Why were youchalkingaVontheposter?”

Again, Isabelle remainedsilent.

“I amHenriNavarre,” hesaid, close enough now totouch her. “We are notGermans, nor do we workwith them, M’mselle.” Hegave her a meaningful look.“Not all of us are passive.

Nowwhywere youmarkinguptheirposters?”

“It was all I could thinkof,”shesaid.

“Meaning?”She exhaled evenly. “I

heard de Gaulle’s speech ontheradio.”

Henri turned to the backof the room, sent aglance totheoldman.Shewatchedthe

two men have an entireconversation withoutspeaking a word. At the endof it, sheknewwho thebosswas: the handsomecommunist.Henri.

At last, Henri said,turning to her again, “If youcould do something more,wouldyou?”

“Whatdoyoumean?”she

asked.“There is a man in Paris

—”“A group, actually, from

the Musée de l’Homme—”theburlymancorrectedhim.

Henri held up a hand.“Wedon’t saymore thanwemust, Didier. Anyway, thereisaman,aprinter,riskinghislifetomaketractsthatwecan

distribute. Maybe if we canget theFrench towakeup towhatishappening,wehaveachance.”Henrireachedintoaleather bag that hung on hischair and pulled out a sheafofpapers.Aheadlinejumpedout at her: “Vive le GénéraldeGaulle.”

The text was an openletter toMaréchalPétain that

expressed criticism of thesurrender.At the end it read,“Nous sommes pour legénéral de Gaulle.” WesupportGénéraldeGaulle.

“Well?” Henri saidquietly, and in that singleword, Isabelle heard the callto arms she’d been waitingfor. “Will you distributethem?”

“Me?”“We are communists and

radicals,” Henri said. “Theyarealreadywatchingus.Youareagirl.Andaprettyoneatthat. No one would suspectyou.”

Isabelle didn’t hesitate.“I’lldoit.”

The men started to thankher; Henri silenced them.

“Theprinterisriskinghislifeby writing these tracts, andsomeone is riskinghisorherlife by typing them. We arerisking our lives by bringingthemhere.But you, Isabelle,you are the onewhowill becaught distributing them—ifyou are caught. Make nomistake. This is not chalkinga V on a poster. This is

punishablebydeath.”“Iwon’t get caught,” she

said.Henri smiled at that.

“Howoldareyou?”“Almostnineteen.”“Ah,” he said. “And how

can one so young hide thisfromherfamily?”

“My family’s not theproblem,” Isabelle said.

“Theypaynoattentiontome.But … there’s a Germansoldier billeted at my house.And I would have to breakcurfew.”

“It will not be easy. Iunderstandifyouareafraid.”Henribegantoturnaway.

Isabelle snatched thepapersbackfromhim.“IsaidI’ddoit.”

***

Isabelle was elated. For thefirst time since the armistice,she wasn’t completely alonein her need to do somethingforFrance.Themen toldherabout dozens of groups liketheirsthroughoutthecountry,mounting a resistance tofollow de Gaulle. The morethey talked, themore excited

shebecameattheprospectofjoining them. Oh, she knewshe should be afraid. (Theytoldheroftenenough.)

Butitwasridiculous—theGermans threatening deathfor handing out a few piecesof paper. She could talk herway out of it if she werecaught; she was sure of it.Not that she would get

caught.Howmany timeshadshe sneaked out of a lockedschool or boarded a trainwithouta ticketor talkedherway out of trouble? Herbeauty had always made iteasy for her to break ruleswithoutreprisal.

“When we have more,how will we contact you?”Henriaskedasheopenedthe

doortoletherleave.She glanced down the

street. “The apartment aboveMadame La Foy’s hat shop.Isitstillvacant?”

Henrinodded.“Open the curtains when

youhavepapers.I’llcomebyassoonasIcan.”

“Knock four times. Ifwedon’tanswer,walkaway,”he

said.Afterapause,headded,“Becareful,Isabelle.”

Heshut thedoorbetweenthem.

Alone again, she lookeddown at her basket. Settledunder a red-and-white-checked linen cloth were thetracts.Ontoplaythebutcher-paper-wrapped hamhocks. Itwasn’tmuchofacamouflage.

Shewouldneed to figureoutsomethingbetter.

She walked down thealley and turned onto a busystreet. The sky wasdarkening. She’d been withthe men all day. The shopswere closing up; the onlypeople milling about wereGerman soldiers and the fewwomenwho’dchosentokeep

them company. The cafétables out on the street werefull of uniformedmen eatingthe best food, drinking thebestwines.

It took every ounce ofnerveshehadtowalkslowly.The minute she was out oftown, she started to run. Asshe neared the airfield, shewas sweating and out of

breath, but she didn’t slow.She ran all the way into heryard.With thegateclatteringshut behind her, she bentforward, gasping hard,holdingthestitchinherside,tryingtocatchherbreath.

“M’mselle Rossignol, areyouunwell?”

Isabellesnappedupright.Captain Beck appeared

besideher.Hadhebeentherebeforeher?

“Captain,” she said,working hard to still theracing of her heart. “Aconvoywentpast…I…uh,rushed to get out of theirway.”

“A convoy? I didn’t seethat.”

“Itwasawhileback.And

Iam…sillysometimes.Ilosttrack of time, talking to afriend,and,well…”Shegavehim her prettiest smile andpattedherbutcheredhairasifit mattered to her that shelookedniceforhim.

“How were the queuestoday?”

“Interminable.”“Please,allowmetocarry

yourbasketinside.”She looked down at her

basket, saw the tiniest whitepapercornervisibleunderthelinencloth.“No,I—”

“Ah, I insist. We aregentlemen,youknow.”

His long, well-manicuredfingers closed around thewillow handle. As he turnedtoward the house, she

remainedathisside.“Isawalarge group gathering at thetown hall this afternoon.What are the Vichy policedoinghere?”

“Ah. Nothing to concernyou.” He waited at the frontdoor for her to open it. Shefumbled nervously with thecenter-mounted knob, turnedit, and opened the door.

Although he had every righttogo in atwill, hewaited tobe invited in, as ifhewereaguest.

“Isabelle, is that you?Where have you been?”Viannerosefromthedivan.

“The queues were awfultoday.”

Sophie popped up fromthe floor by the fireplace,

where she’d been playingwithBébé.“Whatdidyougettoday?”

“Ham hocks,” Isabellesaid, glancing worriedly atthebasketinBeck’shand.

“That’sall?”Viannesaid.“What about the cookingoil?”

Sophie sank back to therug on the floor, clearly

disappointed.“I will put the hocks in

the pantry,” Isabelle said,reachingforthebasket.

“Please, allowme,” Becksaid. He was staring atIsabelle, watching herclosely.Ormaybeitonlyfeltlikethat.

Vianne lit a candle andhanded it to Isabelle. “Don’t

wasteit.Hurry.”Beck was very gallant as

he walked through theshadowy kitchen and openedthedoortothecellar.

Isabelle went down first,lightingtheway.Thewoodenstepscreakedbeneathherfeetuntil she stepped down ontothehard-packeddirtfloorandinto the subterranean chill.

The wooden shelves seemedto close in around them asBeckcameupbesideher.Thecandle flame sent lightgambolinginfrontofthem.

She tried to still thetrembling in her hand as shereached for the paper-wrapped ham hocks. Sheplaced them on the shelfbeside their dwindling

supplies.“Bring up three potatoes

and a turnip,” Vianne calleddown.Isabellejumpedalittleatthesound.

“You seem nervous,”Beck said. “Is that the rightword,M’mselle?”

The candle sputteredbetweenthem.“Therewerealotofdogsintowntoday.”

“The Gestapo. They lovetheir shepherds. There is noreason for this to concernyou.”

“I am afraid … of bigdogs. Iwasbittenonce.Asachild.”

Beckgaveherasmilethatwasstretchedoutofshapebythelight.

Don’t look at the basket.

Butitwastoolate.Shesawalittle more of the hiddenpapersstickingout.

She forced a smile. “Youknow us girls. Scared ofeverything.”

“That is nothow Iwoulddescribeyou,M’mselle.”

She reached carefully forthebasketandtuggeditfromhis grasp. Without breaking

eyecontact,shesetthebasketon the shelf, beyond thecandle’s light. When it wasthere, in thedark, she finallyreleasedherbreath.

They stared at each otherinuncomfortablesilence.

Becknodded.“AndnowImustaway.Ihaveonlycomehere to pick up some papersfor a meeting tonight.” He

turnedback for the stepsandbeganclimbingthem.

Isabelle followed thecaptain up the narrow stairs.When she emerged into thekitchen,Viannewasstandingthere with her arms crossed,frowning.

“Where are the potatoesandaturnip?”Vianneasked.

“Iforgot.”

Vianne sighed. “Go,” shesaid.“Getthem.”

Isabelle turned and wentback into the cellar. Aftershe’d gathered up thepotatoesand turnip,shewenttothebasket,liftedthecandleto expose the basket to light.There it was: the tiny whitetriangleofpaper,peekingout.She quickly withdrew the

papers from the basket andshoved them into her pantygirdle. Feeling the papersagainst her skin, she wentupstairs,smiling.

***

At supper, Isabelle sat withher sister and niece, eatingwatery soup and day-oldbread, trying to think of

somethingtosay,butnothingcame to her. Sophie, whoseemednottonotice,rambledon, telling one story afteranother. Isabelle tapped herfoot nervously, listening forthe sound of a motorcycleapproaching the house, forthe clatter of Germanjackbootsonthewalkwayoutfront, forasharp, impersonal

knock on the door.Her gazekept cutting to the kitchenandthecellardoor.

“You are acting strangelytonight,”Viannesaid.

Isabelle ignored hersister’s observation. Whenthe meal was finally over,Isabelle popped out of herseat and said, “I’ll do thedishes,V.Whydon’tyouand

Sophie finish your game ofcheckers?”

“You’ll do dishes?”Viannesaid,givingIsabelleasuspiciouslook.

“Come on, I’ve offeredbefore,”Isabellesaid.

“Notinmymemory.”Isabelle gathered the

empty soup bowls andutensils.Shehadofferedonly

tokeepbusy,todosomethingwithherhands.

Afterward, Isabelle couldfindnothing todo.Thenightdragged on. Vianne andSophie and Isabelle playedBelote, but Isabelle couldn’tconcentrate, she was sonervous and excited. Shemade some lame excuse andquit the game early,

pretending to be tired. In herupstairs bedroom, she layatop the blankets, fullydressed.Waiting.

Itwaspastmidnightwhenshe heard Beck return. Sheheardhimentertheyard;thenshe smelled the smoke fromhis cigarette drift up. Later,he came into the house—clompingaround inhisboots

—but by one o’clockeverything was quiet again.Stillshewaited.AtfourA.M.,she got out of bed anddressed in a heavy worstedknit black sweater and plaidtweed skirt. She ripped aseam open in her summer-weight coat and slid thepapersinside,thensheputthecoat on, tying the belt at her

waist. She slipped the rationcardsinherfrontpocket.

On the way downstairs,shewinced at every creak ofsound. It seemed to takeforever to get to the frontdoor, more than forever, butfinallyshewasthere,openingit quietly, closing it behindher.

The early morning was

coldandblack.Somewhereabird called out, his slumberprobably disturbed by theopening of the door. Shebreathedinthescentofrosesand was overcome by howordinary it seemed in thismoment.

Fromheretherewouldbenoturningback.

She walked to the still-

broken gate, glancing backoften at the blacked-outhouse, expecting Beck to bethere, arms crossed, bootedfeet in a warrior’s stance,watchingher.

Butshewasalone.Her first stop was

Rachel’s house. There werealmost no mail deliveriesthese days, but women like

Rachel, whose men weregone, checked their letterboxes each day, hopingagainst hope that the mailwouldbringthemnews.

Isabellereachedinsidehercoat,feltfortheslitinthesilklining,andpulledoutasinglepiece of paper. In onemovement, she opened theletterbox and slid the paper

insideandquietlyshutthelid.Outontheroadagain,she

looked around and saw noone.

Shehaddoneit!Her second stop was old

man Rivet’s farm. He was acommunist through andthrough, a man of therevolution, and he’d lost asonatthefront.

By the time she gaveaway her last tract, she feltinvincible. It was just pastdawn;palesunlightgildedthelimestonebuildingsintown.

She was the first womanto queue up outside the shopthismorning, and because ofthat,shegotherfullrationofbutter. One hundred fiftygrams for the month. Two-

thirdsofacup.Atreasure.

ELEVEN

Every day that long, hot

summer, Vianne woke to alistofchores.She(alongwithSophie and Isabelle)replanted and expanded thegarden and converted a pairof old bookcases into rabbithutches. She used chickenwire to enclose the pergola.Nowthemostromanticplaceon the property stank ofmanure—manure they

collectedfortheirgarden.Shetookinwashfromthefarmerdown the road—old manRivet—in exchange for feed.The only time she reallyrelaxed, and felt like herself,was on Sunday mornings,when she took Sophie tochurch (Isabelle refused toattend Mass) and then hadcoffeewithRachel, sitting in

the shade of her backyard,just two best friends talking,laughing, joking. SometimesIsabelle joined them, but shewasmore likely to playwiththechildrenthantalkwiththewomen—whichwasfinewithVianne.

Her chores werenecessary, of course—a newwayofpreparingforawinter

that seemed far away butwould arrive like anunwanted guest on the worstpossibleday.Moreimportant,it kept Vianne’s mindoccupied. When she wasworking in her garden orboiling strawberries forpreserves or picklingcucumbers, she wasn’tthinkingofAntoine andhow

long it had been since she’dheard from him. It was theuncertainty that gnawed ather: Was he a prisoner ofwar? Was he woundedsomewhere?Dead?Orwouldshe look up one day and seehim walking up this road,smiling?

Missinghim.Longingforhim. Worrying about him.

Those were her nighttimejourneys.

Inaworldnowladenwithbadnewsandsilence,theonebit of good news was thatCaptainBeckhadspentmuchof the summer away on onecampaign or another. In hisabsence, the householdsettledintoaroutineofsorts.Isabelledidallthatwasasked

ofherwithoutcomplaint.It was October now, and

chilly. Vianne found herselfdistracted as she walkedhome from school withSophie. She could feel thatone of her heelswas comingloose; it made her slightlyunsteady. Her black kidskinoxfordsweren’tmadefor thekindofeverydayusetowhich

they’d been put in the pastfew months. The sole wasbeginningtopullawayat thetoe,whichoftencausedhertotrip. The worry aboutreplacing things like shoeswasnever faraway.A rationcarddidnotmeantherewereshoes—or food—to bebought.

Vianne kept one hand on

Sophie’s shoulder, both tosteady her gait and to keepher daughter close. Therewere Nazi soldierseverywhere; riding in lorriesand on motorcycles withmachine-gun-mountedsidecars.Theymarchedinthesquare, their voices raised intriumphantsong.

Amilitarylorryhonkedat

them and theymoved fartherontothesidewalkasaconvoyrumbledpast.MoreNazis.

“Is that Tante Isabelle?”Sophieasked.

Vianne glanced in thedirection of Sophie’s finger.Sure enough, Isabelle wascoming out of an alley,clutching her basket. Shelooked … “furtive” was the

onlywordthatcametomind.Furtive. At that, a dozen

little pieces clicked intoplace. Tiny incongruitiesbecameapattern.IsabellehadoftenleftLeJardinintheweehours of the morning, muchearlier than necessary. Shehad dozens of long-windedexcuses for absences thatVianne had barely cared

about. Heels that broke, hatsthat flewoff in thewindandhadtobechaseddown,adogthat frightened her andblockedherway.

Was she sneaking out tobewithaboy?

“Tante Isabelle!” Sophiecriedout.

Without waiting for areply—or permission—

Sophie darted into the street.Shedodgeda trioofGermansoldiers who were tossing aballbackandforth.

“Merde,” Viannemuttered. “Pardon,” she said,ducking around the soldiersand striding across thecobblestonedstreet.

“What did you gettoday?”sheheardSophieask

Isabelle as her daughterreached into the willowbasket.

Isabelle slapped Sophie’shand.Hard.

Sophie yelped and drewherhandback.

“Isabelle!” Vianne saidharshly. “What’swrongwithyou?”

Isabelle had the good

grace to blush. “I am sorry.It’s just thatI’mtired.Ihavebeen in queues all day. Andfor what? A veal jelly bonewith barely any meat on itand a tin of milk. It’sdisheartening. Still, Ishouldn’t be rude. I’m sorry,Soph.”

“Perhaps if you didn’tsneak out so early in the

morning you wouldn’t betired,”Viannesaid.

“I’m not sneaking out,”Isabelle said. “I’m going tothe shops for food. I thoughtyou wanted that of me. Andby the way, we need abicycle.Thesewalks to townonbadshoesarekillingme.”

Vianne wished she knewhersisterwellenoughtoread

the look in her eyes. Was itguilt? Or worry or defiance?If she didn’t know better,she’dsayitwaspride.

Sophie linked arms withIsabelle as the three of themsetoffforhome.

Viannestudiouslyignoredthe changes to Carriveau—theNazis taking up somuchspace, the posters on the

limestonewalls(thenewanti-Jewishtractsweresickening),and the red and blackswastika flagshangingabovedoorwaysandfrombalconies.People had begun to leaveCarriveau, abandoning theirhomes to the Germans. Therumor was that they weregoing to the Free Zone, butno one knew for sure. Shops

closedanddidn’treopen.She heard footsteps

coming up behind her andsaid evenly, “Let’s walkfaster.”

“Madame Mauriac, if Imayinterrupt.”

“Good Lord, is hefollowing you?” Isabellemuttered.

Vianne slowly turned

around. “Herr Captain,” shesaid. People in the streetwatchedVianneclosely,eyesnarrowedindisapproval.

“I wanted to say that Iwill be late tonight andwill,sorrowfully, not be there forsupper,”Becksaid.

“How terrible,” Isabellesaid in a voice as sweet andbitterasburnedcaramel.

Vianne tried to smile,butreally, she didn’t know whyhe’dstoppedher.“Iwillsaveyousomething—”

“Nein.Nein.Youaremostkind.”Hefellsilent.

Viannedidthesame.Finally Isabelle sighed

heavily. “Weareonourwayhome,HerrCaptain.”

“Is there something I can

do for you, Herr Captain?”saidVianne.

Beck moved closer. “Iknow howworried you havebeenaboutyourhusband,soIdidsomechecking.”

“Oh.”“It isnot finenews, I am

sorrowful to report. Yourhusband, Antoine Mauriac,hasbeencapturedalongwith

manyofyourtown’smen.Heisinaprisonerofwarcamp.”Hehandedheralistofnamesand a stack of officialpostcards. “He will not becominghome.”

***

Vianne barely rememberedleaving town. She knewIsabelle was beside her,

holding her upright, urginghertoputonefootinfrontoftheother,andthatSophiewasbeside her, chirping outquestions as sharp as fishhooks.What is a prisoner ofwar?WhatdidHerrCaptainmeanthatPapawouldnotbecominghome?Never?

Vianneknewwhenthey’darrived home because the

scents of her garden greetedher, welcomed her. Sheblinked, feeling a little likesomeone who had justwakenedfromacomatofindthe world impossiblychanged.

“Sophie,” Isabelle saidfirmly. “Go make yourmotheracupofcoffee.Openatinofmilk.”

“But—”“Go,”Isabellesaid.When Sophie was gone,

Isabelle turned to Vianne,cupped her face with coldhands.“He’llbeallright.”

Viannefeltas ifshewerebreaking apart bit by bit,losingbloodandboneas shestood here, contemplatingsomethingshehadstudiously

avoidedthinkingabout:alifewithout him. She started toshiver;herteethchattered.

“Comeinsideforcoffee,”Isabellesaid.

Into the house? Theirhouse? His ghost would beeverywhere in there—a dentin the divan where he sat toread, the hook that held hiscoat.Andthebed.

She shook her head,wishing she could cry, butthere were no tears in her.This news had emptied her.Shecouldn’tevenbreathe.

Suddenly all she couldthink about was the sweaterof his that she was wearing.Shestartedtostripoutofherclothes, tearing off the coatand the vest—ignoring

Isabelle’s shouted NO!—asshe yanked the sweater overher head and buried her facein the soft wool, trying tosmell him in the yarn—hisfavoritesoap,him.

Buttherewasnothingbuther own smell. She loweredthe bunched-up sweater fromherfaceandstareddownatit,trying to remember the last

timehe’dwornit.Shepickedat a loose thread and itunraveled in her hand,became a squiggly coil ofwine-colored yarn. She bit itoffandtiedaknottosavetherest of the sleeve. Yarn waspreciousthesedays.

Thesedays.When the world was at

war and everything was

scarceandyourhusbandwasgone. “I don’t know how tobeonmyown.”

“What doyoumean?Wewere on our own for years.From the moment Mamandied.”

Vianne blinked. Hersister’swordssoundedalittlejumbled, as if they wererunning on the wrong speed.

“You were alone,” she said.“I never was. I met Antoinewhen Iwas fourteen and gotpregnant at sixteen andmarried him when I wasbarely seventeen. Papa gaveme this house to get rid ofme. So, you see, I’ve neverbeenonmyown.That’swhyyou’re so strong and I’mnot.”

“You will have to be,”Isabellesaid.“ForSophie.”

Vianne drew in a breath.And there itwas.The reasonshe couldn’t eat a bowl ofarsenic or throw herself infront of a train. She took theshortcoilofcrookedyarnandtiedittoanappletreebranch.Theburgundycolorstoodoutagainst the green and brown.

Now,eachday inhergardenand when she walked to hergate and when she pickedapples, she would pass thisbranchandseethisbitofyarnand think of Antoine. Eachtimeshewouldpray—tohimandtoGod—Comehome.

“Come,” Isabelle said,putting an arm aroundVianne,pullingherclose.

Inside, the house echoedthe voice of a man whowasn’tthere.

***

Vianne stood outsideRachel’s stone cottage;overhead the sky was thecolor of smoke on this cold,late afternoon. The leaves ofthe trees, marigold and

tangerine and scarlet, werejust beginning to darkenaround the edges. Soon theywoulddroptotheground.

Viannestaredat thedoor,wishingshedidn’tneedtobehere, but she had read thenames Beck had given her.MarcdeChamplainwasalsolisted.

When she finally found

thecourage toknock,Rachelanswered almost instantly,wearing an old housedressand sagging woolenstockings.Acardigansweaterhung askew, buttonedincorrectly. It gave her anodd,tiltedlook.

“Vianne! Come in. SarahandIwerejustmakingaricepudding—it’s mostly water

and gelatin, of course, but Iusedabitofmilk.”

Viannemanaged a smile.She let her friend sweep herinto thekitchenandpourhera cup of the bitter, ersatzcoffeethatwasalltheycouldget.Viannewasremarkingonthe rice pudding—what sheeven said she didn’t know—when Rachel turned and

asked,“What’swrong?”Vianne stared at her

friend. She wanted to be thestrong one—for once—butshe couldn’t stop the tearsthatfilledhereyes.

“Stay in the kitchen,”Rachel said toSarah.“Ifyouhear your brother wake up,get him. You,” she said toVianne,“comewithme.”She

took Vianne by the arm andguided her through the smallsalon and into Rachel’sbedroom.

Viannesatonthebedandlooked up at her friend.Silently, she held out the listof names she’d gotten fromBeck. “They’re prisoners ofwar, Rachel. Antoine andMarcandalltheothers.They

won’tbecominghome.”

***

Three days later, on a frostySaturday morning, Viannestood in her classroom andstared out at the group ofwomen seated in desks thatwere too small for them.They looked tiredanda littlewary.Noonefeltcomfortable

gathering these days. It wasnever clear exactly how farverboten extended intoconversations about the war,and besides that, the womenofCarriveauwereexhausted.They spent their daysstanding in line forinsufficient quantities offoods,andwhentheyweren’tinline,theywereforagingthe

countryside or trying to selltheir dancing shoes or a silkscarf for enough money tobuy a loaf of good bread. Inthe back of the room, tuckedinto the corner, Sophie andSarah were leaning againsteach other, knees drawn up,readingbooks.

Rachel moved hersleeping son from one

shoulder to the other andclosed the door of theclassroom.“Thankyouallforcoming.Iknowhowdifficultitisthesedaystodoanythingmore than the absolutelynecessary.” There was amurmuring of agreementamongthewomen.

“Why are we here?”Madame Fournier asked

tiredly.Vianne stepped forward.

Shehadneverfeltcompletelycomfortable around some ofthe women, many of whomhaddislikedViannewhenshemoved here at fourteen.When Vianne had “caught”Antoine—the best-lookingyoung man in town—they’dliked her even less. Those

days were long past, ofcourse, and nowViannewasfriendly with these womenand taught their children andfrequented their shops, buteven so, the pains ofadolescence left a residue ofdiscomfort.“IhavereceivedalistofFrenchprisonersofwarfromCarriveau.Iamsorry—terriblysorry—totellyouthat

your husbands—and mine,andRachel’s—areonthelist.I am told they will not becominghome.”

She paused, allowing thewomen to react. Grief andloss transformed the facesaroundher.Vianneknew thepainmirrored her own.Evenso, it was difficult to watch,and she found her eyes

mistingagain.Rachelsteppedclose,tookherhand.

“I got us postcards,”Vianne said. “Official ones.Sowecanwritetoourmen.”

“How did you get somany postcards?” MadameFournier asked, wiping hereyes.

“She asked her Germanfor a favor,” said Hélène

Ruelle,thebaker’swife.“I did not! And he’s not

my German,” Vianne said.“He is a soldier who hasrequisitioned my home.ShouldIjustlettheGermanshave Le Jardin? Just walkaway and have nothing?Everyhouseorhotel in townwith a spare room has beentaken by them. I am not

specialinthis.”More tsking and

murmurs. Some womennodded; others shook theirheads.

“I would have killedmyself before I let one ofthem move into my house,”Hélènesaid.

“Would you, Hélène?Would you really?” Vianne

said. “And would you killyour children first or throwthem out into the street tosurviveontheirown?”

Hélènelookedaway.“Theyhavetakenovermy

hotel,” a woman said. “Andthey are gentlemen, for themost part. A bit crude,perhaps.Wasteful.”

“Gentlemen.”Hélènespat

the word. “We are pigs toslaughter. Youwill see. Pigswhoputupnofightatall.”

“Ihaven’tseenyouatmybutcher shop recently,”Madame Fournier said toVianneinajudgmentalvoice.

“My sister goes for me,”Vianne said. She knew thiswas the point of theirdisapproval; theywere afraid

that Vianne would get—andtake—special privileges thatthey would be denied. “Iwould not take food—oranything—from the enemy.”She felt suddenly as if shewere back in school, beingbulliedbythepopulargirls.

“Vianneistryingtohelp,”Rachelsaidsternlyenoughtoshut them up. She took the

postcards from Vianne andbeganhandingthemout.

Vianne took a seat andstareddownatherownblankpostcard.

She heard the chicken-scratchingofotherpencilsonother postcards and slowly,shebegantowrite.

Mybeloved

Antoine,We

arewell.Sophieisthriving,andevenwith

somanychores,wefoundsometime

this

summertospendbytheriver.We—I—think

ofyouwitheverybreathandpray

youarewell.Donotworryaboutus,

andcomehome.

Jet’aime,Antoine.

Herletteringwassosmallshe wondered if he wouldevenbeabletoreadit.

Orifhewouldgetit.Orifhewasalive.For God’s sake, she was

crying.Rachel moved in beside

her, laid a hand on hershoulder.“Weallfeelit,”shesaidquietly.

Moments later, thewomen rose one by one.Wordlessly, they shuffledforward and gave Viannetheirpostcards.

“Don’t let themhurtyour

feelings,” Rachel said.“They’rejustscared.”

“I’mscared, too,”Viannesaid.

Rachel pressed herpostcard to her chest, herfingers splayed across thesmall square of paper as ifshe needed to touch eachcorner. “How can we notbe?”

***

Afterward, when theyreturned toLe Jardin,Beck’smotorcyclewiththemachine-gun-mounted sidecar wasparked in the grass outsidethegate.

Rachelturnedtoher.“Doyouwant us to come inwithyou?”

Vianne appreciated the

worry in Rachel’s gaze, andsheknewthatifsheaskedforhelpshewouldgetit,buthowwasshetobehelped?

“No,merci. We are fine.He has probably forgottensomething and will soonleaveagain.Heisrarelyherethesedays.”

“WhereisIsabelle?”“A good question. She

sneaks out every Fridaymorning before the sunrise.”Sheleanedcloser,whispered,“I think she is meeting aboy.”

“Goodforher.”To that, Vianne had no

answer.“Will he mail the

postcards for us?” Rachelasked.

“Ihopeso.”Viannestaredat her friend a momentlonger.Thenshesaid,“Well,wewill know soon enough,”andledSophieintothehouse.Once inside, she instructedSophietogoupstairstoread.Her daughter was used tosuch directives, and shedidn’t mind. Vianne tried tokeep her daughter and Beck

separated as much aspossible.

He was seated at thediningroomtablewithpapersspreadoutinfrontofhim.Atherentrance,helookedup.Adropofinkfellfromthetipofhis fountain pen, landed in ablue starburst on the whitesheetofpaperinfrontofhim.“Madame. Most excellent. I

ampleasedyouarereturned.”She moved forward

cautiously,holdingthepacketof postcards tightly. They’dbeen tied up with a scrap oftwine. “I … have somepostcards here… written byfriends in town … to ourhusbands … but we don’tknow where to send them. Ihoped… perhaps you could

helpus.”Sheshifteduncomfortably

from one foot to the other,feelingacutelyvulnerable.

“Of course, Madame. Iwould be pleased to do thisfavor for you. Although itwill take much time andresearch to accomplish.” Herosepolitely. “As ithappens,Iamnowconcoctingalistfor

my superiors at theKommandantur.Theyneedtoknow the names of some oftheteachersatyourschool.”

“Oh,” she said, uncertainas to why he would tell herthis. He never spoke of hiswork. Of course, they didn’tspeakoftenaboutanything.

“Jews. Communists.Homosexuals. Freemasons.

Jehovah’sWitnesses.Doyouknowthesepeople?”

“I am Catholic, HerrCaptain,asyouknow.Wedonot speak of such things atschool. I hardly know whoare homosexuals andFreemasons,atanyrate.”

“Ah. So you know theothers.”

“Idon’tunderstand…”

“I am unclear. Mypardons.Iwouldappreciateitmost sternly ifyouwould letme know the names of theteachers in your school whoareJewishorcommunist.”

“Why do you need theirnames?”

“It is clerical, merely.You know us Germans: weare list makers.” He smiled

andpulledoutachairforher.Viannestareddownatthe

blankpaperonthetable;thenat the postcards in her hand.If Antoine received one, hemight write back. She mightknow at last if he was alive.“This is not secretinformation, Herr Captain.Anyone can give you thesenames.”

Hemovedinclosetoher.“With some effort, Madame,I believe I can find yourhusband’saddressandmailapackageforyou,also.Wouldthisbesanguine?”

“‘Sanguine’ is not theright word, Herr Captain.You mean to ask me if itwould be all right.” Shewasstalling and she knew it.

Worse, she was pretty surethatheknewit.

“Ah.Thank you somuchfor tutoring me in yourbeautiful language. Myapologies.” He offered her apen.“Donotworry,Madame.Itisclerical,merely.”

Viannewantedtosaythatshewouldn’twritedownanynames,butwhatwouldbethe

point?Itwaseasyenoughforhimtogetthisinformationintown. Everyone knew whosenames belonged on the list.And Beck could throw heroutofherownhouseforsucha defiance—and what wouldshedothen?

She sat down and pickedupthepenandbegantowritedown names. It wasn’t until

the end of the list that shepaused and lifted the pen tipfrom the paper. “I’m done,”shesaidinasoftvoice.

“Youhave forgottenyourfriend.”

“DidI?”“Surely you meant to be

accurate.”She bit her lip nervously

andlookeddownatthelistof

names. She was certainsuddenly that she shouldn’thave done this. But whatchoicedid shehave?Hewasincontrolofherhome.Whatwould happen if she defiedhim? Slowly, feeling sick toher stomach, she wrote thelastnameonthelist.

RacheldeChamplain.

TWELVE

On a particularly cold

morning in late November,Vianne woke with tears onher cheeks. She had beendreaming about Antoineagain.

Withasigh,sheeasedoutof bed, taking care not towaken Sophie. Vianne hadslept fullydressed,wearingawoolen vest, a long-sleevedsweater, woolen stockings, a

pair of flannel pants(Antoine’s, cut down to fither), and a knit cap andmittens. It wasn’t evenChristmas and alreadylayering had become derigueur.Sheaddedacardiganandstillshewascold.

She burrowed hermittenedhandsintotheslitatthe foot of the mattress and

withdrew the leather pouchAntoine had left for her.Notmuch money remained in it.Soon,theywouldhavetoliveonherteachingsalaryalone.

She returned the money(counting it had become anobsession since the weatherturned cold) and wentdownstairs.

There was never enough

of anything anymore. Thepipes froze at night and sothere was no water untilmidday.Vianne had taken toleaving buckets full of waterpositionednear thestoveandfireplaces for washing. Gasandelectricitywerescarce,aswas money to pay for them,soshewasmiserlywithboth.Theflamesonherstovewere

solowitbarelyboiledwater.They rarely turned on thelights.

Shemade a fire and thenwrapped herself in a heavyeiderdown and sat on thedivan. Beside her was a bagof yarn that she’d collectedby pulling apart one of heroldsweaters.ShewasmakingSophiea scarf forChristmas,

and these early-morninghourswere theonly timeshecouldfind.

Withonlythecreakingofthe house for company, shefocusedonthepaleblueyarnand the way the knittingneedlesdoveinandoutofthesoft strands, creating everymoment something thathadn’t existed before. It

calmedhernerves, thisonce-ordinary morning ritual. Ifshe loosed her thoughts, shemight remember her mothersitting beside her, teachingher, saying, “Knit one, purltwo, that’s right …beautiful…”

OrAntoine,comingdownthe stairs in his stockingedfeet,smiling,askingherwhat

shewasmakingforhim…Antoine.The front door opened

slowly, bringing a burst ofice-cold air and a flurry ofleaves. Isabelle came in,wearing Antoine’s old woolcoatandknee-highbootsandascarf thatcoiledaroundherhead and neck, obscuring allbuthereyes.ShesawVianne

and came to a sudden stop.“Oh. You’re up.” Sheunwound the scarf and hungup her coat. There was nomistaking the guilty look onherface.“Iwasoutcheckingonthechickens.”

Vianne’shandsstilled;theneedles paused. “You mightaswelltellmewhoheis,thisboyyoukeepsneakingoutto

meet.”“Who would meet a boy

inthiscold?”IsabellewenttoVianne, pulling her to herfeet,leadinghertothefire.

At the sudden warmth,Vianne shivered. She hadn’trealizedhowcoldshe’dbeen.“You,” she said, surprisedthat itmade her smile. “Youwouldsneakoutinthecoldto

meetaboy.”“He would have to be

some boy. Clark Gable,maybe.”

Sophie rushed into theroom, snuggling up toVianne. “This feels good,”she said, holding out herhands.

For a beautiful, tendermoment, Vianne forgot her

worries, and then Isabellesaid, “Well, I’d best go. Ineed to be first in thebutcher’squeue.”

“You need to eatsomething before you go,”Viannesaid.

“Give mine to Sophie,”Isabelleanswered,pullingthecoat back on and rewindingthescarfaroundherhead.

Vianne walked her sisterto the door,watched her slipout into the darkness, thenreturnedtothekitchenandlitanoillampandwentdowntothecellarpantry,where rowsof shelving ran along thestone wall. Two years agothis pantry had been full tooverflowing with hamssmokedinashandjarsfullof

duck fat set beside coils ofsausage. Bottles of agedchampagne vinegar, tins ofsardines,jarsofjam.

Now, theywerenearly totheendofthechicorycoffee.The last of the sugar was asparkly white residue in theglass container, and the flourwasmorepreciousthangold.Thank God the garden had

produced a good crop ofvegetablesinspiteofthewarrefugees’ rampage. She hadcanned and preserved everysingle fruit andvegetable,nomatterhowundersized.

Shereachedforapieceofwholemeal bread that wasabouttogobad.Asbreakfastfor growing girls went, aboiled egg and a piece of

toast wasn’t much, but itcouldbeworse.

“I want more,” Sophiesaidwhenshe’dfinished.

“Ican’t,”Viannesaid.“The Germans are taking

all of our food,” Sophie saidjust as Beck emerged fromhisroom,dressedinhisgray-greenuniform.

“Sophie,” Vianne said

sharply.“Well, it is true, young

lady,thatweGermansoldiersare taking much of the foodFrance produces, but menwho are fighting need to eat,dotheynot?”

Sophiefrownedupathim.“Doesn’t everyone need toeat?”

“Oui, M’mselle. And we

Germansdonotonlytake,wegivebacktoourfriends.”Hereachedintothepocketofhisuniform and drew out achocolatebar.

“Chocolate!”“Sophie, no,” Vianne

said, butBeckwas charmingher daughter, teasing her ashe made the chocolate bardisappear and reappear by

sleight of hand. At last, hegave it to Sophie, whosquealed and ripped off thepaper.

Beck approached Vianne.“You look … sad thismorning,”hesaidquietly.

Vianne didn’t know howtorespond.

He smiled and left.Outside, she heard his

motorcyclestartupandputteraway.

“Tha’ was goodcho’clate,” Sophie said,smackingherlips.

“Youknow,itwouldhavebeen a good idea to have asmall piece each night ratherthan to gobble it all up atonce.AndIshouldn’thavetomention the virtues of

sharing.”“Tante Isabelle says it’s

better to be bold than meek.She says if you jump off acliffat leastyou’ll flybeforeyoufall.”

“Ah,yes.ThatsoundslikeIsabelle. Perhaps you shouldask her about the time shebrokeherwristjumpingfromatreesheshouldn’thavebeen

climbing in the first place.Comeon,let’sgotoschool.”

Outside, they waited atthe side of the muddy, icyroad for Rachel and thechildren. Together, they setoffon the long, coldwalk toschool.

“I ran out of coffee fourdays ago,” Rachel said. “Incase you’ve been wondering

why I have been such awitch.”

“I’m the one who hasbeen short-tempered lately,”Vianne said. She waited forRachel to disagree, butRachelknewherwellenoughto know when a simplestatement wasn’t so simple.“It’s that … I’ve had somethingsonmymind.”

The list. She’d writtendown the names weeks ago,and nothing had come of it.Still,worrylingered.

“Antoine? Starvation?Freezing to death?” Rachelsmiled. “What small worryhasobsessedyouthisweek?”

Theschoolbellpealed.“Hurry, Maman, we are

late,” Sophie said, grabbing

her by the arm, dragging herforward.

Vianne let herself be ledup the stone steps. She andSophieandSarah turned intoVianne’s classroom, whichwas already filled withstudents.

“You’re late, MadameMauriac,” Gilles said with asmile.“That’sonedemeritfor

you.”Everyonelaughed.Vianne took off her coat

andhungitup.“Youareveryhumorous, Gilles, as usual.Let’s see if you’re stillsmiling after our spellingtest.”

This time they groanedand Vianne couldn’t helpsmiling at their crestfallen

faces. They all looked sodisheartened; itwas difficult,honestly, to feel otherwise inthis cold, blacked-out roomthat didn’t have enough lighttodispeltheshadows.

“Oh,whattheheck,itisacoldmorning.Maybeagameoftagiswhatweneedtogetourbloodrunning.”

A roar of approval filled

the room. Vianne barely hadtime to grab her coat beforeshe was swept out of theclassroom on a tide oflaughingchildren.

They had been outsideonly a few moments whenVianne heard the grumble ofautomobiles coming towardtheschool.

Thechildrendidn’tnotice

—they only noticedaeroplanes these days, itseemed—and went on withtheirplay.

Vianne walked down tothe end of the building andpeeredaroundthecorner.

A black Mercedes-Benzroared up the dirt driveway,its fenders decorated withsmall swastika flags that

flappedinthecold.BehinditwasaFrenchpolicecar.

“Children,” Vianne said,rushingbacktothecourtyard,“comehere.Standbyme.”

Two men rounded thecorner and came into view.One she had never seenbefore—he was a tall,elegant, almost effete blondman wearing a long black

leather coat and spit-shinedboots. An iron crossdecoratedhisstand-upcollar.The otherman she knew; hehad been a policeman inCarriveau for years. PaulJeauelere. Antoine had oftenremarked thathehadameanandcowardlystreak.

“Madame Mauriac,” theFrench police officer said

withanofficiousnod.Shedidn’tlikethelookin

his eyes. It reminded her ofhow boys sometimes lookedat one another when theywereabout tobullyaweakerchild.“Bonjour,Paul.”

“Wearehere forsomeofyour colleagues. There isnothing to concern you,Madame.Youarenotonour

list.”List.“What do you want with

my colleagues?” she heardherself asking, but her voicewas almost inaudible, eventhough the children weresilent.

“Some teachers will bedismissedtoday.”

“Dismissed?Why?”

TheNaziagentflickedhispale hand as if he werebatting at a fly. “Jews andcommunists and Freemasons.Others,”hesneered,“whoareno longer permitted to teachschool or work in civilserviceorinthejudiciary.”

“But—”The Nazi nodded at the

French policeman and the

two turned as one andmarchedintotheschool.

“Madame Mauriac?”someonesaid, tuggingonhersleeve.

“Maman?” Sophie said,whining.“Theycan’tdothat,canthey?”

“’Coursetheycan,”Gillessaid.“DamnNazibastards.”

Vianne should have

disciplined him for hislanguage, but she couldn’tthink of anything except thelist of names she’d given toBeck.

***

Vianne wrestled with herconscience for hours. She’dcontinued teaching for muchof the day, although she

couldn’t remember how. AllthatstuckinhermindwasthelookRachelhadgivenherasshewalked out of the schoolwith the other dismissedteachers. Finally, at noon,although they were alreadyshorthanded at school,Vianne had asked anotherteacher to take over herclassroom.

Now, she stood at theedgeofthetownsquare.

All thewayhere,shehadplannedwhat shewould say,but when she saw the Naziflagflyingabovethehôteldeville, her resolve faltered.Everywhere she looked therewere German soldiers,walking in pairs, or ridinggorgeous,well-fed horses, or

dartingupthestreetsinshinyblack Citröens. Across thesquare, a Nazi blew hiswhistle and used his rifle toforceanoldmantohisknees.

Go,Vianne.She walked up the stone

stepstotheclosedoakdoors,where a fresh-faced youngguard stopped her anddemanded to know her

business.“Iamhere toseeCaptain

Beck,”shesaid.“Ah.” The guard opened

the door for her and pointedup the wide stone staircase,making the number twowithhisfingers.

Vianne stepped into themainroomofthetownhall.Itwas crowded with men in

uniforms. She tried not tomake eye contact withanyone as she hurried acrossthe lobby to the stairs,whichshe ascended under thewatchful eyes of the Führer,whose portrait took upmuchofthewall.

On the second floor, shefound a man in uniform andshe said to him, “Captain

Beck,s’ilvousplaît?”“Oui, Madame.” He

showed her to a door at theend of the hall and rappedsmartlyuponit.Ataresponsefrom within, he opened thedoorforher.

Beck was seated behindanornateblackandgolddesk—obviously taken from oneof the grand homes in the

area.BehindhimaportraitofHitler and a collection ofmaps were affixed to thewalls. On his desk was atypewriter and a roneomachine. In the corner stooda pile of confiscated radios,butworstofallwasthefood.There were boxes and boxesoffood,heapsofcuredmeatsandwheelsofcheesestacked

againstthebackwall.“Madame Mauriac,” he

said, rising quickly. “What amost pleasant surprise.” Hecametowardher.“WhatmayIdoforyou?”

“It’s about the teachersyoufiredattheschool.”

“NotI,Madame.”Vianne glanced at the

open door behind them and

took a step toward him,lowering her voice to say,“You told me the list ofnameswasclericalinnature.”

“Iamsorry.Truly.ThisiswhatIwastold.”

“We need them at theschool.”

“You being here, it is…dangerous perhaps.” Heclosed the small distance

between them. “You do notwant to draw attention toyourself, Madame Mauriac.Not here. There is aman…”He glanced at the door andstopped speaking. “Go,Madame.”

“I wish you hadn’t askedme.”

“As do I, Madame.” Hegave her an understanding

look. “Now, go. Please. Youshouldnotbehere.”

Vianne turned away fromCaptain Beck—and all thatfood and the picture of theFührer—and left his office.On her way down the stairs,she saw how the soldiersobserved her, smiling to oneanother, no doubt jokingabout another Frenchwoman

courting a dashing Germansoldier who had just brokenher heart. But it wasn’t untilshesteppedbackout into thesunshine that she realizedfullyhermistake.

Several women were inthe square, or near it, andthey saw her step out of theNazis’lair.

One of the women was

Isabelle.Vianne hurried down the

steps, toward Hélène Ruelle,the baker’s wife, who wasdelivering bread to theKommandantur.

“Socializing, MadameMauriac?”HélènesaidarchlyasViannerushedpasther.

Isabelle was practicallyrunning across the square

toward her. With a defeatedsigh, Vianne came to astandstill, waiting for hersistertoreachher.

“Whatwereyoudoing inthere?” Isabelle demanded,hervoice too loud,ormaybethat was only to Vianne’sears.

“They fired the teacherstoday. No. Not all of them,

just the Jews and theFreemasons and thecommunists.” The memorywelled up in her, made herfeelsick.Sherememberedthequiet hallway and theconfusionamongtheteacherswho remained.No one knewwhat to do, how to defy theNazis.

“Justthem,huh?”Isabelle

said,herfacetightening.“Ididn’tmeanittosound

that way. I meant to clarify.They didn’t fire all theteachers.” Even to her ownears it sounded a feebleexcuse,sosheshutup.

“And this saysnothing toexplainyourpresenceattheirheadquarters.”

“I … thought Captain

Beck could help us. HelpRachel.”

“You went to Beck for afavor?”

“Ihadto.”“Frenchwomendonotask

Nazis for help, Vianne.MonDieu,youmustknowthis.”

“I know,” Vianne saiddefiantly.“But…”

“Butwhat?”

Viannecouldn’tholditinanymore.“Igavehimalistofnames.”

Isabelle went very still.Foraninstantsheseemednottobebreathing.ThelookshegaveViannestungmorethana slap across the face. “Howcould you do that? Did yougivehimRachel’sname?”

“Id-didn’tknow,”Vianne

stammered. “How could Iknow? He said it wasclerical.” She grabbedIsabelle’shand.“Forgiveme,Isabelle. Truly. I didn’tknow.”

“It is not my forgivenessyouneedtoseek,Vianne.”

Vianne felt a stinging,profound shame. How couldshehavebeensofoolish,and

howinGod’snamecouldshemakeamends?Sheglancedather wristwatch. Classeswouldbeendingsoon.“Gotothe school,” Vianne said.“Get Sophie, Sarah, and takethem home. There’ssomethingIneedtodo.”

“Whatever it is, I hopeyou’vethoughtitthrough.”

“Go,”Viannesaidtiredly.

***

ThechapelofSt.JeannewasasmallstoneNormanchurchat the edge of town. Behindit, and within its medievalwalls, lay the convent of theSisters of St. Joseph, nunswho ran both an orphanageandaschool.

Vianne went into thechurch,her footstepsechoing

on the cold stone floor; herbreathplumedinfrontofher.She took off hermittens justlong enough to touch herfingertips to the frozen holywater. She made the sign ofthe cross and went to anempty pew; she genuflectedand then knelt. Closing hereyes, she bent her head inprayer.

She needed guidance—and forgiveness—but for thefirsttimeinherlifeshecouldfindnowords forherprayer.How could she be forgivenforsuchafoolish,thoughtlessact?

God would see her guiltandfear,andHewouldjudgeher. She lowered her claspedhandsandclimbedbackupto

sitonthewoodenpew.“Vianne Mauriac, is that

you?”Mother Superior Marie-

Therese moved in besideVianne and sat down. ShewaitedforViannetospeak.Ithad always been this waybetween them.The first timeVianne had come to Motherfor advice, Vianne had been

sixteen years old andpregnant. IthadbeenMotherwho comforted Vianne afterPapa called her a disgrace;Mother who had planned fora rushedwedding and talkedPapa into letting Vianne andAntoine have Le Jardin;Mother who’d promisedVianne that a child wasalways a miracle and that

younglovecouldendure.“You know there is a

German billeted at myhouse,”Viannesaidfinally.

“Theyareatallofthebighomesandineveryhotel.”

“He asked me which ofthe teachers at school wereJewish or communist orFreemasons.”

“Ah. And you answered

him.”“That makes me the fool

Isabellecallsme,doesn’tit?”“You are no fool,

Vianne.” She gazed atVianne. “And your sister isquick to judge. That much Irememberabouther.”

“I ask myself if theywould have found thesenameswithoutmyhelp.”

“They have dismissedJews from positions all overtown.Doyounotknowthis?M’sieur Penoir is not thepostmaster anymore, andJudge Braias has beenreplaced. I have had newsfrom Paris that theheadmistress of CollègeSévignéwasforcedtoresign,as have all of the Jewish

singers at the Paris Opera.Perhaps they needed yourhelp, perhaps they did not.Certainly they would havefoundthenameswithoutyourhelp,”Mothersaidinavoicethat was both gentle andstern. “But that is not whatmatters.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”“I think, as thiswar goes

on, we will all have to lookmoredeeply.Thesequestionsarenotaboutthem,butaboutus.”

Viannefelttearsstinghereyes. “I don’t know what todo anymore. Antoine alwaystook care of everything. TheWehrmacht and the GestapoaremorethanIcanhandle.”

“Don’t think about who

they are. Think about whoyou are and what sacrificesyou can live with and whatwillbreakyou.”

“It’s all breaking me. IneedtobemorelikeIsabelle.She is so certain ofeverything.Thiswar isblackand white for her. Nothingseemstoscareher.”

“Isabelle will have her

crisisof faith in this, too.Aswillwe all. I have been herebefore, in the Great War. Iknow the hardships are justbeginning. You must staystrong.”

“BybelievinginGod.”“Yes, of course, but not

only by believing in God.Prayers and faith will not beenough, I’m afraid. The path

of righteousness is oftendangerous. Get ready,Vianne.Thisisonlyyourfirsttest. Learn from it.” Motherleaned forward and huggedVianneagain.Vianneheldontightly,herfacepressedtothescratchywoolhabit.

When she pulled back,shefeltalittlebetter.

Mother Superior stood,

tookVianne’shand,anddrewher to a stand. “Perhaps youcouldfindthetimetovisitthechildren this week and givethema lesson?They loved itwhen you taught thempainting.Asyoucanimagine,there’s a lot of grumblingabout empty bellies thesedays. Praise the Lord thesisters have an excellent

garden, and the goats’ milkand cheese is a Godsend.Still…”

“Yes,” Vianne said.Everyone knew about howthe belt-tightening felt,especiallytochildren.

“You’re not alone, andyou’renottheoneincharge,”Mother said gently. “Ask forhelp when you need it, and

give help when you can. Ithink that is how we serveGod—and each other andourselves—in times as darkasthese.”

***

You’renottheoneincharge.Vianne contemplated

Mother’s words all the wayhome.

She had always takengreat comfort in her faith.WhenMamanhadfirstbeguntocough,and thenwhen thatcoughing deepened into ahacking shudder that leftsprays of blood onhandkerchiefs, Vianne hadprayedtoGodforallthatsheneeded. Help. Guidance. Away to cheat the death that

hadcometocall.Atfourteenshe’dpromisedGodanything—everything—if He wouldjust spare her maman’s life.Withherprayersunanswered,she returned to God andprayedforthestrengthtodealwith the aftermath—herloneliness, Papa’s bleak,angry silences and drunkenrages, Isabelle’s wailing

neediness.Time and again, she had

returned toGod,pleadingforhelp,promisingherfaith.Shewanted to believe that shewas neither alone nor incharge,butratherthatherlifewas unfolding according toHisplan,evenifshecouldn’tseeit.

Now, though, such hope

felt as slightandbendableastin.

Shewas alone and therewasnooneelseincharge,noonebuttheNazis.

She had made a terrible,grievous mistake. Shecouldn’t take it back,however much she mighthope for such a chance; shecouldn’t undo it, but a good

woman would acceptresponsibility—and blame—andapologize.Whateverelseshe was or wasn’t, whateverher failings, she intended tobeagoodwoman.

Andsosheknewwhatsheneededtodo.

She knew it, and stillwhenshecame to thegateatRachel’s cottage, she found

herself unable to move. Herfeetfeltheavy,herheartevenmoreso.

She took a deep breathand knocked on the door.Therewasa shufflingof feetwithin and then the dooropened. Rachel held hersleeping son in one arm andhadapairofdungareesslungover theother.“Vianne,”she

said,smiling.“Comein.”Vianne almost gave in to

cowardice.Oh,Rachel, I juststopped by to say hello.Instead, she took a deepbreath and followed herfriend into the house. Shetook her usual place in thecomfortableupholsteredchairtuckedinclosetotheblazingfire.

“Take Ari, I’ll make uscoffee.”

Vianne reached for thesleepingbabyandtookhiminher arms. He snuggled closeand she strokedhisbackandkissedthebackofhishead.

“Weheardthatsomecarepackages were beingdelivered to prisoner of warcamps by the Red Cross,”

Rachel said a moment later,coming into the roomcarrying two cups of coffee.Shesetonedownonthetablenext to Vianne. “Where arethegirls?”

“At my house, withIsabelle. Probably learninghowtoshootagun.”

Rachel laughed. “Thereareworseskillstohave.”She

pulledthedungareesfromhershoulder and tossed themonto a straw basket with therest of her sewing. Then shesatdownacrossfromVianne.

Viannebreathedindeeplyof the sweet scent that waspure baby.When she lookedup,Rachelwasstaringather.

“Is itoneof thosedays?”sheaskedquietly.

Vianne gave an unsteadysmile. Rachel knew howmuch Vianne sometimesmourned her lost babies andhow deeply she’d prayed formore children. It had beendifficultbetweenthem—notalot,butalittle—whenRachelhadgottenpregnantwithAri.Therewas joy forRachel…and a thread of envy. “No,”

she said. She lifted her chinslowly,lookedherbestfriendin the eyes. “I havesomethingtotellyou.”

“What?”Vianne drew in a breath.

“Do you remember the daywewrote thepostcards?AndCaptainBeckwaswaitingformewhenwegothome?”

“Oui.Iofferedtocomein

withyou.”“Iwishyouhad,although

Idon’tsupposeitwouldhavemade a difference. He justwould have waited until youleft.”

Rachel started to rise.“Didhe—”

“No, no,” she saidquickly. “Not that. He wasworking at the dining room

table that day, writingsomething when I returned.He… askedme for a list ofnames. He wanted to knowwhich of the teachers at theschool were Jewish orcommunists.” She paused.“Heaskedabouthomosexualsand Freemasons, too, as ifpeople talk about suchthings.”

“You toldhimyoudidn’tknow.”

ShamemadeVianne lookaway, but only for a second.She forced herself to say, “Igavehimyourname,Rachel.Alongwiththeothers.”

Rachelwentverystill;thecolor drained from her face,making her dark eyes standout.“Andtheyfiredus.”

Vianne swallowed hard,nodded.

Rachelgottoherfeetandwalked past Vianne withoutstopping, ignoring herpleading please, Rachel,pulling away so she couldn’tbetouched.Shewentintoherbedroom and slammed thedoorshut.

Time passed slowly, in

indrawnbreathsandcapturedprayers and creaks of thechair. Vianne watched thetiny black hands on themantel clock click forward.Shepattedthebaby’sbackinrhythm with the passingminutes.

Finally, the door opened.Rachel walked back into theroom.Herhairwasamess,as

if she’d been shoving herhands through it; her cheekswere blotchy, from eitheranxietyoranger.Maybeboth.Her eyes were red fromcrying.

“I’m so sorry,” Viannesaid,rising.“Forgiveme.”

Rachel came to a stop infrontofher, lookingdownather. Anger flashed in her

eyes, then faded and wasreplaced by resignation.“Everyone in town knowsI’m a Jew, Vianne. I’vealwaysbeenproudofit.”

“I know that. It’s what Itoldmyself. Still, I shouldn’thavehelpedhim.Iamsorry.Iwouldn’t hurt you for theworld.Ihopeyouknowthat.”

“Of course I know it,”

Rachel said quietly. “But V,youneedtobemorecareful.Iknow Beck is young andhandsome and friendly andpolite, but he’s a Nazi, andtheyaredangerous.”

***

The winter of 1940 was thecoldest anyone couldremember. Snow fell day

afterday,blanketingthetreesandfields;iciclesglitteredondroopingtreebranches.

And still, Isabelle wokeevery Friday morning, hoursbefore dawn, and distributedher “terrorist papers,” as theNazis now called them. Lastweek’s tract followed themilitary operations in NorthAfricaandalertedtheFrench

people to the fact that thewinter’s food shortages werenot a result of the Britishblockades—as Nazipropaganda insisted—butrather were caused by theGermans looting everythingFranceproduced.

Isabelle had beendistributing these tracts formonths now, and truthfully,

she couldn’t see that theywerehavingmuch impactonthe people of Carriveau.Many of the villagers stillsupported Pétain. Even moredidn’t care. A disturbingnumber of her neighborslookedupontheGermansandthought so young, just boys,andwentontrudgingthroughlife with their heads down,

just trying to stay out ofdanger.

TheNazishadnoticedtheflyers, of course. SomeFrench men and womenwould use any excuse tocurry favor—and giving theNazistheflyerstheyfoundintheirletterboxeswasastart.

Isabelle knew that theGermans were looking for

whoever printed anddistributedthetracts,buttheyweren’t looking too hard.Especially not on thesesnowydayswhentheBlitzofLondonwasallanyonecouldtalk about. Perhaps theGermansknewthatwordsona piece of paper were notenough to turn the tide of awar.

Today,Isabellelayinbed,withSophiecurledlikeatinysword fern beside her, andVianne sleeping heavily onthegirl’sotherside.ThethreeofthemnowslepttogetherinVianne’s bed. Over the pastmonth they’d added everyquilt and blanket they couldfind to the bed. Isabelle laywatching her breath gather

and disappear in thin whiteclouds.

She knew how cold thefloor would be even throughthe woolen stockings shewore to bed. She knew thiswas the last time all day shewould be warm. She steeledherself and eased out fromunderneath the pile of quilts.Beside her, Sophie made a

moaning sound and rolledovertohermother’sbodyforheat.

When Isabelle’s feet hitthe floor, pain shot into hershins. She winced andhobbledoutoftheroom.

The stairs took forever;her feet hurt so badly. Thedamn chilblains. Everyonewas suffering from them this

winter. Supposedly it wasfroma lackofbutterandfat,but Isabelle knew it wascaused by cold weather andsocks full ofholes and shoesthatwerecomingapartat theseams.

Shewanted to start a fire—achedforevenamoment’swarmth, really—but theywereontheirlastbitofwood.

In late January they’d startedripping out barn wood andburning it, along with toolboxes and old chairs andwhateverelsetheycouldfind.She made herself a cup ofboiling water and drank itdown, letting the heat andweighttrickherstomachintothinkingitwasn’tempty.Sheateasmallbitofstalebread,

wrapped her body in a layerofnewsprint,andthenputonAntoine’s coat and her ownmittens and boots.Awoolenscarfshewrappedaroundherhead and neck, and even so,whenshesteppedoutside thecold took her breath away.She closed the door behindher and trudged out into thesnow, her chilblained toes

throbbingwitheverystep,herfingers going cold instantly,eveninsidethemittens.

It was eerily quiet outhere. She hiked through theknee-deep snow and openedthe broken gate and steppedout onto the white-packedroad.

Because of the cold andsnow, it took her three hours

to deliver her papers (thisweek’scontentwasabouttheBlitz—the Boches haddropped 32,000 bombs onLondon in one night alone).Dawn,when it came,was asweak as meatless broth. Shewas the first in line at thebutcher’s shop, but otherssoonfollowed.AtsevenA.M.,thebutcher’swiferolledopen

the window gate andunlockedthedoor.

“Octopus,” the womansaid.

Isabelle felt a pang ofdisappointment.“Nomeat?”

“Not for the French,M’mselle.”

She heard grumblingbehind her from the womenwhowantedmeat,andfarther

back, from the women whoknew they wouldn’t even beluckyenoughtogetoctopus.

Isabelle took the paper-wrapped octopus and left theshop. At least she’d gottensomething. There was notinned milk to be hadanymore, not with rationcards or even on the blackmarket. She was fortunate

enough to get a littleCamembert after two morehoursinline.Shecoveredherpreciousitemswiththeheavytowel in her basket andhobbled down rue VictorHugo.

Asshepassedacaféfilledwith German soldiers andFrench policemen, shesmelled brewed coffee and

freshly baked croissants andherstomachgrumbled.

“M’mselle.”A French policeman

nodded crisply and indicatedaneedtosteparoundher.Shemoved aside and watchedhim put up a poster in anabandoned storefront’swindow.Thefirstposterread:

NOTICESHOTFOR

SPYING.THEJEW

JAKOB

MANSARD,THE

COMMUNIST

VIKTOR

YABLONSKY,

ANDTHEJEW

LOUISDEVRY.

Andthesecond:

NOTICEHENCEFORTH,

ALLFRENCH

PEOPLE

ARRESTEDFOR

ANYCRIMEOR

INFRACTION

WILLBE

CONSIDERED

HOSTAGES.

WHENA

HOSTILEACT

AGAINST

GERMANY

OCCURSIN

FRANCE,

HOSTAGESWILL

BESHOT.

“They’re shooting

ordinary French people fornothing?”shesaid.

“Don’t look so pale,Mademoiselle. Thesewarningsarenotforbeautifulwomensuchasyourself.”

Isabelleglaredattheman.He was worse than theGermans,aFrenchmandoingthis to his own people. ThiswaswhyshehatedtheVichy

government. What good wasself-rule forhalf ofFrance ifit turned them into Nazipuppets?

“Are you unwell,Mademoiselle?”

So solicitous. So caring.What would he do if shecalled him a traitor and spatin his face? “I am fine,merci.”

She watched him crossthe street confidently, hisback straight, his hatpositioned just so on hiscropped brown hair. TheGerman soldiers in the caféwelcomed him warmly,clappedhimon thebackandpulledhimintotheirmidst.

Isabelle turned away indisgust.

Thatwaswhenshesawit:abrightsilverbicycleleaningagainst the side wall of thecafé. At the sight of it, shethought how much it wouldchangeherlife,easeherpain,toridetotownandbackeachday.

Normallyabicyclewouldbeguardedby the soldiers inthe café, but on this snow-

dusted morning, no one wasoutsideatatable.

Don’tdoit.Her heart started beating

quickly, her palms turneddamp and hot within hermittens. She glanced around.Thewomenqueuedupat thebutcher’s made it a point tosee nothing and make eyecontact with no one. The

windows of the café acrossthestreetwerefogged;inside,the men were olive-huedsilhouettes.

Socertainofthemselves.Of us, she thought

bitterly.Atthat,whateversliverof

restraint she possesseddisappeared. She held thebasket close to her side and

limped out onto the ice-slicked cobblestoned street.From that second, that onestep forward, the worldseemed to blur around herand time slowed down. Sheheard her breath, saw theplumes of it in front of herface.Thebuildingsblurredorfaded into white hulks, thesnow dazzled, until all she

couldseewastheglintofthesilverhandlebarsandthetwoblacktires.

She knew there was onlyone way to do this. Fast.Withoutaglancesidewaysorapauseinherstep.

Somewhereadogbarked.Adoorbangedshut.

Isabellekeptwalking;fivesteps separated her from the

bicycle.Four.Three.Two.She stepped up onto the

sidewalkandtookholdofthebicycle and jumped onto it.She rode down thecobblestoned street, thechassis clanging at bumps inthe road.She skiddedaround

the corner, almost fell, andrightedherself,pedalinghardtowardrueLaGrande.

There,she turned into thealley and jumped off thebicycletoknockonthedoor.Fourhardclacks.

The door opened slowly.Henrisawherandfrowned.

She pushed her wayinside.

The small meeting roomwas barely lit. A single oillampsatonascarredwoodentable.Henriwastheonlyonehere.Hewasmakingsausagefrom a tray of meat and fat.Skeinsof ithungfromhookson the wall. The roomsmelled of meat and bloodand cigarette smoke. Sheyankedthebicycleinwithher

andslammedthedoorshut.“Well, hello,” he said,

wiping his hands on a towel.“Havewe called ameeting Idon’tknowabout?”

“No.”He glanced at her side.

“That’snotyourbicycle.”“I stole it,” she said.

“From right under theirnoses.”

“It is—or was—AlainDeschamp’s bicycle. He lefteverything and fled to Lyonwith his family when theoccupation began.” Henrimoved towardher. “Lately, Ihave been seeing an SSsoldier riding it aroundtown.”

“SS?” Isabelle’s elationfaded. There were ugly

rumorsswirlingabout theSSandtheircruelty.Perhapssheshould have thought thisthrough…

Hemovedcloser,socloseshe could feel thewarmth ofhisbody.

Shehadneverbeenalonewith him before, nor so nearhim. She saw for the firsttime that his eyes were

neither brown nor green butratherahazelgray thatmadeher think of fog in a deepforest.Shesawasmallscarathisbrowthathadeitherbeena terriblegashatone timeorpoorly stitched and it madeher wonder all at once whatkindof lifehe’d led thathadbrought him here, and tocommunism. He was older

thanshebyatleastadecade,although to be honest, heseemed even oldersometimes,asifperhapshe’dsufferedagreatloss.

“You’ll need to paint it,”hesaid.

“Idon’thaveanypaint.”“Ido.”“Wouldyou—”“Akiss,”hesaid.

“A kiss?” She repeated ittostallfortime.Thiswasthesort of thing that she’d takenfor granted before the war.Mendesiredher;theyalwayshad. She wanted that back,wantedtoflirtwithHenriandbe flirted with, and yet thevery idea of it felt sad and alittlelost,asifperhapskissesdidn’t mean much anymore

andflirtationevenless.“One kiss and I’ll paint

your bicycle tonight and youcanpickituptomorrow.”

She stepped toward himandtiltedherfaceuptohis.

They came togethereasily,evenwithallthecoatsand layers of newsprint andwool between them.He tookher in his arms and kissed

her. For a beautiful second,she was Isabelle Rossignolagain, the passionate girlwhommendesired.

When it ended and hedrew back, she felt …deflated.Sad.

She should saysomething, make a joke, orperhaps pretend that she feltmore than she did. That’s

what she would have donebefore, when kisses hadmeantmore,ormaybeless.

“There’s someone else,”Henri said, studying herintently.

“Nothereisn’t.”Henri touched her cheek

gently.“You’relying.”Isabellethoughtofallthat

Henri had given her.Hewas

the one who’d brought herinto theFreeFrenchnetworkand given her a chance; hewas the onewho believed inher.And yetwhen he kissedher, she thought of Gaëtan.“He didn’t want me,” shesaid. It was the first timeshe’d told anyone the truth.Theadmissionsurprisedher.

“If things were different,

I’dmakeyouforgethim.”“AndI’dletyoutry.”She saw the way he

smiledatthat,sawthesorrowin it. “Blue,” he said after apause.

“Blue?”“It’s the paint color I

have.”Isabelle smiled. “How

fitting.”

Later that day, as shestoodinonelineafteranotherfortoolittlefood,andthenasshe gathered wood from theforest and carried it home,shethoughtaboutthatkiss.

What she thought, overandoveragain,wasifonly.

THIRTEEN

On a beautiful day in late

April 1941, Isabelle laystretched out on a woolenblanket in the field acrossfrom the house. The sweetsmell of ripening hay filledhernostrils.Whensheclosedher eyes, she could almostforget that the engines in thedistancewereGerman lorriestakingsoldiers—andFrance’sproduce—to the train station

atTours.After thedisastrouswinter, she appreciated howsunshine on her face lulledherintoadrowsystate.

“Thereyouare.”Isabellesighedandsatup.Vianneworeafadedblue

gingham day dress that hadbeen grayed by harshhomemade soap.Hunger hadwhittled her down over the

winter, sharpened hercheekbonesanddeepenedthehollow at the base of herthroat.An old scarf turbanedherhead,hidinghairthathadlostitsshineandcurl.

“This came for you.”Vianne held out a piece ofpaper.“Itwasdelivered.Byaman.Foryou,”shesaid,asifthatfactborerepeating.

Isabelle clamberedawkwardly to her feet andsnatched the paper fromVianne’s grasp. On it, inscrawled handwriting, was:The curtains are open. Shereacheddownforherblanketandbeganfoldingitup.Whatdid it mean? They’d neversummoned her before.Somethingimportantmustbe

happening.“Isabelle?Wouldyoucare

toexplain?”“No.”“It was Henri Navarre.

The innkeeper’s son. I didn’tthinkyouknewhim.”

Isabelle ripped the noteinto tinypiecesand let it fallaway.

“He is a communist, you

know,” Vianne said in awhisper.

“Ineedtogo.”Viannegrabbedherwrist.

“You cannot have beensneakingoutallwintertoseeacommunist.Youknowwhatthe Nazis think of them. It’sdangerous to even be seenwiththisman.”

“YouthinkIcarewhatthe

Nazis think?” Isabelle said,wrenching free. She ranbarefootedacrossthefield.Athome, she grabbed someshoesandclimbedaboardherbicycle.Withanaurevoir!toa stunned-looking Vianne,Isabelle was off, pedalingdownthedirtroad.

In town, she coasted pasttheabandonedhatshop—sure

enough, the curtains wereopen—and veered into thecobblestoned alley and cametoastop.

She leaned her bicycleagainst the rough limestonewall beside her and rappedfour times. It didn’t occur toher until the final knock thatit might be a trap. The idea,whenitcame,madeherdraw

in a sharp breath and glanceleft and right, but it was toolatenow.

Henriopenedthedoor.Isabelle ducked inside.

The room was hazy withcigarettesmokeandreekedofburned chicory coffee. Therewas about the place alingering scent of blood—sausage making. The burly

man who had first grabbedher—Didier—was seated onan old hickory-backed chair.He was leaning back so farthe two front chair legswereoff the floor and his backgrazedthewallbehindhim.

“You shouldn’t havebroughtanoticetomyhouse,Henri. My sister is askingquestions.”

“Itwas importantwe talktoyouimmediately.”

Isabelle felt a little bumpof excitement. Would theyfinally ask her to dosomething more thandropping papers in letterboxes?“Iamhere.”

Henri lit up a cigarette.She could feel himwatchingher as he exhaled the gray

smoke and put down hismatch. “Haveyouheardof aprefect in Chartres who wasarrested and tortured forbeingacommunist?”

Isabellefrowned.“No.”“He cut his own throat

with a piece of glass ratherthan name anyone orconfess.” Henri snubbed hiscigaretteoutonthebottomof

hisshoeandsavedtherestforlaterinhiscoatpocket.“Heisputting a group together, ofpeople like us who want toheed de Gaulle’s call. He—the one who cut his ownthroat—is trying to get toLondontospeaktodeGaullehimself.HeseekstoorganizeaFreeFrenchmovement.”

“He didn’t die?” Isabelle

asked. “Or cut his vocalcords?”

“No. They’re calling it amiracle,”Didiersaid.

Henri studied Isabelle. “Ihavea letter—very important—that needs to be deliveredto our contact in Paris.Unfortunately, I am beingwatched closely these days.AsisDidier.”

“Oh,”Isabellesaid.“Ithoughtofyou,”Didier

said.“Me?”Henri reached into his

pocket and withdrew acrumpled envelope. “WillyoudeliverthistoourmaninParis? He is expecting it aweekfromtoday.”

“But … I don’t have an

Ausweis.”“Oui,”Henrisaidquietly.

“And if you were caught…”He let that threat dangle.“Certainly no one wouldthink badly of you if youdeclined.Thisisdangerous.”

Dangerous was anunderstatement. There weresigns posted throughoutCarriveau about executions

thatweretakingplacealloverthe Occupied Zone. TheNazis were killing Frenchcitizens for the smallest ofinfractions. Aiding this FreeFrench movement could gether imprisoned at the veryleast. Still, she believed in afreeFrancethewayhersisterbelieved in God. “So youwantme to get a pass, go to

Paris, deliver a letter, andcome home.” It didn’t soundso perilous when put thatway.

“No,” Henri said. “Weneedyou tostay inParisandbe our … letter box, as itwere. In the coming monthsthere will be many suchdeliveries.Yourfatherhasanapartmentthere,oui?”

Paris.It was what she’d longed

for from the moment herfather had exiled her. ToleaveCarriveauandreturn toParisandbepartofanetworkof people who resisted thiswar.“Myfatherwillnotoffermeaplacetostay.”

“Convince himotherwise,” Didier said

evenly,watchingher.Judgingher.

“He is not a man who iseasilyconvinced,”shesaid.

“Soyoucan’tdoit.Voilà.Wehaveouranswer.”

“Wait,”Isabellesaid.Henri approached her.

She saw reluctance in hiseyesandknewthathewantedher to turn down this

assignment.Nodoubthewasworried about her. She liftedher chin and looked him intheeyes.“Iwilldothis.”

“You will have to lie toeveryone you love, andalways be afraid. Can youlivethatway?You’llnotfeelsafeanywhere.”

Isabellelaughedgrimly.Itwasnotsodifferent fromthe

lifeshe’dlivedsinceshewasa little girl. “Will youwatchover my sister?” she askedHenri. “Make sure she’ssafe?”

“There is a price for allour work,” Henri said. Hegaveherasadlook.Initwasthetruththeyhadalllearned.Therewasno safety. “I hopeyouseethat.”

All Isabelle saw was herchance to do something thatmattered.“WhendoIleave?”

“As soon as you get anAusweis, which will not beeasy.”

***

Whatinheaven’snameisthatgirlthinking?

Really, a school-yard-

style note from a man? Acommunist?

Vianne unwrapped thestringy piece of mutton thathad been this week’s rationand set it on the kitchencounter.

Isabelle had always beenimpetuous, a force of nature,really, a girl who liked tobreak rules. Countless nuns

and teachershad learned thatshe could be neithercontrollednorcontained.

But this. This was notkissing a boy on the dancefloor or running away to seethecircusorrefusingtowearagirdleandstockings.

This was wartime in anoccupiedcountry.HowcouldIsabelle still believe that her

choices had noconsequences?

Vianne began finelychopping the mutton. Sheadded a precious egg to themix, and stale bread, thenseasoned it with salt andpepper. Shewas forming themixtureintopattieswhensheheard a motorcycle putt-puttering toward the house.

She went to the front doorand opened it just enough topeerout.

Captain Beck’s head andshoulders could be seenabove the stone wall as hedismounted his motorcycle.Moments later, a greenmilitary lorry pulled upbehindhimandparked.Threeother German soldiers

appeared in her yard. Thementalkedamongthemselvesandthengatheredattherose-covered stonewallhergreat-great-grandfather had built.One of the soldiers lifted asledgehammer and brought itdownhardonthewall,whichshattered. Stones broke intopieces, a skein of roses fell,their pink petals scattering

acrossthegrass.Vianne rushed out into

heryard.“HerrCaptain!”The sledgehammer came

downagain.Craaaack.“Madame,” Beck said,

looking unhappy. It botheredVianne that she knew himwell enough to notice hisstate of mind. “We haveorders to tear down all the

wallsalongthisroad.”Asonesoldierdemolished

the wall, two others cametoward the front door,laughing at some jokebetween them. Withoutasking permission, theywalkedpastherandwentintoherhouse.

“My condolences,” Becksaid,steppingovertherubble

on his way to her. “I knowyou love the roses. And—most sorrowfully—my menwillbefulfillingarequisitionorderfromyourhouse.”

“Arequisition?”The soldiers came out of

thehouse;onecarried theoilpainting that had been overthemantel and the other hadtheoverstuffedchairfromthe

salon.“That was my

grandmère’s favorite chair,”Viannesaidquietly.

“I’msorry,”Becksaid.“Iwasunabletostopthis.”

“Whatintheworld…”Vianne didn’t know

whether to be relieved orconcerned when Isabelleyankedherbikeoverthepile

ofstoneandleaneditagainstthetree.Alreadytherewasnobarrier between her propertyandtheroadanymore.

Isabelle looked beautiful,evenwithher facepinkfromthe exertion of riding herbicycle and shiny withperspiration. Glossy blondwaves framed her face. Herfaded red dress clung to her

bodyinalltherightplaces.The soldiers stopped to

stare at her, the rolled-upAubussonrugfromthelivingroomslungbetweenthem.

Beckremovedhismilitarycap.Hesaidsomethingtothesoldiers who were carryingtherolled-upcarpet,andtheyhurriedtowardthelorry.

“You’ve torn down our

wall?”Isabellesaid.“The Sturmbannführer

wants to be able to see allhouses from the road.Somebody is distributinganti-Germanpropaganda.Wewillfindandarresthim.”

“You think harmlesspieces of paper areworth allofthis?”Isabelleasked.

“They are far from

harmless, Mademoiselle.Theyencourageterrorism.”

“Terrorism must beavoided,” Isabelle said,crossingherarms.

Vianne couldn’t lookaway from Isabelle. Therewassomethinggoingon.Hersister seemed to be drawingher emotions back, goingstill, like a cat preparing to

pounce. “Herr Captain,”Isabellesaidafterawhile.

“Oui,M’mselle?”Soldiers walked past

them, carrying out thebreakfasttable.

Isabellelet thempassandthen walked to the captain.“Mypapaisill.”

“He is?” Vianne said.“Why don’t I know this?

What’swrongwithhim?”Isabelle ignored Vianne.

“Hehasasked that Icome toParistonursehim.But…”

“He wants you to nursehim?” Vianne said,incredulous.

Beck said, “You need atravel pass to leave,M’mselle.Youknowthis.”

“I know this.” Isabelle

seemed to barely breathe.“I … thought perhaps youwould procure one for me.You are a family man.Certainlyyouunderstandhowimportant it is to answer afather’scall?”

Strangely, as Isabellespoke, the captain turnedslightly to lookatVianne, asif she were the one who

mattered.“I could get you a pass,

oui,” the captain said. “For afamily emergency such asthis.”

“I am grateful,” Isabellesaid.

Vianne was stunned. DidBeck not see how her sisterwas manipulating him—andwhyhadhelookedatVianne

whenmakinghisdecision?As soon as Isabelle got

whatshewanted,shereturnedtoherbicycle.She tookholdofthehandlebarsandwalkedittowardthebarn.Therubberwheels bumped and thumpedontheunevenground.

Vianne rushed after her.“Papa’s ill?” she said whenshecaughtupwithhersister.

“Papa’sfine.”“Youlied?Why?”Isabelle’spausewasslight

but perceptible. “I supposethere is no reason to lie. It’sall out in the open now. Ihave been sneaking out onFriday mornings to meetHenri and now he has askedme to go to Paris with him.Hehas a lovely littlepied-à-

terre in the Montmarte,apparently.”

“Areyoumad?”“I’m in love, I think. A

little.Maybe.”“You are going to cross

Nazi-occupied France tospendafewnightsinParisinthe bed of amanwhom youmightlove.Alittle.”

“I know,” Isabelle said.

“It’ssoromantic.”“You must be feverish.

Perhaps you have a brainsickness of some kind.” Sheputherhandsonherhipsandmadeahuffofdisapproval.

“If love is a disease, IsupposeI’minfected.”

“Good God.” Viannecrossed her arms. “Is thereanythingIcansaytostopthis

foolishness?”Isabelle looked at her.

“You believe me? Youbelieve I would cross Nazi-occupiedFranceonalark?”

“This is not like runningaway to see the circus,Isabelle.”

“But … you believe thisofme?”

“Of course.” Vianne

shrugged.“Sofoolish.”Isabelle looked oddly

crestfallen. “Just stay awayfrom Beck while I’m gone.Don’ttrusthim.”

“Isn’t that just like you?You’re worried enough towarn me, but not worriedenoughtostaywithme.Whatyou want is what reallymatters.Sophie and I can rot

forallyoucare.”“That’snottrue.”“Isn’t it? Go to Paris.

Have your fun but don’t foroneminuteforgetthatyouareabandoning your niece andme.”Viannecrossedherarmsand glanced back at themanin her yard who wassupervisingthelootingofherhouse.“Withhim.”

FOURTEEN

April27,1995TheOregonCoast

Iamtrusseduplikeachicken

for roasting. I know thesemodern seat belts are a goodthing, but theymakeme feelclaustrophobic. I belong to ageneration that didn’t expectto be protected from everydanger.

I remember what it usedto be like, back in the dayswhen one was required tomake smart choices. We

knewtherisksandtookthemanyway. I remember drivingtoo fast inmyoldChevrolet,my foot pressed hard on thegas, smoking a cigarette andlistening to Price sing“Lawdy, Miss Clawdy”through small black speakerswhile children rolled aroundin the backseat like bowlingpins.

My son is afraid that Iwill make a break for it, Isuppose, and it is areasonable fear. In the pastmonth, my entire life hasbeen turned upside down.There is a SOLD sign in myfront yard and I am leavinghome.

“It’s a pretty driveway,don’t you think?” my son

says. It’s what he does; hefillsspacewithwords,andhechooses them carefully. It iswhat makes him a goodsurgeon.Precision.

“Yes.”He turns into the parking

lot. Like the driveway, it islined in flowering trees.Tinywhite blossoms drop to theground like bits of lace on a

dressmaker’s floor, starkagainsttheblackasphalt.

Ifumblewithmyseatbeltaswepark.Myhandsdonotobey my will these days. Itfrustrates me so much that Icurseoutloud.

“I’ll do that,” my sonsays, reaching sideways tounhookmyseatbelt.

He is out of the

automobile and at my doorbefore I have even retrievedmyhandbag.

Thedooropens.He takesmebythehandandhelpsmeout of the car. In the shortdistance between the parkinglotandtheentrance,Ihavetostoptwicetocatchmybreath.

“The trees are so prettythis timeofyear,”hesaysas

we walk together across theparkinglot.

“Yes.”Theyarefloweringplum trees, gorgeous andpink, but I think suddenly ofchestnuttreesinbloomalongtheChampsÉlysées.

My son tightens his holdonmyhand. It is a reminderthat he understands the painof leaving a home that has

beenmysanctuaryfornearlyfiftyyears.Butnowitistimetolookahead,notbehind.

To the Ocean CrestRetirement Community andNursingHome.

Tobefair,itdoesn’tlooklike a bad place, a littleindustrial maybe, with itsrigidly upright windows andperfectlymaintainedpatchof

grass out front and theAmerican flag flying abovethe door. It is a long, lowbuilding. Built in theseventies, I’d guess, backwhen just about everythingwas ugly. There are twowings that reach out from acentral courtyard, where Iimagine old people sit inwheelchairs with their faces

turned to the sun, waiting.ThankGod, I amnot housedintheeastsideofthebuilding—the nursing home wing.Not yet anyway. I can stillmanage my own life, thankyouverymuch, andmyownapartment.

Julien opens the door forme,andIgoinside.ThefirstthingIseeisalargereception

areadecoratedtolooklikethehospitality desk of a seasidehotel,completewithafishingnet fullof shellshungon thewall. I imagine that atChristmas they hangornaments from the nettingand stockings from the edgeof the desk. There areprobably sparkly HO-HO-HO

signstackeduptothewallon

thedayafterThanksgiving.“Comeon,Mom.”Oh, right. Mustn’t

dawdle.Theplacesmellsofwhat?

Tapiocapuddingandchickennoodlesoup.

Softfoods.SomehowIkeepgoing.If

there’s one thing I never do,it’sstop.

“Here we are,” my sonsays, opening the door toroom317A.

It’s nice, honestly. Asmall, one-bedroomapartment. The kitchen istucked into the cornerby thedoorandfromitonecanlookout over a Formica counterand see a dining table withfour chairs and the living

room, where a coffee tableand sofa and two chairs aregathered around a gasfireplace.

The TV in the corner isbrand new, with a built-inVCR player. Someone—myson, probably, has stacked abunch ofmy favoritemoviesin the bookcase. Jean deFlorette, Breathless, Gone

withtheWind.Iseemythings:anafghan

I knitted thrown over thesofa’sback;mybooks in thebookcase. In the bedroom,which is of a fine size, thenightstand onmy side of thebed is linedwithprescriptionpill containers, a little jungleof plastic orange cylinders.My side of the bed. It’s

funny, but some things don’tchange after the death of aspouse, and that’s one ofthem.Theleftsideofthebedis mine even though I amalone in it.At thefootof thebedismytrunk,justasIhaverequested.

“You could still changeyour mind,” he says quietly.“Comehomewithme.”

“We’ve talked about this,Julien.Your life is too busy.You needn’tworry aboutme24/7.”

“Do you think I willworry less when you arehere?”

I look at him, loving thischild of mine and knowingmy deathwill devastate him.Idon’twanthimtowatchme

die by degrees. I don’t wantthatforhisdaughters,either.Iknow what it is like; someimages,once seen, canneverbe forgotten. I want them toremembermeasIam,notasIwillbewhenthecancerhashaditsway.

Heleadsmeintothesmallliving room and gets mesettledon the couch.While I

wait, he pours us somewineandthensitsbesideme.

I am thinking of how itwillfeelwhenheleaves,andI am sure the same thoughtoccupies his mind. With asigh, he reaches into hisbriefcaseandpullsoutastackof envelopes. The sigh is inplace of words, a breath oftransition. In it, I hear that

momentwhereIgofromonelife to another. In this new,pared-down version of mylife, I am to be cared for bymysoninsteadofviceversa.It’snotreallycomfortableforeither of us. “I’ve paid thismonth’s bills. These arethings I don’t know what todo with. Junk, mostly, Ithink.”

I take the stack of lettersfromhimandshufflethroughthem.A“personalized” letterfrom the Special Olympicscommittee… a free estimateawningoffer…anoticefrommydentistthatithasbeensixmonths since my lastappointment.

AletterfromParis.Thereareredmarkingson

it, as if the post office hasshuffled itaroundfromplaceto place, or delivered itincorrectly.

“Mom?” Julien says. Heis so observant. He missesnothing.“Whatisthat?”

When he reaches for theenvelope, I mean to hold ontoit,keepitfromhim,butmyfingers don’t obey my will.

My heartbeat is going allwhich-a-way.

Julienopenstheenvelope,extracts an ecru card. Aninvitation.“It’sinFrench,”hesays. “Something about theCroixdeGuerre.Soit’saboutWorldWar Two? Is this forDad?”

Of course. Men alwaysthinkwarisaboutthem.

“And there’s somethinghandwritten in the corner.Whatisit?”

Guerre. The wordexpands around me, unfoldsits black crow wings,becoming so big I cannotlookaway.Againstmywill,Itakeuptheinvitation.It is toapasseurs’reunioninParis.

Theywantmetoattend.

How can I possibly gowithoutrememberingallofit—the terrible things I havedone, the secret I kept, themanIkilled…andtheoneIshouldhave?

“Mom? What’s apasseur?”

I can hardly find enoughvoice to say, “It’s someonewho helped people in the

war.”

FIFTEEN

Askingyourselfaquestion,that’s

howresistancebegins.

Andthenaskthatveryquestiontosomeone

else.—REMCO

CAMPERT

May1941France

On the Monday Isabelle leftfor Paris, Vianne kept busy.Shewashedclothesandhung

them out to dry; sheweededhergardenandgatheredafewearly-ripening vegetables. Atthe end of a long day, shetreated herself to a bath andwashed her hair. She wasdrying it with a towel whensheheardaknockatthedoor.Startled by an unexpectedguest, she buttoned herbodice as she went to the

door.Waterdrippedontohershoulders.

When she opened thedoor,shefoundCaptainBeckstanding there, dressed in hisfielduniform,dustpepperinghis face. “Herr Captain,” shesaid, pushing the wet hairawayfromherface.

“Madame,” he said. “Acolleague and I went fishing

today. I have brought youwhatwecaught.”

“Freshfish?Howlovely.Iwillfryitupforyou.”

“For us, Madame. YouandmeandSophie.”

Vianne couldn’t lookawayfromeitherBeckorthefish in his hands. She knewwithout a doubt that Isabellewouldn’tacceptthisgift.Just

as she knew that her friendsandneighborswouldclaimtoturn itdown.Food.Fromtheenemy. It was a matter ofpride to turn it down.Everyoneknewthat.

“Ihaveneither stolennordemanded it. No Frenchmanhasmoreofa right to it thanI.Therecanbenodishonorinyourtakingit.”

Hewas right. Thiswas afish from local waters. Hehad not confiscated it. Evenas she reached for the fish,she felt the weight ofrationalization settle heavilyuponher.

“You rarely do us thehonorofeatingwithus.”

“It is different now,” hesaid.“Withyoursisteraway.”

Vianne backed into thehouse toallowhimentry.Asalways,heremovedhishatassoonashesteppedinside,andclomped across the woodenfloor to his room. Viannedidn’t notice until she heardtheclick-shutofhisdoorthatshe was still standing there,holding a dead fish wrappedin a recent edition of the

Pariser Zeitung, the GermannewspaperprintedinParis.

She returned to thekitchen. When she laid thepaper-wrappedfishoutonthebutcher block, she saw thathe’dalreadycleanedthefish,evengoingsofaras toshaveoff thescales.She lit thegasstove andput a cast-ironpanover the heat, adding a

preciousspoonfulofoiltothepan. While cubes of potatobrowned and onioncarmelized, she seasoned thefishwith salt andpepperandset it aside. In no time,tantalizing aromas filled thehouse, and Sophie camerunning into the kitchen,skidding to a stop in theempty space where the

breakfasttableusedtobe.“Fish,” she said with

reverence.Vianneusedher spoon to

create a well within thevegetablesandputthefishinthemiddletofry.Tinybitsofgrease popped up; the skinsizzled and turned crisp. Attheveryend,sheplacedafewpreserved lemons in the pan,

watching them melt overeverything.

“GotellCaptainBeckthatsupperisready.”

“He is eating with us?Tante Isabelle would havesomething to say about that.Beforesheleft,shetoldmetoneverlookhimintheeyeandto try not to be in the sameroomwithhim.”

Vianne sighed.The ghostof her sister lingered. “Hebrought us the fish, Sophie,andheliveshere.”

“Oui, Maman. I knowthat.Still,shesaid—”

“Go call the captain forsupper. Isabelle is gone, andwithher,herextremeworries.Now,go.”

Vianne returned to the

stove. Moments later, shecarried out a heavy ceramictray bearing the fried fishsurrounded by the pan-roasted vegetables andpreserved lemons, all of itenhanced with fresh parsley.The tangy, lemony sauce inthe bottom of the pan,swimmingwithcrustybrownbits, could have benefited

from butter, but still itsmelledheavenly.Shecarriedit into the dining room andfound Sophie already seated,withCaptainBeckbesideher.

InAntoine’schair.Viannemissedastep.Beck rose politely and

movedquicklytopulloutherchair. She paused onlyslightlyashe took theplatter

fromher.“This looks most

becoming,” he said in aheartyvoice.Onceagain,hisFrenchwasnotquiteright.

Vianne sat down andscooted in toherplaceat thetable.Before she could thinkof what to say, Beck waspouringherwine.

“A lovely ’37

Montrachet,”hesaid.Vianne knew what

Isabellewouldsaytothat.Beck sat across fromher.

Sophiesattoherleft.Shewastalking about something thathadhappenedatschooltoday.When she paused, Beck saidsomething about fishing andSophie laughed, and Viannefelt Isabelle’s absence as

keenly as she’d previouslyfeltherpresence.

StayawayfromBeck.Vianneheardthewarning

as clearly as if it had beenspokenaloudbesideher.Sheknew that in this one thingher sister was right. Viannecouldn’t forget the list, afterall, and the firings, or thesight of Beck seated at his

deskwithcratesoffoodathisfeet and a painting of theFührerbehindhim.

“… my wife quitedespaired of my skill with anet after that…” he wassaying,smiling.

Sophie laughed. “Mypapa fell into the river onetime when we were fishing,remember, Maman? He said

the fish was so big it pulledhimin,right,Maman?”

Vianne blinked slowly. Ittook her a moment to noticethat the conversation hadcircledbacktoincludeher.

It felt … odd to say theleast. In all their past mealswith Beck at the table,conversation had been rare.Who could speak surrounded

byIsabelle’sobviousanger?It is different now, with

yoursisteraway.Vianne understood what

hemeant. The tension in thehouse—at this table—wasgonenow.

What other changeswouldherabsencebring?

StayawayfromBeck.How was Vianne to do

that? And when was the lasttime she’d eaten a meal thisgood … or heard Sophielaugh?

***

TheGaredeLyonwasfullofGerman soldiers whenIsabelle disembarked fromthe train carriage. Shewrestledherbicycleoutwith

her; it wasn’t easy with hervalisebangingintoherthighsthewhole timeand impatientParisians shoving at her. Shehaddreamedofcomingbackhereformonths.

In her dreams, Paris wasParis,untouchedbythewar.

But on this Mondayafternoon, after a long day’stravel,shesawthe truth.The

occupation might have leftthe buildings in place, andtherewasnoevidenceoutsidethe Gare de Lyon ofbombings, but there was adarknesshere,eveninthefulllight of day, a hush of lossand despair as she rode herbicycledowntheboulevard.

Herbelovedcitywas likea once-beautiful courtesan

grown old and thin, weary,abandoned by her lovers. Inless than a year, thismagnificent city had beenstrippedof itsessenceby theendless clatter of Germanjackboots on the streets anddisfigured by swastikas thatflewfromeverymonument.

The only cars she sawwere blackMercedes-Benzes

withminiature swastika flagsflapping from prongs on thefenders, and Wehrmachtlorries, and now and then agray panzer tank.All up anddowntheboulevard,windowswereblackedoutandshutterswere drawn. At every othercorner, it seemed, her waywasbarricaded.Signsinbold,black lettering offered

directionsinGerman,andtheclocks had been changed torun two hours ahead—onGermantime.

She kept her head downas she pedaled past pods ofGermansoldiersandsidewalkcaféshostinguniformedmen.As she rounded onto theboulevard de la Bastille, shesaw an old woman on a

bicycle trying to bypass abarricade.ANazistoodinherway, berating her inGerman—a language she obviouslydidn’t understand. Thewoman turned her bicycleandpedaledaway.

It took Isabelle longer toreach the bookshop than itshouldhave, andby the timeshe coasted to a stop out

front, her nerves were taut.She leaned her bicycleagainstatreeandlockeditinplace.Clutchinghervalise insweaty, gloved hands, sheapproached the bookshop. Ina bistro window, she caughtsight of herself: blond hairhacked unevenly along thebottom; facepalewithbrightred lips (the only cosmetic

she still had); she had wornher best ensemble fortraveling—a navy and creamplaid jacket with a matchinghat and a navy skirt. Hergloves were a bit the worsefor wear, but in these timesno one noticed a thing likethat.

She wanted to look herbest to impress her father.

Grown-up.How many times in her

lifehadsheagonizedoverherhair and clothing beforecoming home to the Parisapartment only to discoverthat Papa was gone andVianne was “too busy” toreturn from the country andthatsomefemalefriendofherfather’s would care for

Isabelle while she was onholiday? Enough so that bythe time she was fourteenshe’d stopped coming homeon holidays at all; it wasbetter to sit alone in herempty dormitory room thanbe shuffled among peoplewho didn’t knowwhat to dowithher.

This was different,

though. Henri and Didier—and their mysterious friendsin the Free French—neededIsabelle to live in Paris. Shewouldnotletthemdown.

The bookshop’s displaywindows were blacked outand the grates that protectedtheglassduringthedayweredrawn down and locked inplace. She tried the door and

founditlocked.OnaMondayafternoonat

fouro’clock?Shewenttothecrevice in the store façadethat had always been herfather’s hiding place andfoundtherustedskeletonkeyandletherselfin.

The narrow store seemedto hold its breath in thedarkness. Not a sound came

ather.Nother father turningthe pages of a beloved novelor the sound of his penscratching on paper as hestruggledwiththepoetrythathad been his passion whenMamanwasalive.Sheclosedthe door behind her andflickedonthelightswitchbythedoor.

Nothing.

She felt her way to thedeskandfoundacandleinanoldbrassholder.Anextendedsearch of the drawersrevealedmatches, and she litthecandle.

The light, meager as itwas, revealed destruction ineverycorneroftheshop.Halfof the shelves were empty,many of them broken and

hangingonslants,thebooksafallen pyramid on the floorbeneath the low end. Postershad been ripped down anddefaced. It was as ifmarauders had gone throughon a rampage looking forsomething hidden andcarelessly destroyedeverythingalongtheway.

Papa.

Isabelle left thebookshopquickly,notevenbotheringtoreplace the key. Instead, shedropped it in her jacketpocket and unlocked herbicycle and climbed aboard.Shekepttothesmallerstreets(the few that weren’tbarricaded)until shecame torue de Grenelle; there, sheturnedandpedaledforhome.

The apartment on theAvenue de La Bourdonnaishad been in her father’sfamily for more than ahundredyears.Thecitystreetwas lined on either side bypale, sandstone buildingswith black ironworkbalconies and slate roofs.Carved stone cherubsdecoratedthecornices.About

six blocks away, the EiffelTowerrosehighintothesky,dominating the view. On thestreet level were dozens ofstorefronts with prettyawnings and cafés, withtables set up out front: thehigh floors were allresidential. Usually, Isabellewalked slowly along thesidewalk, window shopping,

appreciating the hustle andbustlearoundher.Not today.The cafés and bistros wereempty. Women in wornclothes and tired expressionsstoodinqueuesforfood.

She stared up at theblacked-out windows as shefished the key from her bag.Openingthedoor,shepushedher way into the shadowy

lobby, hauling her bicyclewith her. She locked it to apipe in the lobby. Ignoringthecoffin-sizedcageelevator,whichnodoubtdidn’t run inthese days of limitedelectricity, she climbed thenarrow, steeplypitched stairsthat coiled around theelevatorshaftandcametothefifth-floor landing, where

thereweretwodoors,oneonthe left side of the building,and theirs, on the right. Sheunlocked the door andstepped inside. Behind her,she thought she heard theneighbor’s door open. Whenshe turned back to say hellotoMadameLeclerc, thedoorclicked quietly shut.Apparently the nosy old

woman was watching thecomings and goings inapartment6B.

Sheenteredherapartmentand closed the door behindher.“Papa?”

Even though it wasmidday, the blacked-outwindowsmadeitdarkinside.“Papa?”

Therewasnoanswer.

Truthfully, she wasrelieved. She carried hervalise into the salon. Thedarkness reminded her ofanother time, long ago. Theapartment had been shadowyand musty; there had beenbreathing then, and footstepscreakingonwoodenfloors.

Hush,Isabelle,notalking.Your maman is with the

angelsnow.She turned on the light

switchinthelivingroom.Anornateblown-glasschandelierflickered to life, its sculptedglassbranchesglitteringas iffrom another world. In themeager light, she lookedaround the apartment,noticingthatseveralpiecesofart were missing from the

walls. The room reflectedboth her mother’s unerringsense of style and thecollection of antiques fromothergenerations.Twopanedwindows—covered now—should have revealed abeautiful view of the EiffelTowerfromthebalcony.

Isabelle turned off thelight.Therewasnoreasonto

waste precious electricitywhile she waited. She satdown at the round woodentable beneath the chandelier,itsroughsurfacescarredbyathousand suppers over theyears. Her hand ran lovinglyoverthebanged-upwood.

Letmestay,Papa.Please.I’llbenotrouble.

Howoldhadshebeenthat

time? Eleven? Twelve? Shewasn’t sure. But she’d beendressed in the blue sailoruniform of the conventschool. It all felt a lifetimeago now. And yet here shewas, again, ready tobeghimto—(loveher)—letherstay.

Later—howmuchlonger?She wasn’t sure how longshe’d sat here in the dark,

remembering thecircumstances of her motherbecause she had all butforgottenher face inanyrealway—sheheardfootstepsandthenakeyrattlinginthelock.

She heard the door openandrosetoherfeet.Thedoorclicked shut. She heard himshuffling through the entry,pastthesmallkitchen.

She needed to be strongnow, determined, but thecourage that was as much apartofherasthegreenofhereyeshadalways faded inherfather’s presence and itretreated now. “Papa?” shesaid into the darkness. Sheknewhehatedsurprises.

Sheheardhimgostill.Then a light switch

clicked and the chandeliercame on. “Isabelle,” he saidwith a sigh. “What are youdoinghere?”

She knew better than torevealuncertaintytothismanwho cared so little for herfeelings.Shehada job todonow. “I have come to livewithyouinParis.Again,”sheaddedasanafterthought.

“You left Vianne andSophiealonewiththeNazi?”

“They are safer with megone, believe me. Sooner orlater, I would have lost mytemper.”

“Lost your temper?Whatiswrongwithyou?Youwillreturn toCarriveau tomorrowmorning.”Hewalkedpastherto thewooden sideboard that

was tucked against thepapered wall. He pouredhimself a glass of brandy,drank it down in three largegulps, and poured another.When he finished the seconddrink,heturnedtoher.

“No,”shesaid.Thesinglewordgalvanizedher.Hadsheever said it to him before?She said it again for good

measure.“No.”“Pardon?”“Isaidno,Papa.Iwillnot

bend toyourwill this time. Iwill not leave. This is myhome.My home.” Her voiceweakenedonthat.“Thosearethe drapes IwatchedMamanmakeonhersewingmachine.Thisisthetablesheinheritedfrom her great-uncle. On the

walls of my bedroom you’llfind my initials, drawn inMaman’s lipstick when shewasn’t looking. Inmy secretroom, my fort, I’ll bet mydolls are still lined up alongthewalls.”

“Isabelle—”“No.Youwillnotturnme

away, Papa. You have donethat toomanytimes.Youare

my father. This ismy home.We are atwar. I’m staying.”She bent down for the valiseatherfeetandpickeditup.

In the pale glow of thechandelier, she saw defeatdeepen the lines in herfather’scheeks.Hisshouldersslumped. He poured himselfanother brandy, gulped itgreedily.Obviously he could

barely stand to look at herwithouttheaidofalcohol.

“There are no parties toattend,”hesaid,“andallyouruniversityboysaregone.”

“This is really what youthink ofme,” she said. Thenshe changed the subject. “Istoppedbythebookshop.”

“The Nazis,” he said inresponse. “They stormed in

one day and pulled outeverything by Freud, Mann,Trotsky, Tolstoy, Maurois—allofthem,theyburned—andthemusic,too.Iwouldratherlock the doors than sell onlywhat I am allowed to. So, Ididjustthat.”

“So,howareyoumakingaliving?Yourpoetry?”

He laughed. It was a

bitter, slurredsound.“This ishardly a time for gentlerpursuits.”

“Then, how are youpaying for electricity andfood?”

Somethingchangedinhisface. “I’ve got a good job attheHôteldeCrillon.”

“In service?” She couldhardlycredithimservingbeer

toGermanbrutes.Heglancedaway.Isabellegotasickfeeling

in her stomach. “For whomdoyouwork,Papa?”

“The German highcommandinParis,”hesaid.

Isabelle recognized thatfeeling now. It was shame.“AfterwhattheydidtoyouintheGreatWar—”

“Isabelle—”“I remember the stories

Maman told us about howyou’d been before the warandhowithadbrokenyou.Iused to dream that somedayyou’d remember that youwereafather,butallthatwasalie,wasn’tit?You’rejustacoward.TheminutetheNazisreturnyouracetoaidthem.”

“How dare you judgemeandwhat I’ve been through?You’reeighteenyearsold.”

“Nineteen,” she said.“Tell me, Papa, do you getourconquerorscoffeeorhailthem taxis on their way toMaxim’s? Do you eat theirlunchleftovers?”

He seemed to deflatebeforehereyes;age.Shefelt

unaccountably regretful forher sharpwords even thoughtheywere true and deserved.But she couldn’t back downnow. “So we are agreed? Iwill move into my old roomandlivehere.Weneedbarelyspeak if that is yourcondition.”

“There is no foodhere inthe city, Isabelle; not for us

Parisians anyway. All overtownaresignswarningusnottoeatratsandthesesignsarenecessary. People are raisingguinea pigs for food. Youwill be more comfortable inthe country, where there aregardens.”

“I am not looking forcomfort.Orsafety.”

“Whatareyoulookingfor

inParis,then?”She realized her mistake.

She’d set a trap with herfoolish words and steppedright into it. Her father wasmany things; stupid was notone of them. “I’m here tomeetafriend.”

“Tell me we are nottalking about some boy. Tellme you are smarter than

that.”“The country was dull,

Papa.Youknowme.”Hesighed,pouredanother

drink from the bottle. Shesaw the telltale glaze comeintohiseyes.Soon,sheknew,hewouldstumbleawaytobealonewithwhateveritwashethought about. “If you stay,therewillberules.”

“Rules?”“You will be home by

curfew. Always and withoutexception.Youwill leavememy privacy. I can’t stomachbeinghoveredover.Youwillgototheshopseachmorningandseewhatourrationcardswillgetus.Andyouwillfinda job.” He paused, looked ather,hiseyesnarrowed.“And

if yougetyourself in troublelike your sister did, I willthrowyouout.Period.”

“Iamnot—”“I don’t care. A job,

Isabelle.Findone.”Hewas still talkingwhen

she turned on her heel andwalked away. She went intoheroldbedroomandshutthedoor.Hard.

Shehaddoneit!Foronce,she’d gotten her way. Whocared that he’d been meanand judgmental? She washere. In her bedroom, inParis,andstaying.

The room was smallerthansheremembered.Painteda cheery white, with a twiniron-canopied bed and afadedold rugon thewooden

plank floor and a Louis XVarmchair that had seen betterdays. The window—blackedout—overlooked the interiorcourtyard of the apartmentbuilding. As a girl, she’dalways known when herneighborsweretakingoutthetrash,because shecouldhearthem clanking out there,slamming down lids. She

tossed her valise on the bedandbegantounpack.

The clothes she’d takenon exodus—and returned toPariswith—wereshabbierforthe constantwear and hardlyworthhanging in thearmoirealong with the clothes she’dinherited from her maman—beautiful vintage flapperdresses with flared skirts,

silk-fringed evening gowns,woolensuitsthathadbeencutdowntofither,andcrepedaydresses.Anarrayofmatchinghats and shoes made fordancingonballroomfloorsorwalking through the RodinGardenswiththerightboyonone’s arm. Clothes for aworld that had vanished.There were no more “right”

boys in Paris. There werepractically no boys at all.They were all captive incamps in Germany or hidingoutsomewhere.

When her clothes werereturned to hangers in thearmoire, she closed themahogany doors and pushedthe armoire sideways justenough to reveal the secret

doorbehindit.Herfort.She bent down and

opened the door set into thewhite paneled wall bypushing on the top rightcorner.Itsprangfree,creakedopen, revealing a storageroom about six feet by sixfeet, with a roof so slantedthat even as a ten-year-old

girl, she’dhad tohunchoverto stand in it. Sure enough,her dolls were still in there,some slumped and othersstandingtall.

Isabelle closed the dooron her memories and movedthe armoire back in place.She undressed quickly andslipped into a pink silkdressing gown that reminded

her of her maman. It stillsmelledvaguelyofrosewater—orshepretended itdid.Assheheadedoutoftheroomtobrushherteeth,shepausedatherfather’scloseddoor.

She could hear himwriting; his fountain penscratched on rough paper.Everynowandthenhecursedandthenfellsilent.(Thatwas

when he was drinking, nodoubt.) Then came the thunkofabottle—ora fist—onthetable.

Isabelle readied for bed,settingherhairincurlersandwashing her face andbrushing her teeth. On herway back to bed, she heardher father curse again—louder this time, maybe

drinking—and she duckedinto her bedroom andslammedthedoorbehindher.

***

I can’t stomach beinghoveredover.

Apparently what thisreally meant was that herfathercouldn’t stand tobe inthesameroomwithher.

Funny that she hadn’tnoticed it last year, whenshe’dlivedwithhimforthoseweeksbetweenher expulsionfromthefinishingschoolandherexiletothecountry.

True, they’d never satdowntoamealtogetherthen.Or had a conversationmeaningful enough toremember.But somehow she

hadn’t noticed. They’d beentogether in the bookshop,workingsidebyside.Hadshebeen so pathetically gratefulfor his presence that hissilenceescapedhernotice?

Well,shenoticeditnow.He pounded on her

bedroom door so hard shereleased a little yelp ofsurprise.

“I’m leaving for work,”her father said through thedoor.“Therationcardsareonthe counter. I left you onehundredfrancs.Getwhatyoucan.”

She heard his footstepsecho down the wooden hall,heavy enough to rattle thewalls.Thenthedoorslammedshut.

“Good-bye to you, too,”Isabelle mumbled, stung bythetoneofhisvoice.

Thensheremembered.Todaywastheday.She threw back the

coverlet and climbed out ofbed and dressed withoutbotheringtoturnonthelight.She had already planned heroutfit: a drab gray dress and

blackberet,whitegloves,andher last pair of blackslingback pumps. Sadly, shehadnostockings.

She studiedherself in thesalon mirror, trying to becritical, but all she saw wasan ordinary girl in a dulldress, carrying a blackhandbag.

She opened her handbag

(again)andstareddownatthesilk hammock-like linedinterior. She had slit a tinyopening in the lining andslipped the thick envelopeinsideofit.Uponopeningthehandbag, it looked empty.Even if she did get stopped(which she wouldn’t—whywould she? a nineteen-year-old girl dressed for lunch?)

theywouldseenothinginherhandbag except her papers,her ration coupons, and hercarted’identité, certificateofdomicile, and her Ausweis.Exactlywhatshouldbethere.

Atteno’clock,shelefttheapartment.Outside,beneathabright, hot sun, she climbedaboard her blue bicycle andpedaledtowardthequay.

Whenshereachedtheruede Rivoli, black cars andgreen military lorries withfuel tanksstrappedonto theirsides and men on horsebackfilled the street. There wereParisians about, walkingalongthesidewalks,pedalingdown the few streets uponwhich they were allowed toride, queueing for food in

lines that extended down theblock. They were noticeablebythelookofdefeatontheirfaces and the way theyhurried past the Germanswithout making eye contact.At Maxim’s restaurant,beneath the famous redawning, she saw a cluster ofhigh-rankingNaziswaitingtoget inside. The rumor was

rampant that all of thecountry’s best meats andproduce went straight toMaxim’s, to be served to thehighcommand.

And then she spotted it:the iron bench near theentrance to the ComédieFrançaise.

Isabelle hit the brakes onher bicycle and came to a

bumpy, sudden stop, thensteppedoffthepedalwithonefoot. Her ankle gave a littletwistwhensheputherweighton it. For the first time, herexcitement turned a littlesharpwithfear.

Her handbag felt heavysuddenly; noticeably so.Sweat collected in her palmsand along the rim of her felt

hat.Snapoutofit.She was a courier, not a

frightened schoolgirl. Whatrisktherewassheaccepted.

While she stood there, awomanapproachedthebenchandsatdownwithherbacktoIsabelle.

A woman. She hadn’texpected her contact to be a

woman, but that wasstrangelycomforting.

She took a deep, calmingbreathandwalkedherbicycleacrossthebusycrosswalkandpast the kiosks, with theirscarves and trinkets for sale.Whenshewasdirectlybesidethewomanonthebench,shesaid what she’d been told tosay. “Do you think I’ll need

anumbrellatoday?”“I expect it to remain

sunny.” The woman turned.She had dark hair whichshe’d coiled away from herface with care and bold,Eastern European features.Shewas older—maybe thirty—but the look in her eyeswasevenolder.

Isabelle started to open

herhandbagwhenthewomansaid, “No,” sharply. Then,“Followme,”shesaid, risingquickly.

Isabelle remained behindthe woman as she made herwayacrossthewide,gravellyexpanse of the CœurNapoléonwith themammotheleganceoftheLouvrerisingmajestically around them.

Although it didn’t feel like aplace that had once been apalaceofemperorsandkings,not with swastika flagseverywhere and Germansoldiers sittingonbenches inthe Tuilleries garden. On asidestreet,thewomanduckedinto a small café. Isabellelocked her bicycle to a treeout front and followed her

inside, taking a seat acrossfromher.

“Youhavetheenvelope?”Isabelle nodded. In her

lap, she opened her handbagand withdrew the envelope,which she handed to thewomanbeneaththetable.

ApairofGermanofficerswalkedintothebistro,tookatablenotfaraway.

The woman leaned overand straightened Isabelle’sberet. It was a strangelyintimate gesture, as if theywere sisters or best friends.Leaning close, the womanwhispered in her ear, “Haveyouheardoflescollabos?”

“No.”“Collaborators. French

men and women who are

working with the Germans.They are not only in Vichy.Be aware, always. Thesecollaboratorslovetoreportusto the Gestapo. And oncethey know your name, theGestapoarealwayswatching.Trustnoone.”

Shenodded.The woman drew back

and lookedat her. “Not even

yourfather.”“Howdoyouknowabout

myfather?”“Wewanttomeetyou.”“Youjusthave.”“We,” she said quietly.

“Stand at the corner ofboulevardSaint-Germain andruedeSaint-Simontomorrowat noon. Do not be late, donotbringyourbicycle,anddo

notbefollowed.”Isabelle was surprised by

how quickly the woman gotto her feet. In an instant, shewasgone,andIsabellewasatthecafétablealone,underthewatchful eye of the Germansoldierattheothertable.Sheforcedherself toorderacaféau lait (although she knewthere would be no milk and

thecoffeewouldbechicory).Finishing it quickly, sheexitedthecafé.

At the corner, she saw asign pasted to the windowthat warned of executions inretaliation for infractions.Beside it, in the cinemawindow,wasayellowposterthatread INTERDITAUXJUIFS—noJewsallowed.

As she unlocked herbicycle, the German soldierappeared beside her. Shebumpedintohim.

He asked solicitously ifshewasallright.Heranswerwas an actress’s smile and anod.“Mais oui.Merci.” Shesmoothed her dress andclamped her purse in herarmpit and climbed onto the

bicycle. She pedaled awayfrom the soldier withoutlookingback.

She had done it. She’dgotten anAusweis and cometo Paris and forced her papato let her stay, and she haddelivered her first secretmessagefortheFreeFrench.

SIXTEEN

Viannehad to admit that life

at Le Jardin was easierwithout Isabelle. No moreoutbursts, no more veiledcomments made just withinCaptain Beck’s earshot, nomorepushingViannetowageuseless battles in a waralready lost. Still, sometimeswithout Isabelle, the housewas too quiet, and in thesilence,Vianne foundherself

thinkingtooloudly.Like now. She’d been

awake for hours, just staringat her own bedroom ceiling,waitingforthedawn.

Finally,shegotoutofbedand went downstairs. Shepouredherselfacupofbittermade-from-acorns coffee andtook itout into thebackyard,where she sat on the chair

that had been Antoine’sfavorite, beneath thesprawling branches of theyew tree, listening to thechickens scratchinglethargicallythroughthedirt.

Her money was all butgone. They would now haveto live on her meagerteachingsalary.

How was she to do it?

Andalone…Shefinishedhercoffee,as

terrible as it was. Carryingthe empty cup back into theshadowy, already warminghouse, she saw the door toCaptainBeck’sbedroomwasopen.Hehad left for thedaywhile she was out back.Good.

ShewokeSophie,listened

to the story of her latestdream, and made her abreakfast of dry toast andpeach jam. Then the two ofthemheadedfortown.

Vianne rushed Sophie asmuchaspossible,butSophiewas in a foul mood andcomplained and dragged herfeet. Thus, it was lateafternoon by the time they

reached the butcher’s shop.There was a queue thatsnakedoutthedooranddownthe street. Vianne took herplace at the end and glancednervously at the Germans inthesquare.

The queue shuffledforward. At the displaywindow, Vianne noticed anew propaganda poster that

showed a smiling Germansoldier offering bread to agroup of French children.Besideitwasanewsignthatread:NOJEWSALLOWED.

“What does that mean,Maman?” Sophie said,pointingtothesign.

“Hush, Sophie,” Viannesaidsharply.“Wehavetalkedabout this. Some things are

nolongerspokenof.”“But Father Joseph says

—”“Hush,” Vianne said

impatiently, giving Sophie’shandatugforemphasis.

The queue movedforward. Vianne stepped tothe front and found herselfstaring at a gray-hairedwoman with skin the color

andtextureofoatmeal.Vianne frowned. “Where

is Madame Fournier?” sheasked, offering her rationticket for today’s meat. Shehopedtherewasstillsometobehad.

“No Jews allowed,” thewomansaid.“Wehavealittlesmokedpigeonleft.”

“ButthisistheFourniers’

shop.”“Not anymore. It’s mine

now.Youwantthepigeonornot?”

Vianne took the small tinof smoked pigeon anddropped it in her willowbasket. Saying nothing, sheled Sophie outside. On theopposite corner, a Germansentrystoodguardinfrontof

the bank, reminding theFrench people that the bankhad been seized by theGermans.

“Maman,” Sophiewhined.“It’swrongto—”

“Hush.” Vianne grabbedSophie’s hand. As theywalkedoutoftownandalongthe dirt road home, Sophiemade her displeasure known.

She huffed and sighed andgrumbled.

Vianneignoredher.When they reached the

broken gate to Le Jardin,Sophie yanked free and spunto face Vianne. “How canthey just take the butcher’sshop? Tante Isabelle woulddo something. You’re justafraid!”

“And what should I do?Storm into the square anddemand that MadameFournier get her shop back?And what would they do tomefor that?You’veseen thepostersintown.”Sheloweredhervoice.“They’reexecutingFrench people, Sophie.Executingthem.”

“But—”

“No buts. These aredangeroustimes,Sophie.Youneedtounderstandthat.”

Sophie’seyesglazedwithtears. “I wish Papa werehere…”

Vianne pulled herdaughter into her arms andheldhertightly.“Me,too.”

Theyheldeachotherforalong time, and then slowly

separated. “We are going tomake pickles today, howaboutthat?”

“Oh.Fun.”Vianne couldn’t disagree.

“Why don’t you go pickcucumbers? I’ll get thevinegarstarted.”

Vianne watched herdaughter run ahead, dodgingthrough the heavily laden

appletreestowardthegarden.Themomentshedisappeared,Vianne’s worry returned.What would she do withoutmoney? The garden wasproducing well, so therewouldbefruitandvegetables,but what about the comingwinter? How could Sophiestay healthy without meat ormilk or cheese? How would

theygetnewshoes?Shewasshakingasshemadeherwayinto the hot, blacked-outhouse. In the kitchen, sheclutched the counter’s edgeandbowedherhead.

“Madame?”She turned so fast she

almost tripped over her ownfeet.

He was in the living

room, sitting on the divan,with an oil lamp lit besidehim,readingabook.

“CaptainBeck.” She saidhis namequietly.Shemovedtoward him, her shakinghands clasped together.“Your motorcycle is not outfront.”

“It was such a beautifulday. I decided to walk from

town.”Herose.Shesawthathehadrecentlyhadahaircut,and that he’d nicked himselfshaving thismorning.A tinyredcutmarredhispalecheek.“Youlookupset.Perhapsitisbecause you have not beensleepingwellsinceyoursisterleft.”

She looked at him insurprise.

“I hear you walkingaroundinthedark.”

“You’re awake, too,” shesaidstupidly.

“I often cannot sleep,either.Ithinkofmywifeandchildren.Mysonissoyoung.Iwonder ifhewillknowmeatall.”

“I think the same aboutAntoine,”shesaid,surprising

herself with the admission.Sheknewsheshouldn’tbesoopen with this man—theenemy—butjustnowshewastoo tired and scared to bestrong.

Beck stared down at her,and in his eyes, she saw theloss they shared. Both ofthem were a long way fromthe people they loved, and

lonelierforit.“Well. I mean not to

intrude on your day, ofcourse,butIhavesomenewsforyou.Withmuchresearch,I have discovered that yourhusband is in an Oflag inGermany.Afriendofmineisa guard there. Your husbandis an officer. Did you knowthis?Nodoubthewasvaliant

onthebattlefield.”“You found Antoine?

He’salive?”He held out a crumpled,

stained envelope. “Here is aletter he has written to you.And now youmay send himcare packages, which Ibelievewouldcheerhimmostimmeasurably.”

“Oh…my.”She felt her

legsweaken.He grasped her, steadied

her, and led her over to thedivan.Assheslumped to theseat, she felt tearswelling inher eyes. “Such a kind thingtodo,”shewhispered, takingthe letter from him, pressingittoherchest.

“My friend delivered theletter to me. From now on,

my apologies, you willcorrespond on the postcardsonly.”

He smiled at her and shehad the strangest feeling thathe knew about the lengthyletters she concocted in herheadatnight.

“Merci,” she said,wishing it weren’t such asmallword.

“Au revoir,Madame,” hesaid, then turned on his heelandleftheralone.

Thecrumpled,dirty lettershookinhergrasp;thelettersof her name blurred anddancedassheopenedit.

Vianne,mybeloved,

First,do

notworryaboutme.Iamsafeandfedwellenough.Iamunhurt.Truly.Nobulletholesinme.

Inthebarracks,Ihavebeen

luckyenoughtoclaimanupperbunk,anditgivesmesomeprivacyinaplaceoftoomanymen.Throughasmallwindow,Icanseethemoonatnight

andthespiresofNuremburg.Butitisthemoonthatmakesmethinkofyou.

Ourfoodisenoughtosustainus.Ihavegrownusedtopellets

offlourandsmallpiecesofpotato.WhenIgethome,Ilookforwardtoyourcooking.Idreamofit—andyouandSophie—allthetime.

Please,mybeloved,don’tfret.Juststaystrongandbethereformewhenthetimecomesformetoleavethiscage.Youaremysunlightinthedarkand

thegroundbeneathmyfeet.Becauseofyou,Icansurvive.Ihopethatyoucanfindstrengthinme,too,V.Thatbecauseofme,youwillfindawayto

bestrong.Holdmy

daughtertightlytonight,andtellherthatsomewherefaraway,herpapaisthinkingofher.Andtell

herIwillreturn.

Iloveyou,Vianne.

P.S.TheRedCrossisdeliveringpackages.Ifyoucouldsendmemyhunting

gloves,Iwouldbeveryhappy.

Thewintersherearecold.

Vianne finished the letterand immediately beganreadingitagain.

***

Exactly a week after herarrival in Paris, Isabelle wastomeettheotherswhosharedherpassionforafreeFrance,and she was nervous as shewalked among the sallow-faced Parisians and well-fedGermans towardanunknowndestination. She had dressedcarefully this morning in afittedbluerayondresswitha

black belt. She’d set her hairlast night and combed it outinto precise waves thismorning,pinningitbackfromher face. She wore nomakeup; an old conventschool blue beret and whiteglovescompletedtheoutfit.

Iamanactressandthisisa role, she thought as shewalkeddownthestreet. I am

a schoolgirl in love sneakingouttomeetaboy…

That was the story she’ddecided on and dressed for.She was sure that—ifquestioned—she could makeaGermanbelieveher.

Withallof thebarricadedstreets,ittookherlongerthanexpected to arrive at herdestination, but finally she

ducked around a barricadeand moved onto theboulevardSaint-Germain.

She stood beneath astreetlamp.Behindher,trafficmoved slowly up theboulevard; horns honking,motors grumbling, horsehooves clomping, bicyclebells ringing. Even with allthat noise, this once lively

street felt stripped of its lifeandcolor.

Apolicewagonpulledupalongside of her, and agendarme stepped out of thevehicle,hiscloakfoldedoverhis shoulders. He wascarryingawhitestick.

“DoyouthinkI’llneedanumbrellatoday?”

Isabelle jumped, made a

little sound. She’d been sofocused on the policeman—he was crossing the streetnow, heading toward awoman comingout of a café—that she’d forgotten hermission. “I-I expect it toremainsunny,”shesaid.

The man clutched herupperarm(therewasnootherword for it, really; he had a

tight grip) and led her downthe suddenly empty street. Itwas funny how one policewagon could make Parisiansdisappear. No one stuckaround for an arrest—neithertowitnessitnortohelp.

Isabelle tried to see themanbesideher,buttheyweremoving too fast. Sheglimpsed his boots—slashing

quickly across the sidewalkbeneath them—old leather,torn laces, a hole emergingfrom scuff marks at the lefttoe.

“Closeyoureyes,”hesaidastheycrossedastreet.

“Why?”“Doit.”Shewasnotonetofollow

orders blindly (a quip she

mighthavemadeunderothercircumstances), but shewanted so badly to be a partof this that she did asinstructed. She closed hereyes and stumbled alongbeside him, almost trippingover her own feetmore thanonce.

At last they came to astop. She heard him knock

four times on a door. Thenthere were footsteps and sheheard the whoosh of a dooropening and the acrid smellof cigarette smoke waftedacrossherface.

It occurred to her now—just this instant—that shecouldbeindanger.

Themanpulledherinsideand the door slammed shut

behind them. Isabelleopenedhereyes,eventhoughshehadnot been told to do so. Bestthatsheshowhermettlenow.

The room didn’t comeinto focus instantly. It wasdark, the air thick withcigarette smoke. All of thewindows were blacked out.Theonlylightcamefromtwooillamps,sputteringvaliantly

against the shadows andsmoke.

Three men sat at awooden table that bore anoverflowing ashtray. Twowereyoung,wearingpatchedcoats and ragged pants.Between them sat a pencil-thin old man with a waxedgray moustache, whom sherecognized. Standing at the

back wall was the womanwho had been Isabelle’scontact. She was dressed allin black, like a widow, andwassmokingacigarette.

“M’sieur Lévy?” Isabelleasked the olderman. “Is thatyou?”

He pulled the tatteredberet from his shiny, baldhead and held it in clasped

hands.“IsabelleRossignol.”“Youknowthiswoman?”

oneofthemenasked.“Iwasaregularpatronof

her father’sbookshop,”Lévysaid. “Last I heard she wasimpulsive, undisciplined, andcharming.Howmanyschoolsexpelledyou,Isabelle?”

“Onetoomany,myfatherwould say.Butwhat good is

knowing where to seat anambassador’ssecondsonatadinner party these days?”Isabelle said. “I am stillcharming.”

“And still outspoken. Arash head and thoughtlesswords could get everyone inthis room killed,” he saidcarefully.

Isabelle understood her

mistake instantly. Shenodded.

“Youareveryyoung,”thewoman in the back said,exhalingsmoke.

“Not anymore,” Isabellesaid. “I dressed to lookyoungertoday.Ithinkitisanasset. Who would suspect anineteen-year-old girl ofanythingillegal?Andyou,of

allpeople,shouldknowthatawoman can do anything amancando.”

Monsieur Lévy sat backinhischairandstudiedher.

“A friend recommendsyouhighly.”

Henri.“He tells us you have

been distributing our tractsformonths.AndAnouk says

you were quite steadyyesterday.”

Isabelle glanced at thewoman—Anouk—whonoddedinresponse.“Iwilldoanything to help our cause,”Isabelle said. Her chest felttightwithanticipation. Ithadneveroccurredtoherthatshecould come all this way andbe denied entrance to this

network of people whosecausewasherown.

At last, Monsieur Lévysaid, “You will need falsepapers. A new identity. Wewill get that for you, but itwilltakesometime.”

Isabelle drew in a sharpbreath. She had beenaccepted! A sense of destinyseemed to fill the room. She

would do something thatmatterednow.Sheknewit.

“For now, the Nazis areso arrogant, they do notbelieve that any kind ofresistancecansucceedagainstthem,” Lévy said, “but theywillsee…theywillsee,andthen the danger to all of uswill increase. You must tellno one of your association

with us. No one. And thatincludesyourfamily.Itisfortheirsafetyandyourown.”

It would be easy forIsabelletohideheractivities.No one cared particularlywhere she went or what shedid.“Oui,” she said. “So…whatdoIdo?”

Anouk pulled away fromthe wall and crossed the

room,steppingoverthestackof terrorist papers that wereonthefloor.Isabellecouldn’tsee the headline clearly—itwas something about theRAF bombing of Hamburgand Berlin. She reached intoher pocket and pulled out asmallpackage,about thesizeofadeckofcards,wrappedincrinkled tan-colored paper

andtiedupwithtwine.“Youwill deliver this to the tabacintheoldquarterinAmboise;the one directly below thechateau. It must arrive nolater than tomorrow, fourP.M.”Shehanded Isabelle thepackage and one half of atorn five-franc note. “Offerhimthenote.Ifheshowsyouanother half, give him the

package. Leave then. Do notlook back. Do not speak tohim.”

As she took the packageand the note, she heard asharp, short knock on thedoor behind her. An instanttension tightened the air inthe room. Glances wereexchanged. Isabelle wasremindedkeenlythatthiswas