The author and publisherhave provided this e-book toyou for your personal useonly.Youmaynotmakethise-book publicly available inany way. Copyrightinfringement is against thelaw. Ifyoubelieve thecopy

of this e-book you arereading infringes on theauthor’s copyright, pleasenotify the publisher at:us.macmillanusa.com/piracy

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

dangerouswork.Itcouldbeapoliceman on the other sideofthedoor,oraNazi.

Threeknocksfollowed.Monsieur Lévy nodded

evenly.The door opened and in

walked a fat man with anegg-shaped head and an age-spotted face. “I found himwandering around,” the old

man said ashe steppedasidetorevealanRAFpilotstillinhisflightsuit.

“Mon Dieu,” Isabellewhispered. Anouk noddedglumly.

“They are everywhere,”Anouksaidunderherbreath.“Falling from the skies.”Shesmiled tightly at the joke.“Evaders, escapees from

German prisons, downedairmen.”

Isabelle stared at theairman. Everyone knew thepenalty for helping Britishairmen. Itwas announced onbillboards all over town:imprisonmentordeath.

“Get him some clothes,”Lévysaid.

Theoldmanturnedtothe

airmanandbeganspeaking.Clearly the airman didn’t

speakFrench.“They are going to get

you some clothes,” Isabellesaid.

The room fell silent. Shefelteveryonelookingather.

“You speak English?”Anouksaidquietly.

“Passably.Twoyearsina

Swissfinishingschool.”Anothersilencefell.Then

Lévy said, “Tell the pilotwewill put him in hiding untilwe can find a way out ofFranceforhim.”

“You can do that?”Isabellesaid.

“Not at present,” Anouksaid. “Don’t tell him that, ofcourse. Just tell him we are

on his side and he is safe—relatively—andheistodoasheistold.”

Isabelle went to theairman. As she neared him,she saw the scratches on hisface and the way somethinghad torn the sleeve of hisflight suit. She was prettysuredriedblooddarkenedhishairline, and she thought:He

droppedbombsonGermany.“Not all of us are

passive,” she said to theyoungman.

“You speak English,” hesaid. “Thank God. Myaeroplane crashed four daysago. I’ve been crouching indark corners ever since. Ididn’t know where to go tillthis man grabbed me and

dragged me here. You willhelpme?”

Shenodded.“How? Can you get me

backhome?”“Idon’thavetheanswers.

Just do as they tell you, andMonsieur?”

“Yes,ma’am?”“They are risking their

lives to help you. You

understandthat?”Henodded.Isabelleturnedtofaceher

new colleagues. “Heunderstands and will do asyouask.”

“Merci, Isabelle,” Lévysaid. “Where do we contactyou after your return fromAmboise?”

Themomentsheheardthe

question, Isabelle had ananswer that surprised her.“The bookshop,” she saidfirmly.“Iamgoingtoreopenit.”

Lévy gave her a look.“What will your father sayabout that? I thought heclosed itwhen theNazis toldhimwhattosell.”

“My father works for the

Nazis,”shesaidbitterly.“Hisopinions don’t account formuch. He askedme to get ajob. This will be my job. Iwill be accessible to all ofyou at any time. It is theperfectsolution.”

“It is,” Lévy said,although it sounded as if hedidn’tagree.“Verywellthen.Anouk will bring you new

papersas soonaswecangeta carte d’identité made. Wewill need a photograph ofyou.” His gaze narrowed.“AndIsabelle,allowmetobeanoldmanforamomentandtoremindayounggirlwhoisused to being impulsive thatthere can be none of thatanymore. You know I amfriendswithyourfather—orI

was until he showed his truecolors—and I have heardstoriesaboutyouforyears.Itis time for you to grow upand do as you are told.Always.Withoutexception.Itis foryour safetyasmuchasours.”

It embarrassed Isabellethat he felt the need to saythis to her, and in front of

everyone.“Ofcourse.”“And if you get caught,”

Anouk said, “it will be as awoman. You understand?They have special …unpleasantriesforus.”

Isabelle swallowed hard.Shehadthought—briefly—ofimprisonment and execution.This was something she hadnever even considered. Of

coursesheshouldhave.“What we all demand of

each other—or, hope for, atanyrate—istwodays.”

“Twodays?”“If you are captured

and…questioned.Trytosaynothing for two days. Thatgivesustimetodisappear.”

“Twodays,”Isabellesaid.“That’snotsolong.”

“You are so young,”Anouksaid,frowning.

***

In the past six days, Isabellehad left Paris four times.She’d delivered packages inAmboise, Blois, and Lyon.She’d spent more time intrain stations than in herfather’s apartment—an

arrangement that suited themboth.Aslongasshestoodinfood queues during the dayandreturnedhomebeforethecurfew,her fatherdidn’tcarewhat she did. Now, though,she was back in Paris andready to move forward withthenextphaseofherplan.

“You are not reopeningthebookshop.”

Isabelle stared at herfather. He stood near theblacked-out window. In thepale light, the apartmentlooked shabbily grand,decorated as it was withornateantiquescollectedoverthe generations. Goodpaintingsinheavygiltframesgraced the walls (some weremissing, and black shadows

hung on the wall in theirplace;probablyPapahadsoldthem), and if the black-outshades could be lifted, abreathtaking view of theEiffel Tower lay just beyondtheirbalcony.

“You told me to get ajob,”shesaidstubbornly.Thepaper-wrappedpackageinherhandbag gave her a new

strength with her father.Besides, he was already halfdrunk. In no time, he’d besprawledinthebergèreinthesalon, whimpering in hissleep. When she was a girl,those sad sounds hemade inhis sleep had made her longtocomforthim.Nomore.

“I meant a paid job,” hesaiddryly.Hepouredhimself

anothersnifterofbrandy.“Whydon’tyoujustusea

soupbowl?”shesaid.He ignored that. “Iwon’t

have it. That’s all. You willnotopenthebookshop.”

“I have already done it.Today. I was there cleaningallafternoon.”

Heseemedtogostill.Hisbushy gray eyebrows raised

into his lined brow. “Youcleaned?”

“I cleaned,” she said. “Iknow it surprises you, Papa,but I am not twelve yearsold.”Shemovedtowardhim.“Iamdoingthis,Papa.Ihavedecided.Itwillallowmetimeto queue up for food and achance to make some smallbit of money. The Germans

will buy books from me. Ipromiseyouthat.”

“You’ll flirt with them?”hesaid.

She felt the sting of hisjudgment.“Saysthemanwhoworksforthem.”

Hestaredather.Shestaredathim.“Fine,” he said at last.

“You’lldowhatyouwill.But

thestoreroominback.That’smine. Mine, Isabelle. I willlock it up and take the keyand you will respect mywishesby stayingoutof thatroom.”

“Why?”“Itdoesn’tmatterwhy.”“Do you have

assignations with womenthere?Onthesofa?”

He shook his head. “Youareafoolishgirl.ThankGodyour maman did not live toseewhoyouhavebecome.”

Isabellehatedhowdeeplythathurther.“Oryou,Papa,”shesaid.“Oryou.”

SEVENTEEN

In mid-June of 1941, on the

second-to-the-last school dayoftheterm,Viannewasattheblackboard, conjugating averb, when she heard thenow-familiarputt-putt-puttofaGermanmotorcycle.

“Soldiers again,” GillesFournier said bitterly. Theboywas always angry lately,and who could blame him?The Nazis had seized his

family’s butcher shop andgivenittoacollaborator.

“Stay here,” she said toher students, and went outinto the hallway. In walkedtwo men—a Gestapo officerin a long black coat and thelocal gendarme, Paul, whohad gained weight since hiscollaboration with the Nazis.His stomach strained at his

belt. How many times hadshe seen him strolling downrue Victor Hugo, carryingmore food than his familycouldeat,whileshestoodinalengthy queue, clutching aration card that wouldprovidetoolittle?

Vianne moved towardthem, her hands claspedtightly at her waist. She felt

self-conscious in herthreadbare dress, with itsfrayed collar and cuffs, andalthough she had carefullydrawn a brown seam line upthebackofherbarecalves,itwas obvious that it was aruse. She had no stockingson, and that made her feelstrangely vulnerable to thesemen. On either side of the

hallway, classroom doorsopened and teachers steppedout to see what the officerswanted. They made eyecontact with one another butnoonespoke.

TheGestapoagentwalkeddeterminedly towardMonsieur Paretsky’sclassroom at the end of thebuilding. Fat Paul struggled

to keep up, huffing alongbehindhim.

Moments later, MonsieurParetsky was dragged out ofhis classroom by the Frenchpoliceman.

Vianne frowned as theypassedher.OldmanParetsky—whohadtaughthersumsalifetime ago and whose wifetendedtotheschool’sflowers

—gave her a terrified look.“Paul?” Vianne said sharply.“Whatishappening?”

The policeman stopped.“He is accused ofsomething.”

“I did nothing wrong!”Paretsky cried, trying to pullfreeofPaul’sgrasp.

The Gestapo agentnoticed the commotion and

perked up. He came atViannefast,heelsclickingonthefloor.Shefeltashiveroffear at the glint in his eyes.“Madame. What is yourreasonforstoppingus?”

“H-he is a friend ofmine.”

“Really,”hesaid,drawinglengthfromtheword,makingit a question. “So you know

that he is distributing anti-Germanpropaganda.”

“It’s a newspaper,”Paretsky said. “I’m justtelling the French people thetruth.Vianne!Tellthem!”

Vianne felt attention turntoher.

“Your name?” theGestapodemanded,openinganotebook and taking out a

pencil.She wet her lips

nervously.“VianneMauriac.”He wrote it down. “And

you work with M’sieurParetsky,distributingflyers?”

“No!” she cried out. “Heis a teaching colleague, sir. Iknownothingabout anythingelse.”

The Gestapo closed the

notebook. “Has no one toldyou that it is best to ask noquestions?”

“I didn’t mean to,” shesaid,herthroatdry.

He gave a slow smile. Itfrightened her, disarmed her,that smile; enough so that ittook her aminute to registerhisnextwords.

“You are terminated,

Madame.”Herheart seemed to stop.

“E-excuseme?”“I speak of your

employment as a teacher.You are terminated. Gohome, Madame, and do notreturn.These students donotneed an example such asyou.”

***

Attheendoftheday,Viannewalked home with herdaughter and evenrememberednowand then toanswer one of Sophie’snonstopquestions,butall thewhileshewasthinking:Whatnow?

Whatnow?Thestallsandshopswere

closed this time of day, theirbins and cases empty. ThereweresignseverywheresayingNO EGGS, NO BUTTER, NO OIL,NO LEMONS, NO SHOES, NO

THREAD,NOPAPERBAGS.She had been frugal with

the money Antoine left forher. More than frugal—miserly—even though it hadseemed like so much moneyin the beginning. She had

used it fornecessitiesonly—wood, electricity, gas, food.But still it was gone. HowwouldsheandSophiesurvivewithout her salary fromteaching?

At home, shemoved in adaze. She made a pot ofcabbagesoupandloadeditupwith shredded carrots thatweresoftasnoodles.Assoon

asthemealwasfinished,shedid laundry,andwhen itwashanging out on the line, shedarned socks until night fell.Too early, she shuffled awhiny, complaining Sophieofftobed.

Alone (and feeling it likeaknifepressedtoherthroat),she sat down at the diningtablewithanofficialpostcard

andafountainpen.

DearestAntoine,

WeareoutofmoneyandIhavelostmyjob.

WhatamItodo?Winterisonlymonths

away.

She lifted the pen fromthe paper. The blue wordsseemedtoexpandagainst thewhitepaper.

Outofmoney.Whatkindofwomanwas

shetoeventhinkofsendingaletterlikethistoherprisoner-of-warhusband?

Sheballedupthepostcardand threw it into the cold,soot-cakedfireplace,whereitlayallalone,awhiteballonabedofgrayash.

No.It couldn’t be in the

house.What if Sophie foundit, read it? She retrieved itfrom the ashes and carried itout to the backyard, where

she threw it into the pergola.The chickens would trampleandpeckittodeath.

Outside, she sat down inAntoine’s favorite chair,feeling dazed by thesuddenness of her changedcircumstances and this newand terrible fear. If only shecould do it all over again.She’d spend even less

money … she’d go withoutmore… she’d let them takeMonsieur Paretsky without aword.

Behind her, the doorcreaked open and clickedshut.

Footsteps.Breathing.She should get up and

leave,butshewastootiredtomove.

Beckcameupbehindher.“Would you care for a

glassofwine? It’saChateauMargaux ’28. A very goodyear,apparently.”

Wine. She wanted to sayyes, please (perhaps she’dnever needed a glass more),butshecouldn’tdoit.Neithercouldshesayno,soshesaidnothing.

She heard the thunk of acorkbeingfreed,andthenthegurgle ofwinebeingpoured.Hesetafullglassonthetablebeside her. The sweet, richscentwasintoxicating.

Hepouredhimselfaglassand sat down in the chairbesideher.“Iamleaving,”hesaidafteralongsilence.

Sheturnedtohim.

“Do not look so eager. Itis only for a while. A fewweeks.Ihavenotbeenhomein two years.” He took adrink. “My wife may besitting in our garden rightnow, wondering who willreturn to her. I am not theman who left, alas. I haveseen things…” He paused.“This war, it is not as I

expected. And things changein an absence this long, doyounotagree?”

“Oui,” she said. She hadoftenthoughtthesamething.

In the silence betweenthem, she heard a frog croakand the leaves fluttering in ajasmine-scentedbreezeabovetheir heads. A nightingalesangasadandlonelysong.

“You do not seemyourself, Madame,” he said.“If you do not mind mesayingso.”

“I was fired from myteaching position today.” Itwas the first time she’d saidthe words aloud and theycaused hot tears to glaze hereyes. “I… drew attention tomyself.”

“A dangerous thing todo.”

“The money my husbandleft is gone. I amunemployed.Andwinterwillsoonbeuponus.HowamItosurvive? To feed Sophie andkeep her warm?” She turnedtolookathim.

Their gazes cametogether. Shewanted to look

awaybutcouldn’t.He placed the wineglass

in her hand, forced herfingers to coil around it. Histouchfelthotagainsthercoldhands, made her shiver. Sheremembered his officesuddenly—and all that foodstacked within it. “It is justwine,”he saidagain,and thescent of it, of black cherries

anddarkrichearthandahintof lavender,waftedup tohernose, reminding her of thelife she’d had before, thenights she and Antoine hadsatouthere,drinkingwine.

Shetookasipandgasped;she’d forgotten this simplepleasure.

“You are beautiful,Madame,” he said, his voice

assweetandrichasthewine.“Perhapsithasbeentoolongsinceyouheardthat.”

Vianne got to her feet sofast she knocked into thetable and spilled the wine.“You should not say suchthings,HerrCaptain.”

“No,”hesaid,risingtohisfeet.Hestoodinfrontofher,his breath scented by red

wine and spearmint gum. “Ishouldnot.”

“Please,” she said,unableeventofinishthesentence.

“Your daughter will notstarve this winter,Madame,”he said. Softly, as if it weretheir secret accord. “That isonethingyoucanbesureof.”

God help Vianne, itrelieved her. She mumbled

something—she wasn’t evensure what—and went backinto the house, where sheclimbedintobedwithSophie,but itwasa long timebeforesheslept.

***

Thebookshophadoncebeena gathering place for poetsandwritersandnovelistsand

academics. Isabelle’s bestchildhood memories tookplace in these musty rooms.WhilePapahadworkedintheback room on his printingpress, Maman had readIsabellestoriesandfablesandmadeupplaysforthemtoactout. They had been happyhere, for a time, beforeMaman took sick and Papa

starteddrinking.There’smyIz,comesiton

Papa’slapwhileIwriteyourmamanapoem.

Or maybe she hadimagined that memory,constructed it from thethreads of her own need andwrapped it tightlyaroundhershoulders. She didn’t knowanymore.

NowitwasGermanswhocrowded into the shadowynooksandcrannies.

In the six weeks sinceIsabelle had reopened theshop, word had apparentlyspread among the soldiersthataprettyFrenchgirlcouldbe found often at the shop’scounter.

They arrived in a stream,

dressed in their spotlessuniforms,theirvoicesloudasthey jostled one another.Isabelle flirted with themmercilessly but made surenever to leave the shop untilitwasempty.Andshealwaysleftbythebackdoor,wearinga charcoal cloak with thehood drawn up, even in theheatof summer.The soldiers

mightbejovialandsmiling—boys, really, who talked ofpretty fräuleins back homeandboughtFrenchclassicsby“acceptable”authors for theirfamilies—but she neverforgot that they were theenemy.

“M’mselle, you are sobeautiful, and you areignoring us. How will we

survive?” A young Germanofficerreachedforher.

She laughed prettily andpirouetted out of his reach.“Now, M’sieur, you know Ican show no favorites.” Shesidled into place behind thesales counter. “I see you areholding a book of poetry.Certainlyyouhaveagirlbackhome who would love to

receivesuchathoughtfulgiftfromyou.”

His friends shoved himforward,allofthemtalkingatonce.

Isabelle was taking hismoney when the bell abovethefrontdoortinkledgaily.

Isabelle looked up,expecting to see moreGerman soldiers, but it was

Anouk. She was dressed, asusual, more for hertemperamentthantheseason,in all black. A fitted V-neckblack sweater and straightskirt with a black beret andgloves.AGauloises cigarettehungfromherbrightredlips,unlit.

She paused in the opendoorway,with a rectangle of

theemptyalleybehindher,aflash of red geraniums andgreenery.

At the bell, the Germansturned.

Anouk let the door shutbehind her. She casually lither cigarette and inhaleddeeply.

With half of the storelength between them, and

threeGermansoldiersmillingabout, Isabelle’s gaze caughtAnouk’s. In the weeks thatIsabelle had been a courier(she’d gone to Blois, Lyon,and Marseilles, to Amboiseand Nice, not to mention atleast a dozen drops in Parisrecently, all under her newname—Juliette Gervaise—usingfalsepapersthatAnouk

had slipped her one day in abistro, right under theGermans’ noses),Anouk hadbeen her most frequentcontact and even with theiragedifference—whichhadtobe at least a decade, maybemore—they had becomefriends in thewayofwomenwho live parallel lives—wordlesslybutnolessrealfor

its silence. Isabelle hadlearned to see past Anouk’sdour expression and flatmouth, to ignore her taciturndemeanor. Behind all that,Isabelle thought there wassadness. A lot of it. Andanger.

Anouk walked forwardwith a regal, disdainful airthat cut a man down to size

before he even spoke. TheGermansfellsilent,watchingher, moving sideways to lether pass. Isabelle heard oneof them say “mannish” andanother“widow.”

Anouk seemed not tonotice them at all. At thecountershestoppedand tooka long drag on her cigarette.The smoke blurred her face,

and for a moment, only hercherry-red lips werenoticeable.Shereacheddownforherhandbagandwithdrewa small brown book. Theauthor’sname—Baudelaire—was etched into the leather,andalthough the surfacewasso scratched and worn anddiscolored the title wasimpossible to read, Isabelle

knew thevolume.LesFleursdumal.The Flowers of Evil.Itwas the book they used tosignalameeting.

“I am looking forsomething else by thisauthor,”Anouksaid,exhalingsmoke.

“I am sorry, Madame. Ihave no more Baudelaire.Some Verlaine, perhaps? Or

Rimbaud?”“Nothing then.” Anouk

turnedand left thebookshop.Itwasn’tuntilthebelltinkledthat her spell broke and thesoldiers began speakingagain. When no one waslooking, Isabelle palmed thesmall volume of poetry.Insideofitwasamessageforher todeliver, alongwith the

time it was to be delivered.The place was as usual: thebenchinfrontoftheComédieFrançaise. The message washidden beneath the endpapers,whichhadbeenliftedandreglueddozensoftimes.

Isabelle watched theclock, willing the time toadvance. She had her nextassignment.

At precisely six P.M., sheherdedthesoldiersoutof thebookshop and closed up forthenight.Outside, she foundthe chef and owner of thebistro next door, MonsieurDeparde,smokingacigarette.Thepoormanlookedastiredas she felt. She wonderedsometimes, when she sawhim sweating over the fryer

or shucking oysters, how hefelt about feeding Germans.“Bonsoir,M’sieur,”shesaid.

“Bonsoir,M’mselle.”“Long day?” she

commiserated.“Oui.”She handed him a small,

used copy of fables for hischildren. “For Jacques andGigi,”shesaidwithasmile.

“One moment.” Herushed into the café andreturnedwithasmall,grease-stained sack. “Frites,” hesaid.

Isabelle was absurdlygrateful. These days she notonly ate the enemy’sleftovers, she was thankfulforthem.“Merci.”

Leavingherbicycleinthe

shop, she decided to ignorethe crowded, depressinglysilentMétro andwalk home,enjoying the greasy, saltyfritesonherway.Everywhereshe looked, Germans werepouringintocafésandbistrosand restaurants, while theashen-faced Parisians hurriedto be home before curfew.Twicealongtheway,shehad

anigglingsense thatshewasbeingfollowed,butwhensheturned, there was no onebehindher.

She wasn’t sure whatbrought her to a halt on thecornernearthepark,butallatonce, she knew thatsomethingwaswrong.Outofplace. In front of her, thestreet was full of Nazi

vehicles honking at oneanother.Somewheresomeonescreamed.

Isabelle felt the hairs onthe back of her neck raise.Sheglancedbackquickly,butnoonewasbehindher.Latelyshe often felt as if she werebeing followed. It was hernervesworkingovertime.Thegoldendomeof theInvalides

shone in the fading rays ofthe sun. Her heart startedpounding. Fear made herperspire. The musky, sourscent of it mingled with thegreasyodorof frites, and fora moment her stomach tilteduncomfortably.

Everything was fine. Noone was following her. Shewasbeingfoolish.

She turned onto rue deGrenelle.

Something caught hereye,madeherstop.

Up ahead she saw ashadowwherethereshouldn’tbe a shadow. Movementwhereitshouldbestill.

Frowning,shecrossedthestreet, picking her waythrough the slow-moving

traffic.Ontheotherside,shemovedbrisklypasttheclotofGermansdrinkingwineinthebistro toward an apartmentbuildingonthenextcorner.

There,hiddeninthedenseshrubbery beside an ornatesetofglossyblackdoors,shesaw a man crouched downbehindatreeinahugecopperurn.

She opened the gate andstepped into the yard. Sheheard the man scramblebackward, his bootscrunching on the stonesbeneathhim.

Thenhestilled.Isabelle could hear the

Germanslaughingat thecafédown the street, yelling outSikt! s’il vous plaît to the

poor,overworkedwaitress.It was the supper hour.

Theonehourofthedaywhenalltheenemycaredaboutwasentertainment and stuffingtheir stomachswith foodandwine that belonged to theFrench.Shecreptover to thepottedlemontree.

The man was squatteddown,tryingtomakehimself

as small as possible. Dirtsmearedhisfaceandoneeyewas swollen shut, but therewas no mistaking him for aFrenchman:hewaswearingaBritishflightsuit.

“Mon Dieu,” shemuttered.“Anglais?”

Hesaidnothing.“RAF?” she asked in

English.

His eyes widened. Shecouldseehimtryingtodecidewhether to trust her. Veryslowly,henodded.

“Howlonghaveyoubeenhidinghere?”

After a long moment, hesaid,“Allday.”

“You’ll get caught,” shesaid. “Sooner or later.”Isabelle knew she needed to

question him further, butthere wasn’t time. Everysecond she stood here withhim, the danger to both ofthem increased. It wasamazing that the Brit hadn’tbeencaughtalready.

Sheneeded either to helphim or to walk away beforeattention was drawn.Certainly walking away was

the smartmove. “Fifty-sevenAvenue deLaBourdonnais,”she said quietly, in English.“That’swhereIamgoing.Inone hour, Iwill go out for acigarette. You come to thedoor then. If you arrivewithout being seen, I willhelp you. You understandme?”

“How do I know I can

trustyou?”Shelaughedatthat.“This

isafoolishthingIamdoing.And Ipromised not to be soimpetuous. Ah well.” Shepivoted on her heel and leftthe garden area, clanging thegate shut behind her. Shehurried down the street. Allthewayhome, her heartwaspounding and she second-

guessed her decision. Buttherewasnothingtodoaboutitnow.Shedidn’t lookback,not even at her apartmentbuilding. There, she stoppedand faced the big brass knobinthecenterof theoakdoor.She felt dizzy and headachy,shewassoscared.

Shefumbledwiththekeyin the lock and twisted the

knob and surged into thedark, shadowy interior.Inside, thenarrow lobbywascrowded with bicycles andhandcarts.Shemadeherwayto the base of the windingstairway and sat on thebottomstep,waiting.

She looked at herwristwatch a thousand times,andeachtimeshetoldherself

not to do this, but at theappointed time, she wentback outside. Night hadfallen. With the blackoutshades and unlit streetlamps,the street was as dark as acave. Cars rumbled past,unseen without theirheadlamps on; heard andsmelled but invisible unlessan errant bit of moonlight

caught them. She lit herbrown cigarette, took a deepdrag, and exhaled slowly,tryingtocalmherself.

“I’mhere,miss.”Isabelle stumbled

backward and opened thedoor. “Stay behindme. Eyesdown.Nottooclose.”

She led him through thelobby, both of them banging

into bicycles, clanging them,and rattling wooden carts.Shehadneverrunupthefiveflights of stairs faster. Shepulledhimintoherapartmentand slammed the door shutbehindhim.

“Take off your clothes,”shesaid.

“Pardonme?”She flicked on the light

switch.He towered over her; she

sawthatnow.Hewasbroad-shouldered and skinny at thesame time, narrow-faced,withanosethatlookedlikeithad been broken a time ortwo.His hairwas so short itlookedlikefuzz.“Yourflightsuit.Takeitoff.Quickly.”

What had she been

thinkingtodothis?Herfatherwould come home and findtheairmanandthenturnthembothintotheGermans.

Wherewouldshehidehisflight suit? And those bootswereadeadgiveaway.

He bent forward andsteppedoutofhisflightsuit.

She had never seen agrownmaninhisundershorts

and T-shirt before. She feltherfaceflush.

“Noneedtoblush,miss,”he said, grinning as if thiswereordinary.

She yanked his suit intoher arms and held out herhand for his identificationtags. He handed them over;two small discsworn aroundhis neck. Both contained the

same information. LieutenantTorrance MacLeish. Hisbloodgroupand religionandnumber.

“Follow me. Quietly.What’s the word … on theedgesofyourtoes.”

“Tiptoes,”hewhispered.She led him to her

bedroom. There—slowly,gently—she pushed the

armoire out of the way andrevealedthesecretroom.

Arowofglassydolleyesstaredbackather.

“That’s creepy, miss,” hesaid. “And it’s a small spaceforabigman.”

“Get in. Stay quiet. Anyuntoward sound could get ussearched. Madame Leclercnextdooriscuriousandcould

be a collaborator, youunderstand? Also, my fatherwillbehomesoon.Heworksfor the German highcommand.”

“Blimey.”Shehadnoideawhatthat

meant, and shewas sweatingsoprofuselyherclotheswerestarting to stick to her chest.What had she been thinking

toofferthismanhelp?“WhatifIhaveto…you

know?”heasked.“Holdit.”Shepushedhim

into the room, giving him apillow and blanket from herbed. “I’ll come back when Ican.Quiet,oui?”

Henodded.“Thankyou.”Shecouldn’thelpshaking

herhead.“I’mafool.Afool.”

Sheshutthedooronhimandshoved thearmoireback intoplace,notquitewhereitwent,but good enough for now.Shehadtogetridofhisflightsuitandtagsbeforeherfathercamehome.

She moved through theapartment on bare feet, asquietly as possible. She hadno idea if the people

downstairs would notice thesound of the armoire beingmoved or too many peoplemovingaboutuphere.Bettersafe than sorry. She jammedthe flight suit in an oldSamaritaine department storebag and crushed it to herchest.

Leavingtheapartmentfeltdangerous suddenly. So did

staying.ShecreptpasttheLeclerc

apartment and then rusheddownthestairs.

Outside, she drew in agulpingbreath.

Now what? She couldn’tthrowthisjustanywhere.Shedidn’t want someone else togetintrouble…

Forthefirsttime,shewas

grateful for the city’sblackout conditions. Sheslipped into the darkness onthe sidewalk and all butdisappeared. There were fewParisians out this close tocurfewandtheGermansweretoo busy drinking Frenchwinetoglanceoutside.

Shedrewinadeepbreath,trying to calm down. To

think. She was probablymoments away from curfew—although that was hardlyher biggest problem. Papawouldbehomesoon.

Theriver.Shewasonlyafewblocks

away, and there were treesalongthequay.

She found a smaller,barricaded side street and

made her way to the river,past the row of militarylorries parked along thestreet.

She had never moved soslowlyinherlife.Onestep—one breath—at a time. ThelastfiftyfeetbetweenherandthebanksoftheSeineseemedtogrowandexpandwitheachstepshe took,and thenagain

asshedescendedthestairstothewater,butat lastshewasthere, standing beside theriver. She heard boat linescreaking in the darkness,waves slapping theirwoodenhulls.Onceagainshethoughtshe heard footsteps behindher.When she stilled, so didthey.Shewaitedforsomeoneto come up behind her, for a

voicedemandingherpapers.Nothing. She was

imaginingit.Oneminute passed. Then

another.Shethrewthebagintothe

black water and then hurledtheidentificationtagsinafterit. The dark, swirling waterswallowed the evidenceinstantly.

Still,shefeltshakyassheclimbedthestepsandcrossedthe street and headed forhome.

At her apartment door,she paused, finger-combingher sweat-dampenedhair andpulling the damp cottonblousefromherbreasts.

Theonelightwason.Thechandelier. Her father sat

hunchedoverthediningroomtable with paperwork spreadout before him. He appearedhaggard and too thin. Shewondered suddenly howmuch he had been eatinglately. In the weeks she’dbeenhome, shehadnotonceseen him have a meal. Theyate—like they did everythingelse—separately. She had

assumed that he ate Germanscraps at the high command.Nowshewondered.

“You’re late,” he saidharshly.

She noticed the brandybottleonthetable.Itwashalfempty.Yesterday ithadbeenfull. How was it that healways found his brandy?“The Germans wouldn’t

leave.”Shemovedtowardthetable and put several francnotes down. “Today was agood day. I see your friendsat the high command havegivenyoumorebrandy.”

“The Nazis do not givemuchaway,”hesaid.

“Indeed. So you haveearnedit.”

A noise sounded,

something crashing to thehardwood floor, maybe.“What was that?” her fathersaid,lookingup.

Thencameanothersound,like a scraping of wood onwood.

“Someone is in thisapartment,”Papasaid.

“Don’tbeabsurd,Papa.”He rose quickly from the

table and left the room.Isabelle rushed after him.“Papa—”

“Hush,”hehissed.He moved down the

entryway, into the unlit partof the apartment. At thebombé chest near the frontdoor,hepickedupacandleinabrassholderandlitit.

“Surely you don’t think

someone has broken in,” shesaid.

He threw her a harsh,narrow-eyed look.“Iwillnotask you to be silent again.Now hold your tongue.” Hisbreathsmelledofbrandyandcigarettes.

“Butwhy—”“Shut up.” He turned his

backonherandmoveddown

the narrow, slanted-floorhallway toward thebedrooms.

He passed the minisculecoatcloset(nothingbutcoatsinside) and followed thecandle’s quavering path intoVianne’s old room. It wasempty but for the bed andnightstand and writing desk.Nothing was out of place in

here. He got slowly to hisknees and looked under thebed.

Satisfied at last that theroom was empty, he headedforIsabelle’sroom.

Could he hear thepoundingofherheart?

He checked her room—under the bed, behind thedoor, behind the floor-to-

ceiling damask curtains thatframed the blacked-outcourtyardwindow.

Isabelleforcedherselfnottostareatthearmoire.“See?”she said loudly, hoping theairmanwouldhearvoicesandsit still. “No one is here.Really,Papa,workingfortheenemy is making youparanoid.”

He turned to her. In thecoronaofcandlelight,hisfacelookedhaggardandworn.“Itwouldn’t hurt you to beafraid,youknow.”

Was that a threat? “Ofyou,Papa?OroftheNazis?”

“Are you paying noattentionatall,Isabelle?Youshouldbeafraidofeveryone.Now, get out of my way. I

needadrink.”

EIGHTEEN

Isabelle lay in bed, listening.

Whenshewassureherfatherwas asleep (a drunken sleep,no doubt) she left her bed,went in search of hergrandmère’s porcelainchamber pot, and holding it,stoodinfrontofthearmoire.

Slowly—a half inch at atime—she moved it awayfromthewall.Justenoughtoopenthehiddendoor.

Inside, it was dark andquiet.Onlywhenshelistenedintently did she hear himbreathing. “Monsieur?” shewhispered.

“Hello,miss”cameatherfromthedark.

Shelittheoillampbyherbed and carried it into thespace.

Hewassittingagainst the

wall with his legs stretchedout; in the candlelight, heseemed softer somehow.Younger.

She handed him thechamber pot and saw thatcolorroseonhischeeksashetookitfromher.

“Thankyou.”She sat down opposite

him. “I got rid of your

identification tags and flightsuit.Your bootswill have tobecutdownforyoutowear.Here’s a knife. Tomorrowmorning Iwill get you someofmyfather’sclothes.Idon’timaginethey’llfitwell.”

He nodded, saying, “Andwhatisyourplan?”

That made her smilenervously.“I’mnotsure.You

areapilot?”“Lieutenant Torrance

MacLeish. RAF. Myaeroplane went down overReims.”

“And you’ve been onyourownsincethen?Inyourflightsuit?”

“Fortunately my brotherand I played hide-and-seek alotwhenwewerelads.”

“You’renotsafehere.”“I gathered.” He smiled

and it changed his face,reminded her that he wasreally just a young man farfrom home. “If itmakes youfeel better, I took threeGerman aeroplanes downwithme.”

“Youneed to get back toBritainsoyoucangetbackto

it.”“I can’t agree more. But

how? The whole coastline isbehind barbed wire andpatrolled by dogs. I can’texactly leave France by boatorair.”

“I have some … friendswhoareworkingonthis.Wewillgoseethemtomorrow.”

“You are very brave,” he

saidsoftly.“Or foolish,” she said,

unsure of which was moretrue. “I have often heard I’mimpetuous and unruly. Iimagine I will hear it frommyfriendstomorrow.”

“Well, miss, you won’thearanythingbutbravefromme.”

***

The next morning, Isabelleheardherfatherwalkpastherroom. Moments later, shesmelled coffee wafting herway, and then, after that, thefrontdoorclickedshut.

She left her room andwentintoherfather’s—whichwasamessof clotheson thefloor and an unmade bed,

with an empty brandy bottlelying on its side on hiswriting desk. She pulled theblackout shade and peeredpasttheemptybalconytothestreet below, where she sawherfatheremergeoutontothesidewalk. He had his blackbriefcase held close to hischest(asifhispoetryactuallymattered to anyone) and a

black hat pulled low on hisbrow. Hunched like anoverworked secretary, heheaded for the Métro. Whenhepassedoutofherview,shewent to the armoire in hisroom and rummaged throughitforoldclothes.Ashapelessturtleneck sweater withfraying sleeves, old corduroypants,patchedintheseatand

bereftof severalbuttons, andagrayberet.

Isabellecautiouslymovedthe armoire and opened thedoor. The secret roomsmelledofsweatandpiss,somuch that she had to clampher hand over her nose andmouthasshegagged.

“Sorry, miss,” MacLeishsaidsheepishly.

“Put these on. Wash upthere at the pitcher andmeetme in the salon. Put thearmoire back. Move quietly.People are downstairs. Theymayknowmy father is goneandexpectonlyonepersontobewalkingarounduphere.”

Momentslater,hesteppedinto the kitchen, dressed inher father’s castoffs. He

looked like a fairy-tale boywho’dsproutedovernight;thesweater strained across hisbroadchest and thecorduroypantsweretoosmalltobuttonat thewaist.Hewaswearingtheberetflatonthecrownofhis head, as if it were ayarmulke.

This would never work.How would she get him

across town in broaddaylight?

“I can do this,” he said.“I’llfollowalongbehindyou.Trust me, miss. I’ve beenwalkingaboutinaflightsuit.Thisiseasy.”

Itwastoolatetobackoutnow.She’d takenhim in andhiddenhim.Nowsheneededto get him someplace safe.

“Walkatleastablockbehindme.IfIstop,youstop.”

“If I get pinched, youkeep walking. Don’t evenlookback.”

Pinched must meanarrested. She went to him,adjusted his beret, set it at ajaunty angle. Her gaze heldhis. “Where are you from,LieutenantMacLeish?”

“Ipswich,miss.You’lltellmyparents…ifnecessary?”

“It won’t be necessary,Lieutenant.” She drew in adeepbreath.Hehadremindedher again of the risk thatshe’dundertakentohelphim.The false papers in herhandbag—identifying her asJuliette Gervaise of Nice,baptized in Marseille, and a

student at the Sorbonne—were the only protection shehad if the worst happened.She went to the front door,opened it, and peered out.The landing was empty. Sheshovedhimout,saying,“Go.Stand outside by themilliner’s empty shop. Thenfollowme.”

He stumbled out of the

apartment,andsheclosedthedoorbehindhim.

One.Two.Three…She counted silently,

imagining troublewith everystep.Whenshecouldstanditno more, she left theapartmentandwentdownthestairs.

Allwasquiet.She found him outside,

standingwherehe’dbeentoldto. She lifted her chin andwalked past him without aglance.

All the way to the Saint-Germain, shewalkedbriskly,never turning around, neverlooking back. Several timesshe heard German soldiersyell out “Halt!” and blowtheir whistles. Twice she

heard gunshots, but sheneitherslowednorlooked.

By the time she reachedthe reddoorat theapartmenton rue de Saint-Simon, shewas sweating and a littlelight-headed.

Sheknockedfourtimesinrapidsuccession.

Thedooropened.Anoukappearedintheslit

of an opening. Surprisewidenedhereyes.Sheopenedthe door and stepped back.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”

Behindher,severalofthemen Isabelle had met beforewere seated around tables,withmaps set out in front ofthem, the pale blue linesilluminatedbycandlelight.

Anouk started to shut the

door. Isabelle said, “Leave itopen.”

Tension followed herdirective. She saw it sweepthe room, change theexpressions around her. Atthe table, Monsieur Lévybeganputtingthemapsaway.

Isabelle glanced outsideandsawMacLeishcomingupthewalkway.Hesteppedinto

the apartment and sheslammedthedoorshutbehindhim.Noonespoke.

Isabelle had their fullattention. “This isLieutenantTorrance MacLeish of theRAF. Pilot. I found himhiding in thebushesnearmyapartmentlastnight.”

“And you brought himhere,”Anouk said, lighting a

cigarette.“He needs to get back to

Britain,” Isabelle said. “Ithought—”

“No,” Anouk said. “Youdidnot.”

Lévysatbackinhischairand pulled a Gauloises fromhisbreastpocketandlititup,studying the airman. “Thereareothersthatweknowofin

the city, and more whoescaped from Germanprisons.Wewanttogetthemout, but the coasts and theairfields are sewn up tight.”He took a long drag on thecigarette; the tip glowed andcrackledandblackened.“Itisa problem we have beenworkingon.”

“I know,” Isabelle said.

Shefeltthefullweightofherresponsibility. Had she actedrashly again? Were theydisappointed in her? Shedidn’tknow.Shouldshehaveignored MacLeish? She wasabout toaskaquestionwhensheheardsomeone talking inanotherroom.

Frowning,shesaid,“Whoelseishere?”

“Others,”Lévy answered.“Others are always here. Nooneofconcerntoyou.”

“We need a plan for theairmen, it is true,” Anouksaid.

“Webelievewecouldgetthem out of Spain,” Lévysaid. “If we could get themintoSpain.”

“The Pyrenees,” Anouk

said.Isabelle had seen the

Pyrenees, so she understoodAnouk’s comment. Thejaggedpeaks rose impossiblyhighintothecloudsandwereusually snow-covered orringedinfog.HermotherhadlovedBiarritz,asmallcoastaltownnearby,andtwice,inthegood days, long ago, the

familyhadvacationedthere.“TheborderwithSpainis

guardedbybothGermanandSpanishpatrols,”Anouksaid.

“The whole border?”Isabelleasked.

“Well, no.Of course not.Butwheretheyareandwherethey aren’t, who knows?”Lévysaid.

“The mountains are

smaller near Saint-Jean-de-Luz,”Isabellepointedout.

“Oui, but so what? Theyare still impassable and thefew roads are guarded,”Anouksaid.

“Mymaman’s best friendwas a Basque whose fatherwasagoatherder.Hecrossedthemountainson foot all thetime.”

“We have had this idea.Weeven tried itonce,”Lévysaid. “None of the partywasheard from again. Gettingpast the German sentries atSaint-Jean-de-Luz is hardenoughforoneman,letaloneseveral, and then there is theactual crossing of themountainsonfoot.Itisnearlyimpossible.”

“Nearly impossible andimpossible are not the samething. If goat herders cancrossthemountains,certainlyairmen can do it,” Isabellesaid. As she said it, an ideacame to her. “And a womancouldmove easily across thecheckpoints. Especially ayoungwoman.Noonewouldsuspectaprettygirl.”

Anouk and Lévyexchangedalook.

“I will do it,” Isabellesaid. “Or try it, anyway. I’lltake this airman. And arethereothers?”

Monsieur Lévy frowned.Obviously this turnofeventssurprised him. Cigarettesmoke clouded blue-graybetween them. “And you

have climbed mountainsbefore?”

“I’m in good shape” washeranswer.

“If theycatchyou,they’llimprisonyou…orkillyou,”he said quietly. “Put yourimpetuousness aside for amoment and think on that,Isabelle. This is not handingover a piece of paper. You

haveseenthesignspostedallover town? The rewardsoffered for people who aidtheenemy?”

Isabellenoddedearnestly.Anouk sighed heavily,

stabbing out her cigarette inthe overflowing ashtray. ShegazedatIsabellealongtime,eyes narrowing; then shewalked to the open door

behind the table. She pushedthe door open a little andwhistled, gave a trilling littlebirdcall.

Isabelle frowned. Sheheard something in the otherroom, a chair pushing backfromatable,footsteps.

Gaëtan stepped into theroom.

He was dressed shabbily,

in corduroy pants that werepatched at the knees andraggedatthehemandalittletoo short, in a sweater thathung on his wiry frame, itscollarpulledoutofshape.Hisblack hair, longer now, inneed of cutting, had beenslicked back from his face,which was sharper, almostwolflike.He lookedatheras

if they were the only two intheroom.

In an instant, it was allundone. The feelings she’ddiscounted, tried to bury, toignore, came flooding back.One look at him and shecouldbarelybreathe.

“YouknowGaët,”Anouksaid.

Isabelleclearedherthroat.

She understood that he’dknownshewashereallalong,thathe’dchosentostayawayfrom her. For the first timesince she’d joined thisunderground group, Isabellefeltkeenlyyoung.Apart.Hadtheyallknownabout it?Hadthey laughed about hernaïveté behind her back? “Ido.”

“So,” Lévy said after anuncomfortable pause,“Isabellehasaplan.”

Gaëtan didn’t smile.“Doesshe?”

“She wants to lead thisairman and others across thePyrenees on foot and getthem into Spain. To theBritishconsulate,Iassume.”

Gaëtan swore under his

breath.“We need to try

something,”Lévysaid.“Do you truly understand

the risk, Isabelle?” Anoukasked, coming forward. “Ifyou succeed, the Nazis willhearofit.Theywillhuntyoudown. There is a ten-thousand-franc reward foranyone who leads the Nazis

tosomeoneaidingairmen.”Isabelle had always

simply reacted in her life.Someone leftherbehind;shefollowed. Someone told hershe couldn’t do something;she did it. Every barrier sheturnedintoagate.

Butthis…She let fear give her a

little shake and she almost

gave in to it. Then shethought about the swastikasthat flew from the EiffelTowerandViannelivingwiththeenemyandAntoinelostinsome prisoner of war camp.And Edith Cavell. Certainlyshe had been afraidsometimes, too; Isabellewouldnotletfearstandinherway.Theairmenwereneeded

in Britain to drop morebombsonGermany.

Isabelle turned to theairman. “Are you a fit man,Lieutenant?” she said inEnglish. “Couldyoukeepupwith a girl on a mountaincrossing?”

“I could,” he said.“Especially one as pretty asyou,miss. Iwouldn’t letyou

outofmysight.”Isabelle faced her

compatriots. “I’ll takehim tothe consulate in SanSebastián.From there, itwillbe up to theBrits to get himhome.”

Isabelle saw theconversation that passed insilence around her, concernsand questions unvoiced. A

decision reached in silence.Some risks simply had to betaken; everyone in this roomknewit.

“It will take weeks toplan. Maybe longer,” Lévysaid. He turned to Gaëtan.“We will need moneyimmediately. You will speaktoyourcontact?”

Gaëtan nodded. He

grabbed a black beret fromthesideboard,puttingiton.

Isabelle couldn’t lookaway. She was angry at him—she knew that, felt it—butas he came toward her, thatangerdriedupandblewawaylike dust beneath the longingthat mattered somuchmore.Their gazes met, held; andthenhewaspasther,reaching

for the doorknob, goingoutside.Thedoorclickedshutbehindhim.

“So,” Anouk said. “Theplanning.Weshouldbegin.”

***

For six hours, Isabelle sat atthe table in the apartment onrue de Saint-Simon. Theybrought in others from the

networkandgavethemtasks:togatherclothesforthepilotsand stockpile supplies. Theyconsulted maps and devisedroutes and began the long,uncertain process of settingupsafehousesalongtheway.At somepoint, theybegan tosee it as a reality instead ofmerely a bold and daringidea.

It wasn’t until MonsieurLévy mentioned the curfewthat Isabelle pushed backfrom the table. They tried totalkherintostayingthenight,butsuchachoicewouldmakeherfathersuspicious.Instead,she borrowed a heavy blackpeacoat fromAnouk and putit on, grateful for the way itcamouflagedher.

The boulevard Saint-Germain was eerily quiet,shutters closed tightly andblackedout,streetlampsdark.

She kept close to thebuildings, grateful that theworn-downheelsofherwhiteoxfords didn’t clatter on thesidewalk. She crept pastbarricadesandaroundgroupsofGermansoldierspatrolling

thestreets.She was almost home

when she heard an enginegrowling. A German lorryshambledupthestreetbehindher, its blue-paintedheadlightsturnedoff.

She pressed flat againstthe rough stone wall behindher and the phantom lorryrolled past, grumbling in the

darkness. Then everythingwassilentagain.

Abirdwhistled, a trillingsong.Familiar.

Isabelle knew then thatshe’d been waiting for him,hoping…

She straightened slowly,rosetoherfeet.Besideher,apottedplantreleasedthescentofflowers.

“Isabelle,”Gaëtansaid.She could barely make

out his features in the dark,but she could smell thepomade in his hair and therough scent of his laundrysoap and the cigarette he’dsmokedsometimeago.“Howdidyouknow IwasworkingwithPaul?”

“Who do you think

recommendedyou?”Shefrowned.“Henri—”“And who told Henri

about you? I had Didierfollowing you from thebeginning, watching overyou. I knew you would findyourwaytous.”

He reached out, tuckedthe hair behind her ears, andtheintimacyoftheactlefther

parched with hope. Sheremembered saying “I loveyou,” and shame and losstwisted her up inside. Shedidn’twanttorememberhowhe’dmadeherfeel,howhe’dfedherroastedrabbitbyhandandcarriedherwhenshewastoo tired to walk … andshowed her how much onekisscouldmatter.

“I’msorryIhurtyou,”hesaid.

“Whydidyou?”“It doesn’t matter now.”

He sighed. “I should havestayed in that back roomtoday. It’s better not seeingyou.”

“Notforme.”He smiled. “You have a

habitofsayingwhateverison

your mind, don’t you,Isabelle?”

“Always. Why did youleaveme?”

He touched her facewitha gentleness that made herwant to cry; it felt like agood-bye,thattouch,andsheknewgood-bye. “Iwanted toforgetyou.”

She wanted to say

somethingmore,maybe“kissme” or “don’t go” or “say Imatter to you,” but it wasalready too late, themoment—whateveritwas—waspast.He was stepping away fromher, disappearing into theshadows.He said softly, “Becareful, Iz,” and before shecould answer, she knew hewasgone;shefelthisabsence

inherbones.She waited a moment

more, for her heartbeat toslow down and her emotionsto stabilize, then she headedfor home. She had barelyreleasedthelockonherfrontdoor when she felt herselfbeing yanked inside. Thedoor slammed shut behindher.

“Where in the hell haveyoubeen?”

Her father’s alcoholicbreath washed over her, itssweetness a cloak oversomething dark; bitter. As ifhe’d been chewing aspirin.She tried to pull free but heheld her so close it wasalmost an embrace, his graspon her wrist tight enough to

leaveabruise.Then, as quickly as he’d

grasped her, he let her go.She stumbled back, flailingforthelightswitch.Whensheflippedit,nothinghappened.

“No more money forelectricity,” her father said.He lit an oil lamp, held itbetween them. In thewavering light, he looked to

be sculpted of melting wax;his lined face sagged, hiseyelidswerepuffyandalittleblue.Hispaddlenoseshowedblack pores the size ofpinheads. Even with all ofthat,withas…tiredandoldashesuddenlyseemed,itwasthelookinhiseyesthatmadeherfrown.

Somethingwaswrong.

“Comewithme,”hesaid,his voice raspy and sharp,unrecognizable this time ofnight without a slur. He ledher down past the closet andaround the corner to herroom. Inside, he turned tolookather.

Behindhim,inthelamp’sglow, she saw the movedarmoire and the door to the

secretroomajar.Thesmellofurinewas strong.ThankGodtheairmanwasgone.

Isabelle shook her head,unabletospeak.

Hesanktositontheedgeof her bed, bowing his head.“Christ, Isabelle. You are apainintheass.”

She couldn’t move. Orthink. She glanced at the

bedroom door, wondering ifshe couldmake it out of theapartment. “It was nothing,Papa. A boy.”Oui. “A date.Wewerekissing,Papa.”

“Anddoallofyourdatespiss in the closet? Youmustbe very popular, then.” Hesighed. “Enough of thischarade.”

“Charade?”

“Youfoundanairmanlastnight and hid him in theclosetandtodayyoutookhimtoMonsieurLévy.”

Isabelle could not haveheardcorrectly.“Pardon?”

“Your downed airman—the one who pissed in theclosetandleftdirtybootprintsinthehallway—youtookhimtoMonsieurLévy.”

“I do not knowwhat youaretalkingabout.”

“Goodforyou,Isabelle.”When he fell silent, she

couldn’t stand the suspense.“Papa?”

“IknowyoucamehereasacourierfortheundergroundandthatyouareworkingwithPaulLévy’snetwork.”

“H-how—”

“MonsieurLévy isanoldfriend. In fact, when theNazisinvaded,hecametomeand pulled me out of thebottleofbrandythatwasallIcared about. He put me towork.”

Isabelle felt so unsteady,shecouldn’tstand.Itwastoointimate to sit by her father,so she sank slowly to the

carpet.“I didn’t want you

involved in this, Isabelle.That’s why I sent you fromParis in the first place. Ididn’twanttoputyouatriskwithmywork. I shouldhaveknown you’d find your ownwaytodanger.”

“And all the other timesyou sent me away?” She

wished instantly that shehadn’taskedthequestion,butthe moment she had thethought,itwasgivenvoice.

“Iamnogoodasafather.We both know that. At leastnot since your maman’sdeath.”

“How would we know?Younevertried.”

“I tried. You just don’t

remember. Anyway, that isall water gone by now. Wehavebiggerconcerns.”

“Oui,” she said.Herpastfelt upended somehow, offbalance. She didn’t knowwhattothinkorfeel.Bettertochange the subject than todwellonit.“Iam…planningsomething.Iwillbegoneforawhile.”

Helookeddownather.“Iknow.IhavespokentoPaul.”He was silent for a longmoment. “You know thatyour life changes right now.You will have to liveunderground—not here withme, not with anyone. Youwill not be able to spendmorethanafewnightsinanyone place. You will trust

absolutely no one. And youwillnotbeIsabelleRossignolat all anymore; you will beJuliette Gervaise. The Nazisand the collaborators willalways be searching for you,andiftheyfindyou…”

Isabellenodded.A look passed between

them. In it, Isabelle felt aconnection that had never

existedbefore.“Youknowthatprisoners

of war receive some mercy.Youcanexpectnone.”

Shenodded.“Can you do this,

Isabelle?”“Icandoit,Papa.”He nodded. “The name

you are looking for isMicheline Babineau. Your

maman’s friend in Urrugne.HerhusbandwaskilledintheGreatWar.Ithinkshewouldwelcomeyou.AndtellPaulIwill need photographsimmediately.”

“Photographs?”“Of the airmen.” At her

continued silence, he finallysmiled. “Really, Isabelle?Have you not put the pieces

together?”“But—”“I forge papers, Isabelle.

That’swhyIworkatthehighcommand.Ibeganbywritingtheverytractsyoudistributedin Carriveau, but … it turnsout that the poet has aforger’s hand. Who do youthink gave you the nameJulietteGervaise?”

“B-but…”“You believed I

collaboratedwith the enemy.Icanhardlyblameyou.”

Inhim,suddenly,shesawsomeone foreign, a brokenman where a cruel, carelessman had always stood. Shedared to rise up, to movetowardhim, tokneel in frontofhim.Shestaredupathim,

feeling hot tears glaze hereyes.“WhydidyoupushmeandVianneaway?”

“I hope you never knowhow fragile you are,Isabelle.”

“I’m not fragile,” shesaid.

Thesmilehegaveherwasbarelyoneatall.“Weareallfragile,Isabelle.It’sthething

welearninwar.”

NINETEEN

WARNING

Allmaleswhocometo the aid, eitherdirectly orindirectly, of thecrews of enemyaircraft comingdown in parachutesor having made aforced landing, helpin their escape,hidethem, or come to

their aid in anyfashionwill be shotonthespot.

Women whorenderthesamehelpwill be sent toconcentrationcampsinGermany.

“I guess I am lucky to be awoman,”Isabellemutteredto

herself. How was it that theGermans hadn’t noticed bynow—October 1941—thatFrancehadbecomeacountryofwomen?

Even as she said thewords, she recognized thefalse bravado in them. Shewanted to feel brave rightnow—Edith Cavell riskingher life—but here, in this

train station patrolled byGerman soldiers, she wasscared.

Therewasnobackingoutnow, no changing her mind.Aftermonthsofplanningandpreparation, she and fourairmenwereready to test theescapeplan.

On this cool Octobermorning, her life would

change.Fromthemomentsheboarded this train bound forSaint-Jean-de-Luz,shewouldno longer be IsabelleRossignol, the girl in thebookshop who lived on theAvenuedeLaBourdonnais.

From now on, she wasJuliette Gervaise, code nametheNightingale.

“Come.” Anouk linked

armswithIsabelleandledheraway from the warning signandtowardtheticketcounter.

Theyhadgoneoverthesepreparations so many timesIsabelle knew the plan well.Therewasonlyoneflaw:Allof their attempts to reachMadame Babineau had thusfar failed. That one keycomponent—finding a guide

—Isabelle would have to doon her own. Off to her left,waiting for her signal,Lieutenant MacLeish stooddressedasapeasant.Allhe’dkeptfromhisescapekitweretwoBenzedrine tablets and atinycompassthat lookedlikea button and was pinned tohiscollar.Hehadbeengivenfalse papers—now he was a

Flemish farmworker. He hadan identity card and a workpermit,butherfathercouldn’tguarantee that the paperswould pass close inspection.Hehadcutoffthetopsofhisflight boots and shaved offhismoustache.

Isabelle and Anouk hadspentcountlesshourstraininghim in proper behavior.

They’d dressed him in abaggy coat and a worn,stainedpairofwork trousers.They’d bleached the nicotinestains from the first andsecond fingers of his righthandandtaughthimtosmokelike a Frenchman, using histhumb and forefinger. Heknew he was to look leftbefore crossing the street—

not right—and he was neverto approach Isabelle unlesssheapproachedhimfirst.Shehad instructed him to playdeaf anddumband to read anewspaperwhile on the train—theentiretrip.Hewasalsoto buy his own ticket and sitapart from Isabelle. They allwere. When theydisembarked in Saint-Jean-

de-Luz, the airmen were towalk a good distance behindher.

Anouk turned to Isabelle.Are you ready? her gazeasked.

Shenoddedslowly.“Cousin Etienne will

board the train in Poitiers,Uncle Emile in Ruffec, andJean-ClaudeinBordeaux.”

Theotherairmen.“Oui.”Isabellewastodisembark

atSaint-Jean-de-Luzwith thefour airmen—two Brits andtwo Canadians—and crossthe mountains into Spain.Oncethere,shewastosendatelegram. “The Nightingalehassung”meantsuccess.

She kissed each ofAnouk’s cheeks, murmured

au revoir, and then walkedbriskly over to the ticketwindow. “Saint-Jean-de-Luz,” she said, and handedthe attendant her money.Taking the ticket, sheheadedfor platformC.Not once didshe look back, although shewantedto.

Thetrainwhistlesounded.Isabelle stepped aboard,

takinga seaton the left side.More passengers filed in,took seats. Several Germansoldiers boarded the train,sittingacrossfromher.

MacLeish was the last toboard. He stepped into thetrain and shuffled past herwithout a glance, hisshoulders hunched in aneffort to appear smaller. As

the doors eased shut, hesettledintoaseatattheotherend of the compartment andimmediately opened hisnewspaper.

The train whistle blewagain and the giant wheelsbegan to turn, picking upspeed slowly. Thecompartment banged a little,heaved left and right, and

then settled into a steadythrumming movement, thewheels clackety-clacking ontheirontracks.

The German soldieracross from Isabelle glanceddown the compartment. HisgazesettledonMacLeish.Hetapped his friend in theshoulderandbothmenstartedtorise.

Isabelle leaned forward.“Bonjour,” she said with asmile.

The soldiers immediatelysat back down. “Bonjour,M’mselle,” they said inunison.

“Your French is quitegood,”shelied.Besideher,aheavyset woman in peasantclothes made a harrumphing

sound of disgust andwhispered, “You should beashamed of yourself” inFrench.

Isabelle laughed prettily.“Where are you going?” sheasked the soldiers. Theywouldbeon thiscarriage forhours. It would be good tokeeptheirattentiononher.

“Tours,” one said, as the

othersaid,“Onzain.”“Ah. And do you know

any card games to pass thetime?Ihaveadeckwithme.”

“Yes. Yes!” the youngeronesaid.

Isabelle reached in herhandbag for her playingcards.Shewasdealinganewhand—and laughing—whenthe next airman boarded the

train and shuffled past theGermans.

Later,whentheconductorcame through,sheofferedupher ticket. He took it andmovedon.

When he came to theairman,MacLeishdidexactlyas instructed—he handedover his ticket while he keptreading.Theotherairmandid

thesame.Isabelle released her

breath in a sigh of relief andleanedbackinherseat.

***

Isabelle and the four airmenmade it to Saint-Jean-de-Luzwithout incident. Twicethey’dwalked—separately,ofcourse—past German

checkpoints. The soldiers onguard had barely looked atthe series of false papers,saying danke schön withouteven looking up. They werenot on the lookout fordowned airmen andapparently hadn’t consideredaplanasboldasthis.

But now Isabelle and themen were approaching the

mountains. In the foothills,she went to a small parkalong the river and sat on abench overlooking thewater.The airmen arrived asplanned, one by one, withMacLeish first. He sat downbesideher.

The others took seatswithinearshot.

“You have your signs?”

sheasked.MacLeish withdrew a

piece of paper from his shirtpocket. It read: DEAF ANDDUMB.WAITINGFORMYMAMAN

TO PICK ME UP. The otherairmendidthesame.

“If a German soldierhasslesanyofyou,youshowhim your papers and yoursign.Donotspeak.”

“And I act stupid, whichis easy for me.” MacLeishgrinned.

Isabelle was too anxioustosmile.

She shrugged off hercanvas rucksack and handedit to MacLeish. In it were afew essentials—a bottle ofwine, three plump porksausages, two pairs of heavy

woolen socks, and severalapples.“SitwhereyoucaninUrrugne. Not together, ofcourse. Keep your headsdown and pretend to readyour books. Don’t look upuntilyouhearmesay,‘Thereyou are, cousin, we’ve beenlooking all over for you.’Understood?”

Theyallnodded.

“If I am not back bydawn,travelseparatelytoPauandgotothehotelItoldyouabout. A woman namedElianewillhelpyou.”

“Be careful,” MacLeishsaid.

Takingadeepbreath,sheleft them and walked to themainroad.Amileorsolater,as night began to fall, she

crossed a ricketybridge.Theroad turned to dirt andnarrowedintoacarttrackthatclimbed up, up, up into theverdant foothills. Moonlightcame to her aid, illuminatinghundredsoftinywhitespecks—goats. There were nocottages up this high, justanimalsheds.

Atlast,shesawit:atwo-

storied, half-timbered housewith a red roof that wasexactly as her father haddescribed. No wonder theyhad not been able to reachMadame Babineau. Thiscottage seemed designed tokeeppeopleaway—asdidthepathuptoit.Goatsbleatedather appearance and bumpedinto one another nervously.

Light shone through thehaphazardly blacked-outwindows, and smoke puffedcheerily from the chimney,scentingtheair.

At her knock, the heavywooden door opened justenoughtorevealasingleeyeandamouthnearlyhiddenbyagraybeard.

“Bonsoir,” Isabelle said.

Shewaitedamoment for theoldman to reply inkind,buthesaidnothing.“IamheretoseeMadameBabineau.”

“Why?” the mandemanded.

“Julien Rossignol sentme.”

The old man made aclicking sound between histeeth and tongue; then the

dooropened.The first thing Isabelle

noticed inside was the stew,simmering in abigblackpotthathung fromahook in thegiantstone-facedfireplace.

Awomanwasseatedatahuge, scarred trestle table inthebackof thewide, timber-beamed room. From whereIsabelle stood, it lookedas if

sheweredressedincharcoal-colored rags, but when theold man lit an oil lamp,Isabelle saw that the womanwas dressed like a man, inrough breeches and a linenshirt with a leather lace-upneckline. Her hair was thecolorofironshavingsandshewassmokingacigarette.

Still, Isabelle recognized

the woman, even though ithad been fifteen years. Sheremembered sitting on thebeach at Saint-Jean-de-Luz.Hearing the women laugh.And Madame Babineausaying,This little beautywillcause you endless trouble,Madeleine, the boys willsomeday swarm her, andMaman saying, She is too

smarttotossherlifetoboys,aren’tyou,myIsabelle?

“Your shoes are cakedwithdirt.”

“I’ve walked here fromthetrainstationatSaint-Jean-de-Luz.”

“Interesting.”Thewomanused her booted foot to pushoutthechairacrossfromher.“I am Micheline Babineau.

Sit.”“I know who you are,”

Isabelle said. She addednothing. Information wasdangerous these days. It wastradedwithcare.

“Doyou?”“I’mJulietteGervaise.”“WhydoIcare?”Isabelle glanced

nervously at the old man,

whowatchedherwarily.Shedidn’t like turning her backon him, but she had nochoice. She sat down acrossfromthewoman.

“You want a cigarette?It’s a Gauloises Bleu. Theycost me three francs and agoat, but it’s worth it.” Thewoman took a long, sensualdrag off of her cigarette and

exhaled the distinctivelyscentedbluesmoke.“WhydoIcareaboutyou?”

“JulienRossignolbelievesIcantrustyou.”

Madame Babineau tookanother drag on the cigaretteandthenstubbeditoutonthesoleofherboot.Shedroppedthe rest of it in her breastpocket.

“He says his wife wasclose friends with you. Youare godmother to his eldestdaughter.He is thegodfathertoyouryoungestson.”

“Was. The Germanskilledbothofmy sonsat thefront.Andmyhusbandinthelastwar.”

“He wrote letters to yourecently…”

“The poste is shit thesedays.Whatdoeshewant?”

Here it was. The biggestflaw in this plan. IfMadameBabineauwas a collaborator,it was all over. Isabelle hadimagined this moment athousand times, planned itdown to the pauses. She’dthought of ways to wordthingstoprotectherself.

Nowshe saw the follyofall that, the uselessness. Shesimplyhadtodivein.

“I left fourdownedpilotsinUrrugne,waitingforme. Iwant to take them to theBritish consulate in Spain.We hope the British can getthembacktoEnglandsotheycan fly more missions overGermany and drop more

bombs.”In the silence that

followed, Isabelle heard thebeat of her heart, the tick ofthe mantel clock, the distantbleatingofagoat.

“And?” MadameBabineau said at last, almosttoosoftlytohear.

“A-and I need a Basqueguide to help me cross the

Pyrenees. Julien thought youcouldhelpme.”

Forthefirsttime,Isabelleknew she had the woman’sundivided attention. “GetEduardo,”MadameBabineausaid to the old man, whojumped to do her bidding.Thedoorbangedshutsohardtheceilingrattled.

The woman retrieved the

half-smoked cigarette fromher pocket and lit it up,inhalingandexhaling severaltimesinsilenceasshestudiedIsabelle.

“Whatdoyou—”Isabellestartedtoask.

The woman pressed atobacco-stained finger to herlips.

Thedoortothefarmhouse

crashedopenandamanburstin. All Isabelle could makeout were broad shoulders,burlap, and the smell ofalcohol.

He grabbed her by thearm and lifted her out of thechairandthrewherupagainstthe rough-hewn wall. Shegaspedinpainandtriedtogetfree, but he pinned her in

place, wedged his kneeroughlybetweenherlegs.

“Do you know what theGermans do to people likeyou?” hewhispered, his faceso close to hers she couldn’tfocus, couldn’t see anythingbutblackeyesandthickblacklashes. He smelled ofcigarettes and brandy. “Doyou know how much they

will payus for you andyourpilots?”

Isabelleturnedherheadtoavoidhissourbreath.

“Wherearethesepilotsofyours?”

His fingers dug into thefleshofherupperarms.

“Wherearethey?”“What pilots?” she

gasped.

“The pilots you arehelpingescape.”

“W-what pilots? I don’tknow what you’re talkingabout.”

He growled again andcracked her head against thewall.“Youaskedforourhelpto get pilots over thePyrenees.”

“Me, a woman, climb

across the Pyrenees? Youmustbejoking.Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.”

“Areyou sayingMadameBabineauislying?”

“I don’t know MadameBabineau. I just stoppedhereto ask for directions. I’mlost.”

He smiled, revealingtobacco- and wine-stained

teeth. “Clever girl,” he said,lettinghergo.“Andnotabitweakintheknees.”

Madame Babineau stood.“Goodforher.”

The man stepped back,giving her space. “I amEduardo.” He turned to theold woman. “The weather isgood.Herwill is strong.Themen may sleep here tonight.

Unless they are weaklings, Iwilltakethemtomorrow.”

“You’lltakeus?”Isabellesaid.“ToSpain?”

Eduardo looked toMadame Babineau, wholooked at Isabelle. “It wouldbe our great pleasure to helpyou,Juliette.Now,wherearethesepilotsofyours?”

***

In the middle of the night,Madame Babineau wokeIsabelle and led her into thefarmhouse’skitchen,whereafirewasalreadyblazinginthehearth.“Coffee?”

Isabelle finger-combedher hair and tied a cottonscarf around her head. “No,merci,itistooprecious.”

Theoldwomangaveherasmile. “No one suspects awomanmyageofanything.Itmakes me good at trading.Here.”Sheoffered Isabelle acrackedporcelainmugfullofsteaming black coffee. Realcoffee.

Isabelle wrapped herhands around the mug andbreathed deeply of the

familiar, never-again-to-be-taken-for-grantedaroma.

Madame Babineau satdownbesideher.

She looked into thewoman’sdarkeyesandsawacompassionthatremindedherofhermaman.“Iamscared,”Isabelle admitted. It was thefirst time she’d said this toanyone.

“Asyoushouldbe.Asweallmustbe.”

“If something goeswrong, will you get word toJulien? He’s still in Paris. Ifwe…don’tmakeit, tellhimtheNightingaledidn’tfly.”

Madame Babineaunodded.

As the women sat there,the airmen came into the

room,onebyone. Itwas themiddleofthenight,andnonelooked like they had sleptwell.Still,thehourappointedfortheirdeparturewashere.

MadameBabineausetouta meal of bread and sweetlavender honey and creamygoatcheese.Themenplantedthemselves on themismatched chairs and

scooted close to the table,talkingallatonce,devouringthefoodinaninstant.

The door banged open,bringingwithitarushofcoldnight air. Dried leavesscudded inside, dancingacross the floor, plasteringthemselves like tiny blackhands to the stones of thefireplace. The flames within

shivered and thinned. Thedoorslammedshut.

Eduardo stood there,lookinglikeascruffygiantinthe low-ceilinged room. Hewas a typical Basque—withbroad shoulders and a facethat seemed to have beencarved in stone with a dullblade. The coat heworewasthin for the weather and

patchedinmoreplacesthanitwaswhole.

Hehanded Isabelleapairof Basque shoes, calledespadrilles, with rope solesthatweresupposedlygoodintheroughterrain.

“How is the weather forthis journey, Eduardo?”MadameBabineauasked.

“Coldiscoming.Wemust

nottarry.”Heswungaraggedrucksack from his shoulderanddroppeditontheground.To the men, he said, “Theseareespadrilles.Theywillhelpyou. Find a pair that fits.”Isabelle stood beside him,translatingforthemen.

The men came forwardobediently and squattedaround the rucksack, pulling

out shoes, passing themaround.

“None fitme,”MacLeishsaid.

“Do what you can,”Madame Babineau said.“Sadly, we aren’t a shoeshop.”

When the men hadexchanged their flight bootsfor walking shoes, Eduardo

had them stand in a line.Hestudied each man in turn,checkinghisclothingandhissmallpack.“Takeeverythingoutofyourpocketsandleaveit here. The Spanish willarrest you for anything, andyoudonotwanttoescapetheGermansonlytofindyourselfin a Spanish prison.” Hehanded them each a goatskin

bota bag full of wine and awalking stick that he’dmadefrom knobby, mossybranches. When he wasfinished, he slapped them onthebackhardenoughtosendmost of them stumblingforward.

“Silence,” Eduardo said.“Always.”

They left the cottage and

filed onto the uneven terrainof the goat pasture outside.The sky was lit by a weakblue moon. “Night is ourprotection,” Eduardo said.“Night and speed andquiet.”Heturned,stoppedthemwitha raised hand. “Juliette willbe at the back of the line. Iwill be at the front. When Iwalk,youwalk.Youwalk in

single file. There is notalking. None. You will becold—freezing cold on thisnight—and hungry and soonyou will be tired. Keepwalking.”

Eduardo turned his backon the men and beganwalkingupthehill.

Isabelle felt the coldinstantly; it bit into her

exposed cheeks and slippedthrough the seams of herwoolen coat. She used hergloved hand to hold thepieces of her collar togetherand began the long trek upthegrassyhillside.

Sometimearoundthreeinthemorning,thewalkbecameahike.Theterrainsteepened,the moon slid behind

invisible clouds and blinkedout,leavingtheminnear-totaldarkness. Isabelle heard themen’s breathing becomelabored in front of her. Sheknewtheywerecold;mostofthem did not have adequateclothing for this freezing air,and few of them had shoesthat fit correctly. Twigssnapped beneath their feet,

rocks clattered away fromthem,madea sound like rainonatinroofastheyfelldownthe steep mountainside. Thefirst pangs of hunger twistedheremptystomach.

It started to rain. Agnashingwindsweptupfromthe valley below, slamminginto the party walking singlefile. It turned the rain into

freezing shards that attackedtheir exposed skin. Isabellebegan to shiveruncontrollably, her breathcame out in great, heavinggasps, and still she climbed.Up,up,up,pastthetreeline.

Ahead, someone made ayelping sound and fell hard.Isabelle couldn’t see who itwas; the night had closed

around them. The man infront of her stopped; she ranintohisbackandhestumbledsideways, fell into a boulderandcursed.

“Don’t stop, men,”Isabelle said, trying to keepthespiritinhervoice.

They climbed untilIsabelle gasped with everystep, but Eduardo allowed

them no respite. He stoppedonly long enough to makesure they were still behindhim and then he was offagain, clambering up therockyhillsidelikeagoat.

Isabelle’s legs were onfire, aching painfully, andeven with her espadrilles,blisters formed. Every stepbecameanagonyandatestof

will.Hours and hours and

hours passed. Isabelle grewso breathless she couldn’thave formed the wordsneeded to beg for a drink ofwater, but she knew thatEduardo wouldn’t havelistened to her anyway. Sheheard MacLeish in front ofher, gasping, cursing every

timeheslipped,cryingoutinpain at the blisters she knewwere turning his feet intoopensores.

Shecouldn’tmakeoutthepath at all anymore. She justtrudged upward, her eyelidsstrugglingtostayopen.

Angling forward againstthewind,shepulledherscarfup over her nose and mouth

and kept going. Her breath,coming inpants,warmedherscarf.Thefabricturnedmoistand then froze into solid, icyfolds.

“Here.” Eduardo’sbooming voice came at herfromthedarkness.Theywereso high up themountain thatthere were sure to be noGerman or Spanish patrols.

Therisktotheirlivesupherecamefromtheelements.

Isabelle collapsed in aheap,landinghardenoughonapieceof rock thatshecriedout, but she was too tired tocare.

MacLeish dropped downbeside her, gasping, “ChristAlmighty,” and pitchingforward. She grabbed his

arm, steadied him as hestartedtoslidedownward.

Sheheardacacophonyofvoices come after it—“thankGod… bloodywell time”—andthensheheardbodieshitthe ground. They felldownward in a group, as iftheirlegscouldholdthemnomore.

“Nothere,”Eduardosaid.

“The goatherder’s shack.Overthere.”

Isabelle staggered to herfeet. In the back of the line,she waited, shivering, herarmscrossedaroundherbodyas if she could hold heatwithin,buttherewasnoheat.She felt like a shard of ice,brittle and frozen. Her mindfoughtthestuporthatwanted

totakeover.Shehadtokeepshakingherhead tokeepherthoughtsclear.

She heard a footstep andknew Eduardo was standingbeside her in the darkness,theirfacespeltedbyicyrain.

“Are you all right?” heasked.

“I’m frozen solid. AndI’mafraidtolookatmyfeet.”

“Blisters?”“Thesizeofdinnerplates,

I’mpretty sure. Ican’t tell ifthe rain is making my shoeswet or if blood is bubblingthroughthematerial.”

She felt tears sting hereyes and freeze instantly,bindingherlashestogether.

Eduardo took her handand led her to the

goatherder’s shed, where hestarted a fire. The ice in herhair turned to water anddrippedtothefloor,puddlingat her feet. She watched themen collapse where theystood, thumpingbackagainstthe rough wooden walls asthey pulled their rucksacksinto their laps and begansearching through them for

food. MacLeish waved herover.

Isabelle picked her waythrough the men andcollapsed beside MacLeish.In silence, listening to menchewing and belching andsighing around her, she atethe cheese and apples she’dbroughtwithher.

Shehadnoideawhenshe

fell asleep. One minute shewas awake, eating whatpassed for supper on themountain, and the next thingshe knew, Eduardo waswaking them again. Graylightpressedagainstthedirtywindowof theshack.They’dslept through the day andbeen wakened in the lateafternoon.

Eduardo started a fire,made a pot of ersatz coffee,and handed it out to them.Breakfastwasstalebreadandhard cheese—good, but notnearlyenoughtostaveoffthehunger that was still sharpfromyesterday.

Eduardo took off at abrisk walk, climbing theslick, frost-covered shale of

the treacherous trail like abillygoat.

Isabelle was the last oneout of the shack. She lookedup the trail. Gray cloudsobscured the peaks andsnowflakes hushed theworlduntil there was no earthlysound except their breathing.Menvanishedinfrontofher,becomingsmallblackdotsin

the whiteness. She plungedinto the cold, climbingsteadily,followingthemaninfront of her. He was all shecouldseeinthefallingsnow.

Eduardo’s pace waspunishing.Heclimbedupthetwisting path without pause,seemingly unaware of thebiting, burning cold thatturnedeverybreathintoafire

that exploded in the lungs.Isabelle panted and keptgoing, encouraging the menwhen they started to lag,cajoling them and teasingthemandurgingthemon.

Whendarknessfellagain,she redoubled her efforts tokeepmoraleup.Eventhoughshe felt sick to her stomachwithfatigueandparchedwith

thirst, she kept going. If anyone of themgotmore than afew feet away from theperson in front of him, hecould be lost forever in thisfrozendarkness.Toleavethepathforafewfeetwastodie.

She stumbled on throughthenight.

Someone fell in front ofher, made a yelping sound.

She rushed forward, foundoneof theCanadianfliersonhisknees,wheezinghard,hismoustache frozen. “I’m beat,babydoll,” he said, trying tosmile.

Isabelle slid down besidehim, felt her backsideinstantly grow cold. “It’sTeddy,right?”

“You got me. Look. I’m

donefor.Justgoonahead.”“Yougotawife,Teddy,a

girlbackhomeinCanada?”Shecouldn’t seehis face,

but she heard the way hesucked in his breath at herquestion. “Youaren’tplayin’fair,doll.”

“There’s no fair in lifeanddeath,Teddy.What’shername?”

“Alice.”“Get on your feet for

Alice,Teddy.”She felt him shift his

weight, get his feet backunderneath him. She angledherbodyagainsthim,lethimlean against her as he stood.“All right, then,” he said,shudderinghard.

Shelethimgo,heardhim

walkonahead.She sighed heavily,

shivering at the end of it.Hunger gnawed at herstomach. She swalloweddryly, wishing they couldstop just for a minute.Instead,shepointedherselfinthe direction of the men andkept going. Her mind wasmuddlingagain,her thoughts

blurring. All she could thinkof was taking this step, andthe next one, and the nextone.

Sometime near dawn, thesnow turned to rain thatturnedtheirwoolencoatsintosodden weights. Isabellehardly noticed when theystartedgoingdown.Theonlyreal difference was the men

falling, slipping on the wetrocksand tumblingdowntherocky, treacherousmountainside. There was noway to stop them; she justhad to watch them fall andhelp them get back on theirfeet when they came to abreathless, broken stop. Thevisibilitywassobadthattheywere constantly in fear of

losing sight of the man infront and plunging off thepath.

At daybreak, Eduardostopped and pointed to ayawning black cave tuckedinto the mountainside. Themen gathered inside, makinghuffingsoundsastheysatandstretched out their legs.Isabelle heard them opening

their packs, burrowingthrough for the last bits oftheir food. Somewhere deepinside, an animal scurriedaround, its claws scratchinglightly on the hard-packeddirtfloor.

Isabellefollowedthemeninside;rootshungdownfromthe dripping stone-and-mudinterior. Eduardo knelt down

andmade a small fire, usingthe moss he’d picked thatmorning and packed in hiswaistband. “Eat and sleep,”he said when the flamesdanced up. “Tomorrow wemake the final trek.” Hereachedforhisgoatskinbota,drank deeply, and then leftthecave.

The dampwood crackled

and popped, sounding likegunfire in the cave, butIsabelle—andthemen—weretoo exhausted even to flinch.Isabelle sat down besideMacLeish and leaned tiredlyagainsthim.

“You’re a wonder,” hesaidinahushedvoice.

“I’ve been told I don’tmake smart decisions. This

may be proof of that.” Sheshivered, whether from coldor exhaustion, she didn’tknow.

“Dumb but brave,” hesaidwithasmile.

Isabelle was grateful forthe conversation. “That’sme.”

“I don’t think I’vethanked you properly … for

savingme.”“I don’t think I’ve saved

youyet,Torrance.”“CallmeTorry,” he said.

“Allmymatesdo.”He said something else—

aboutagirlwaitingforhiminIpswich,maybe—butshewastootiredtohearwhatitwas.

Whenshewakened,itwasraining.

“Bollocks,” one of themen said. “It’s pissing outthere.”

Eduardostoodoutsidethecave, his strong legs bracedwidelyapart,hisfaceandhairpeltedbyrainthatheseemednot to notice at all. Behindhim,therewasdarkness.

The airmen opened theirrucksacks. No one had to be

told to eat anymore; theyknew the routine.When youwere allowed to stop, youdrank,youate,youslept,andinthatorder.Whenyouwerewakened, you ate and drankand got to your feet, nomatterhowmuchithurttodoso.

As they stood, a groanmoved from man to man. A

few cursed. It was a rainy,moonlessnight.Utterlydark.

Theyhadmadeitoverthemountain—almost onethousand meters high wherethey crossed the previousnight—and were halfwaydown the other side, but theweatherwasworsening.

As Isabelle left the cave,wet branches smacked her in

the face. She pushed themawaywithaglovedhandandkeptgoing.Herwalkingstickthumpedwitheachstep.Rainmadetheshaleasslickasiceand ran in rivulets alongsidethem. She heard the mengrunting in front of her. Shetrudged forward on blistered,aching feet. The pace set byEduardowasgruelinglyhard.

Nothing stopped or slowedthe man, and the airmenstruggledtokeepup.

“Look!” she heardsomeonesay.

In the distance, far away,lights twinkled, a spiderwebpatternofwhitedotsspannedthedarkness.

“Spain,”Eduardosaid.The sight rejuvenated the

group. They continued, theirwalking sticks thumping,their feet landing solidly asthe ground gradually leveledout.

How many hours passedthis way? Five? Six? Shedidn’tknow.Enoughthatherlegs began to ache and thesmallofherbackwasapitofpain. She was constantly

spittingrainandwipingitoutofhereyes,andtheemptinessin her stomach was a rabidanimal. A pale sheen ofdaylight began to appear atthe horizon, a blade oflavenderlight,thenpink,thenyellow as she zigzaggeddown the trail. Her feet hurtsomuchshegrittedher teethto keep from crying out in

pain.By the fourth nightfall,

Isabelle had lost all sense oftime and place. She had noideawhere theywereorhowmuch longer this agonywould go on. Her thoughtsbecame a simple plea,tumbling through her mind,keepingpacewithherachingsteps. The consulate, the

consulate,theconsulate.“Stop,” Eduardo said,

holdinguphishand.Isabelle stumbled into

MacLeish. His cheeks werebright red with cold and hislips were chapped and hisbreathingragged.

Not far away, past ablurrygreenhillside,shesawa patrol of soldiers in light

greenuniforms.Her first thoughtwas,We

are in Spain, and thenEduardo shoved them bothbehindastandoftrees.

They hid for a long timeandthensetoffagain.

Hours later, she heard aroarofrushingwater.Astheyneared the river, the soundobliteratedeverythingelse.

Finally, Eduardo stoppedand gathered the men closetogether. Hewas standing inapoolofmud,hisespadrillesdisappearing into the muck.Behindhimweregraygranitecliffs upon which spindlytrees grew in defiance of thelaws of gravity. Bushessprouted like cattle catchersaround formidable gray

rocks.“We hide here until

nightfall,” Eduardo said.“Over that ridge is theBidassoaRiver.On theotherbankisSpain.Weareclose—butcloseisnothing.Betweenthe river and your freedomare patrols with dogs. Thesepatrolswillshootatanythingthey see moving. Do not

move.”Isabellewatched Eduardo

walk away from the group.When he was gone, she andthe men hunkered downbehind giant boulders andinsidetheleeoffallentrees.

For hours, the rain beatdown on them, turned themud beneath them into amarsh.Sheshiveredanddrew

her knees into her chest andclosed her eyes. Impossibly,shefellintoadeep,exhaustedsleepthatwasovermuchtooquickly.

At midnight, Eduardowakenedher.

The first thing Isabellenoticedwhensheopenedhereyes was that the rain hadstopped. The sky overhead

was studded with stars. Sheclimbedtiredlytoherfeetandimmediately winced in pain.She could only imagine howmuchtheairmen’sfeethurt—shewasluckyenoughtohaveshoesthatfit.

Undercoverofnight,theyset off again, the sound oftheir footsteps swallowed bytheroaroftheriver.

Andthentheywerethere,standingamidthetreesattheedge of a giant gorge. Farbelow, thewatercrashedandroiled and roared, splashingupalongtherocksides.

Eduardo gathered themclose.“Wecan’tswimacross.Therainshavemadetherivera beast that will swallow usall.Followme.”

They walked along theriver for a mile or two, andthen Eduardo stopped again.She heard a creaking sound,like a boat line stretched byrisingseas,andanoccasionalclatter.

Atfirst,therewasnothingto see.Then the brightwhitesearchlightson theothersideflashed across the white-

tipped, rushing river, andshoneonaricketysuspensionbridgethatlinkedthissideofthe gorge to the oppositeshore. There was a Spanishcheckpointnotfaraway,withguards patrolling back andforth.

“Holy Mother o’ God,”oneoftheairmensaid.

“Fuckme,”saidanother.

Isabellejoinedthemeninacrouchbehindsomebushes,where they waited, watchingthesearchlightscrisscrosstheriver.

It was after two in themorning when Eduardofinallynodded.Therewasnomovement on the other sideof the gorge at all. If theirluckheld—oriftheyhadany

at all—the sentries wereasleepattheirposts.

“Let’s go,” Eduardowhispered,gettingthementotheir feet.He led themto thestartofthebridge—asaggingsling with rope sides and awooden-slat floor, throughwhichtherushingwhiterivercould be seen in strips.Several of the slats were

missing.Thebridgeblewsidetoside in thewindandmadeawhining,creakingsound.

Isabelle looked at themen, most of whom werepaleasghosts.

“One step at a time,”Eduardosaid.“Theslatslookweak but they’ll hold yourweight. You have sixtyseconds to cross—that’s the

amount of time between thesearchlights. As soon as youget to the other side, drop toyourkneesandcrawlbeneaththe window of theguardhouse.”

“You’vedonethisbefore,right?”Teddy said, his voicebreakingon“before.”

“Plenty of times,Teddy,”Isabelle lied. “And if a girl

can do it, a strapping pilotlikeyouwillhavenoproblematall.Right?”

Henodded.“Youbetyourarse.”

Isabellewatched Eduardocross. When he was on theother side, she gathered theairmen close. One by one,counting off in sixty-secondintervals, she guided them

onto the rope bridge andwatched them cross, holdingher breath and fisting herhands until each man landedontheoppositeshore.

Finally it was her turn.She pushed the sodden hoodoff her head, waiting for thelight to scrape past her andkeep going. The bridgelooked flimsy and unsound.

But it had held the men’sweight;itwouldholdhers.

She clutched the ropesides and stepped onto thefirstplank.Thebridgeswungaround her, dipped right andleft. She glanced down andsaw strips of raging whitewaters one hundred feetbelow.Grittingher teeth,shemoved steadily forward,

stepping fromplank to planktoplankuntil shewason theother side, where sheimmediately dropped to herknees.Thesearchlightpassedabove her. She scrambledforward and up theembankment and into thebushes on the other side,where the airmen werecrouchedbesideEduardo.

Eduardo led them to ahidden hillock of land andfinallyletthemsleep.

When the sun rose again,Isabelleblinkeddullyawake.

“It’s not s’ bad here,”Torrywhisperedbesideher.

Isabelle looked around,bleary-eyed. They were in agully above a dirt road,hiddenbyastandoftrees.

Eduardo handed themwine.Hissmilewasasbrightas the sun that shone in hereyes. “There,” he said,pointing to a young womanon a bicycle not far away.Behind her, a town glintedivory in the sunlight; itlooked like something out ofachildren’spicturebook,fullof turrets and clock towers

andchurchspires.“AlmadorawilltakeyoutotheconsulateinSanSebastián.WelcometoSpain.”

Isabelle instantly forgotthe struggle it had taken toget here, and the fear thataccompanied her every step.“Thankyou,Eduardo.”

“Itwon’t be so easy nexttime,”hesaid.

“Itwasn’teasythistime,”shesaid.

“They didn’t expect us.Soon,theywill.”

He was right, of course.Theyhadn’thadtohidefromGerman patrols or disguisetheir scents from dogs, andthe Spanish sentinels wererelaxed.

“Butwhenyoucomeback

again, with more pilots, I’llbehere,”hepromised.

She nodded her gratitudeandturnedtothemenaroundher,wholookedasexhaustedas she felt. “Come on, men,offwego.”

Isabelle and the menstaggered down the roadtoward a young woman whostood beside a rusted old

bicycle. After the falseintroductions were made,Almadora led them down amaze of dirt roads and backalleys;milespasseduntiltheystood outside an elaboratecaramel-hued building inParte Viejo—the old sectionof San Sebastián. Isabellecould hear the crashing ofdistant waves against a

seawall.“Merci,” Isabelle said to

thegirl.“Denada.”Isabelle looked up at the

glossyblackdoor.“Comeon,men,” she said, striding upthe stone steps. At the door,she knocked hard, threetimes,and thenrang thebell.Whenaman in a crispblack

suitanswered,shesaid,“Iamhere to see the Britishconsul.”

“Isheexpectingyou?”“No.”“Mademoiselle, the

consulisabusy—”“I’ve brought four RAF

pilotswithmefromParis.”The man’s eyes bulged a

bit.

MacLeish steppedforward. “LieutenantTorranceMacLeish.RAF.”

The other men followedsuit, standing shoulder toshoulder as they introducedthemselves.

The door opened. Withinamatterofmoments,Isabellefound herself seated on anuncomfortable leather chair,

facing a tired-looking manacross a large desk. Theairmen stood at attentionbehindher.

“I brought you fourdowned airmen from Paris,”Isabelle said proudly. “Wetook the train south and thenwalked across the Pyrenees—”

“Youwalked?”

“Well, perhaps hiked is amoreaccurateword.”

“You hiked over thePyrenees from France andinto Spain.” He sat back inhischair,alltracesofasmilegone.

“I can do it again, too.With the increased RAFbombings, there are going tobe more downed airmen. To

save them, we will needfinancial help. Money forclothes and papers and food.Andsomethingforthepeoplewe enlist to shelter us alongtheway.”

“You’ll want to ring upMI9,” MacLeish said.“They’ll pay whateverJuliette’sgroupneeds.”

Theman shook his head,

madea tskingsound.“Agirlleading pilots across thePyrenees.Willwondersnevercease?”

MacLeish grinned atIsabelle. “A wonder indeed,sir. I told her the very samething.”

TWENTY

Getting out of Occupied

France was difficult anddangerous.Gettingback in—at least for a twenty-year-oldgirlwith a ready smile—waseasy.

Onlya fewdaysafterherarrival in San Sebastián, andafter endless meetings anddebriefings, Isabelle was onthe train bound for Parisagain, sitting in one of the

wooden banquettes in thethird-classcarriage—theonlyseat available on such shortnotice—watching the LoireValley pass by. The carriagewasfreezingcoldandpackedwith loquacious Germansoldiers and cowed Frenchmen and women who kepttheir heads down and theirhandsintheirlaps.Shehada

piece of hard cheese and anapple in her handbag, buteven though she was hungry—starving,really—shedidn’topenherbag.

She felt conspicuous inher ragged, snagged brownpants and woolen coat. Hercheekswerewindburned andscratched and her lips werechappedanddry.Butthereal

changes were within. Thepride of what she’daccomplishedinthePyreneeshad changed her, maturedher. For the first time in herlife, she knew exactly whatshewantedtodo.

ShehadmetwithanagentfromMI9andformallysetupthe escape route. She wastheir primary contact—they

calledher theNightingale. Inher handbag, hidden in thelining, were one hundredforty thousand francs.Enough tosetupsafehousesandbuyfoodandclothingforthe airmen and the peoplewho dared to house themalong the way. She’d givenher word to her contact Ian(code name Tuesday) that

other airmen would follow.Sendingword to Paul—“TheNightingale has sung”—wasperhaps theproudestmomentofherlife.

It was nearing curfewwhen she disembarked inParis. The autumnal cityshiveredbeneathacold,darksky. Wind tumbled throughthe bare trees, clattering the

empty flower baskets,ruffling and flapping theawnings.

She went out of her wayto walk past her oldapartment on Avenue de LaBourdonnais and as shepassed it, she felt a waveof…longingshesupposed.Itwasasclosetoahomeasshecould remember, and she

hadn’t stepped inside—orseen her father—in months.Notsincetheinceptionoftheescape route. It wasn’t safefor them to be together.Instead,shewenttothesmall,dingyapartment thatwashermost recent home. Amismatched table and chairs,amattressonthefloor,andabroken stove. The rug

smelled of the last tenant’stobacco and the walls werewater-stained.

At her front door, shepaused, glanced around. Thestreet was quiet, dark. Shefitted the skeleton key in thelockandgavealittletwist.Attheclickofsound,shesenseddanger. Something waswrong, out of place—a

shadowwhereitshouldn’tbe,a clanking ofmetal from thebistro next door, abandonedbyitsownermonthsago.

Sheturnedaroundslowly,peeredoutintothedark,quietstreet. Unseen lorries wereparked here and there and afew sad little cafés casttriangles of light onto thesidewalk; within the glow,

soldierswerethinsilhouettes,moving back and forth. Anairofdesertionhungovertheoncelivelyneighborhood.

Across the street, a lampstood unlit, a barely darkerslash against the night airaroundit.

He was there. She knewit, even though she couldn’tseehim.

She moved down thesteps,slowly,hersensesalert,taking one cautious step at atime.Shewas sure shecouldhear him breathing, not faraway. Watching her. Sheknew instinctively that he’dbeenwaitingforhertoreturn,worrying.

“Gaëtan,” she said softly,letting her voice be a lure,

casting out, trying to catchhim.“You’vebeenfollowingmeformonths.Why?”

Nothing. Silence blew inthe wind around her, bitingandcold.

“Come here,” shepleaded,tiltingherchin.

Still,nothing.“Now who isn’t ready?”

she said. It hurt, that silence,

but she understood it, too.With all the risks they weretaking,lovewasprobablythemostdangerouschoiceofall.

Ormaybeshewaswrong,andhewasn’there,hadneverbeen here, watching her,waiting for her. Maybe shewas just a silly girl longingfor a man who didn’t wanther, standing alone in an

emptystreet.No.Hewasthere.

***

That winter was even worsethan the year before. AnangryGodsmoteEuropewithleadenskiesandfallingsnow,day after day after day. Thecoldwasacrueladdendumto

a world already bleak andugly.

Carriveau, like so manysmall towns in the OccupiedZone, became an island ofdespair, cut off from itssurroundings. The villagershadlimitedinformationaboutwhat was going on in theworld around them, and noone had time to burrow

through propagandist paperslooking for truth whensurviving took so mucheffort. All they really knewwas that the Nazis hadbecome angrier, meaner,since the Americans hadjoinedthewar.

On a bleak and freezingpredawn morning in earlyFebruary 1942, when tree

limbs snapped andwindowpanes looked likecracked pond ice, Viannewoke early and stared at thedeeply pitched ceiling of herbedroom. A headachepoundedbehindhereyes.Shefelt sweaty and achy. Whenshe drew in a breath, itburnedinherlungsandmadehercough.

Gettingoutofbedwasnotappealing, but neither wasstarving to death. More andmore often this winter, theirration cards were useless;there was simply no food tobehad,andnoshoesorfabricor leather. Vianne no longerhad wood for the stove ormoney to pay for electricity.With gas so dear, the simple

actofbathingbecameachoreto be endured. She andSophie slept wrappedtogetherlikepuppies,beneatha mountain of quilts andblankets. In the past fewmonths,Viannehadbeguntoburn everything made ofwood and to sell hervaluables.

Now she was wearing

almost every piece ofclothing she owned—flannelpants, underwear she’dknittedherself,anoldwoolensweater,aneckscarf,andstillsheshiveredwhensheleftthebed. When her feet hit thefloor, shewinced at the painfrom her chilblains. Shegrabbed awool skirt and putit on over her pants. She’d

lost so much weight thiswinterthatshehadtopinthewaistinplace.Coughing,shewent downstairs. Her breathpreceded her in white puffsthat disappeared almostinstantly.Shelimpedpasttheguestroomdoor.

Thecaptainwasgone,andhadbeenforweeks.Asmuchas Vianne hated to admit it,

hisabsenceswereworsethanhis appearances these days.At least when he was there,there was food to eat and afire in thehearth.He refusedto let the home be cold.Vianne ate as little of thefoodheprovidedasshecould—she told herself it was herduty to behungry—butwhatmother could let her child

suffer? Was Vianne reallysupposed to letSophiestarveto prove her loyalty toFrance?

Inthedarkness,sheaddedanotherpairofholeysockstothe two pairs already on herfeet. Then she wrappedherself in a blanket and puton themittens she’d recentlyknitfromanoldbabyblanket

ofSophie’s.In the frost-limned

kitchen, she lit an oil lampandcarrieditoutside,movingslowly,breathinghardas sheclimbedtheslick, icyhillsidetothebarn.Twicesheslippedandfellonthefrozengrass.

The barn’s metal doorhandle felt burningly cold,even through her heavy

mittens.Shehadtouseallofher weight to slide the dooropen.Inside,shesetdownthelantern. The idea of movingthecarwasalmostmorethanshe could stand in herweakenedstate.

She took a deep painfulbreath, steeled herself, andwent to thecar.Sheput it inneutral,thenbentdowntothe

bumper and pushed with allofherstrength.Thecarrolledforward slowly, as if injudgment.

When the trapdoor wasrevealed,sheretrievedtheoillamp and climbed slowlydown the ladder. In the long,dark months since her firingandtheendofhermoney,shehad sold off her family’s

treasures one by one: apainting to feed the rabbitsand chickens through thewinter, aLimoges tea set forasackofflour,silversaltandpepper shakers for a stringypairofhens.

Opening her maman’sjewelrybox,shestareddowninto the velvet-lined interior.Not long ago there had been

lots of paste jewelry in here,aswellasafewgoodpieces.Earrings, a filigree silverbracelet, a brooch made ofrubies and hammered metal.Onlythepearlswereleft.

Vianne removed onemitten and reached down forthepearls,scoopingthemintoher palm. They shone in thelight, as lustrous as a young

woman’sskin.Theywerethelast linkto

her mother—and to theirfamily’sheritage.

Now Sophie would notwear them on her weddingdayorhandthemdowntoherowndaughters.

“But she will eat thiswinter,” Vianne said. Shewasn’tsureifitwasgriefthat

serratedhervoice,orsadness,or relief. She was lucky tohavesomethingtosell.

She gazed down at thepearls,felttheirweightinherpalm,and theway theydrewwarmth from her body forthemselves. For a splitsecond, she saw them glow.Then, grimly, she put themitten over her hand and

climbedbackuptheladder.

***

Three more weeks passed indesolatecoldwithnosignofBeck. On a frozen lateFebruary morning, Viannewoke with a poundingheadache and a fever.Coughing,sheclimbedoutofbed and shivered, slowly

liftingablanketfromthebed.Shewrappeditaroundherselfbut it didn’t help. Sheshivereduncontrollably,eventhough she wore pants andtwo sweaters and three pairsof socks. The wind howledoutside, clatteringagainst theshutters, rattling the ice-sheened glass beneath theblackoutshade.

She moved slowlythrough hermorning routine,trying not to breathe toodeeply lest a cough come upfrom her chest. Onchilblained feet that radiatedpain with every step, shemade Sophie a meagerbreakfast of watery cornmush. Then the two of themwent out into the falling

snow.Insilence,theytrudgedto

town. Snow fell relentlessly,whiteningtheroadinfrontofthem,coatingthetrees.

Thechurchsatonasmall,juttingbitof landat theedgeoftown,borderedononesideby the river and backed bythelimestonewallsoftheoldabbey.

“Maman, are you allright?”

Vianne had hunchedforward again. She squeezedher daughter’s hand, feelingnothingbutmittenonmitten.The breath stuttered in herlungs,burned.“I’mfine.”

“You should have eatenbreakfast.”

“Iwasn’thungry,”Vianne

said.“Ha,” Sophie said,

trudging forward through theheavysnow.

Vianne led Sophie intothe chapel. Inside, it waswarm enough that they nolonger saw their breath. Thenave arched gracefullyupward, shaped like handsheld together in prayer, held

in place by graceful woodenbeams. Stained-glasswindowsglitteredwithbitsofcolor.Mostofthepewswerefilled,butnoonewastalking,not on a day this cold, in awinterthisbad.

The church bells pealedand a clanging echoed in thenave, and the giant doorsslammed shut, extinguishing

what littlenatural light couldmakeitthroughthesnow.

Father Joseph, a kindlyold priest who had presidedoverthischurchforthewholeof Vianne’s life, stepped upto the pulpit. “We will praytoday for our men who aregone. We will pray that thiswar does not last muchlonger … and we will pray

for the strength to resist ourenemy and stay true to whoweare.”

This was not the sermonVianne wanted to hear. Shehad come to church—bravedthecold—tobecomfortedbyFather’s sermon on thisSunday, to be inspired bywords like “honor” and“duty” and “loyalty.” But

today,thoseidealsfeltfar,faraway.Howcouldyouholdonto idealswhenyouweresickand cold and starving? Howcould she look at herneighbors when she wastaking food from the enemy,evenassmallanamountasitwas?Otherswerehungrier.

She was so deep inthought that it took her a

momenttorealizetheservicehad ended. Vianne stood,feelingawaveofdizzinessatthemotion. She clutched thepewforsupport.

“Maman?”“I’mfine.”In the aisle to their left,

the parishioners—mostlywomen—filed past. Eachlooked asweak and thin and

washed out as she felt,wrapped in layers of woolandnewsprint.

Sophie took Vianne’shand and led her toward thewide-open double doors. Atthethreshold,Viannepaused,shivering and coughing. Shedidn’twanttogooutintothecoldwhiteworldagain.

She stepped over the

threshold(whereAntoinehadcarried her after theirwedding… no, that was thethreshold of Le Jardin; shewas confused) and out intothe snowstorm. Vianne heldthe heavy-knit scarf aroundher head, clutching it closedat her throat. Bendingforward, angling into thewind,shetrudgedthroughthe

wet,heavysnow.By the time she reached

the broken gate in her yard,shewasbreathingheavilyandcoughing hard. She steppedaround the snow-coveredmotorcyclewiththemachine-gun-mounted sidecar andwent into theorchardofbarebranches. He was back, shethought dully; now Sophie

wouldeat.…Shewasalmostto the front door when shefeltherselfstarttofall.

“Maman!”SheheardSophie’svoice,

heard the fear in it andthought,I’mscaringher,andshe regretted it, but her legswere too weak to carry her,and she was tired … sotired…

Fromfaraway, sheheardthe door crack open, heardher daughter scream, “HerrCaptain!”and then sheheardbootheelsstrikingwood.

She hit the ground hard,cracked her head on thesnow-covered step, and laythere. She thought, I’ll restforabit, thenI’llgetupandmake Sophie lunch … but

whatistheretoeat?The next thing she knew,

she was floating, no, maybeflying.Shecouldn’topenhereyes—she was so tired andherheadhurt—but shecouldfeel herself moving, beingrocked.Antoine, is that you?Areyouholdingme?

“Open the door,”someone said, and there was

acrackofwoodonwood,andthen, “I’m going to take offher coat. Go getMadame deChamplain,Sophie.”

Vianne felt herself beinglaidonsomethingsoft.Abed.

Shewet her chapped, drylips and tried to open hereyes. It took considerableeffort, and two tries. Whenshe finally managed it, her

visionwasblurry.Captain Beck was sitting

besideheronherbed, inherbedroom.Hewasholdingherhandandleaningforward,hisfaceclosetohers.

“Madame?”She felt his warm breath

onherface.“Vianne!” Rachel said,

coming into the room at a

run.Captain Beck got to his

feet instantly.“Shefainted inthe snow, Madame, andcrackedherheadonthestep.Icarriedheruphere.”

“I’m grateful,” Rachelsaid, nodding. “I’ll take careofhernow,HerrCaptain.”

Beck stood there. “Shedoesn’t eat,” he said stiffly.

“AllthefoodgoestoSophie.Ihavewatchedthis.”

“That’s motherhood inwar,HerrCaptain.Now…ifyou’ll excuse me…” Shestepped past him and satdown on the bed besideVianne. He stood thereanother moment, lookingflustered,andthenhelefttheroom.“So,youaregivingher

everything,” Rachel saidsoftly, stroking Vianne’sdamphair.

“What else can I do?”Viannesaid.

“Not die,” Rachel said.“Sophieneedsyou.”

Viannesighedheavilyandclosedher eyes.She fell intoa deep sleep in which shedreamed she was lying on a

softness that was acres andacresofblackfield,sprawledoutfromheronallsides.Shecouldhearpeoplecallingouttoherfromthedarkness,hearthemwalkingtowardher,butshe had no desire to move;she just slept and slept andslept.Whenshewoke, itwasto find herself on her owndivaninherlivingroom,with

afire roaring in thegratenotfaraway.

Shesatupslowly,feelingweak and unsteady.“Sophie?”

The guest room dooropened, and Captain Beckappeared. He was dressed inflannelpajamasandawoolencardigan and his jackboots.Hesaid,“Bonsoir,Madame,”

and smiled. “It is good tohaveyouback.”

She was wearing herflannel pants and twosweatersandsocksandaknithat. Who had dressed her?“HowlongdidIsleep?”

“Justaday.”He walked past her and

went into the kitchen.Moments later he returned

with a cup of steaming caféau lait and a wedge of bluecheese and a piece of hamandachunkofbread.Sayingnothing,hesetthefooddownonthetablebesideher.

She looked at it, herstomachgrumblingpainfully.Then she looked up at thecaptain.

“You hit your head and

couldhavedied.”Vianne touched her

forehead, felt the bump thatwastender.

“What happens to Sophieif youdie?”he asked. “Haveyouconsideredthis?”

“Youwere gone so long.Therewasn’tenoughfoodforbothofus.”

“Eat,” he said, gazing

downather.She didn’t want to look

away.Her relief at his returnshamedher.Whenshefinallydid, when she dragged hergaze sideways, she saw thefood.

She reachedout and tookthe plate in her hands,bringing it toward her. Thesalty, smoky scent of the

ham, combined with theslightly stinky aroma of thecheese, intoxicated her,overwhelmed her betterintentions, seduced her sothoroughly that there was nochoicetobemade.

***

In early March of 1942,springstillfeltfaraway.Last

night the Allies had bombedthe hell out of the Renaultfactory in Boulogne-Billancourt, killing hundredsinthesuburbontheoutskirtsof Paris. It had made theParisians—Isabelle included—jumpy and irritable. TheAmericans had entered thewar with a vengeance; airraidswereafactoflifenow.

On this cold and rainyevening, Isabelle pedaled herbicycledownamuddy,ruttedcountry road in a heavy fog.Rainplasteredherhair toherfaceandblurredhervision.Inthe mist, sounds wereamplified; the cry of apheasant disturbed by thesucking sound of her wheelsin mud, the near-constant

droneofaeroplanesoverhead,thelowingofcattle inafieldshe couldn’t see. A woolenhoodwasheronlyprotection.

As if being drawn incharcoal on vellum by anuncertain hand, thedemarcationlineslowlycameinto view. She saw coils ofbarbed wire stretched out oneither side of a black-and-

whitecheckpointgate.Besideit, a German sentry sat in achair, his rifle rested acrosshis lap. At Isabelle’sapproach, he stood andpointedthegunather.

“Halt!”She slowed the bike; the

wheels stuck in themud andshenearlyflewfromherseat.She dismounted, stepped

down into the muck. Fivehundred franc notes weresewn into the lining of hercoat,aswellasa setof falseidentity papers for an airmanhidinginasafehousenearby.

ShesmiledattheGerman,walked her bicycle towardhim, thumping throughmuddypotholes.

“Documents,”hesaid.

She handed him herforgedJuliettepapers.

Heglanceddownatthem,barely interested. She couldtellthathewasunhappytobemanning such a quiet borderin the rain. “Pass,” he said,soundingbored.

Sherepocketedherpapersand climbed back onto herbicycle, pedaling away as

quickly as she could on thewetroad.

An hour and a half later,she reached the outskirts ofthe small town of Brantôme.Here, in theFreeZone, therewere no German soldiers,although lately the Frenchpolice had proven to be asdangerous as the Nazis, soshedidn’tletherguarddown.

Forcenturies, thetownofBrantôme had beenconsideredasacredplacethatcouldbothheal thebodyandenlighten the soul. After theBlackDeathandtheHundredYears’ War ravaged thecountryside, the Benedictinemonks built an immenselimestone abbey, backed bysoaringgraycliffsononeside

andthewideDronneRiverontheother.

Acrossthestreetfromthecavesat theendof townwasone of the newest safehouses: a secret room tuckedinto an abandoned mill builtonatriangleof landbetweenthe caves and the river. Theancient wooden mill turnedrhythmically, its buckets and

wheel furredwithmoss. Thewindows were boarded upand anti-German graffiticoveredthestonewalls.

Isabelle paused in thestreet, glancing bothways tomake sure that no one waswatching her. No one was.She locked her bicycle to atree at the end of town andthen crossed the street and

bentdown to the cellardoor,opening it quietly.All of thedoors to themill housewereboarded up, nailed shut; thiswastheonlywayinside.

She climbed down intothe black, musty cellar andreached for the oil lamp shekeptonashelfthere.Lightingit, she followed the secretpassageway that had once

allowed the Benedictinemonkstoescapefromtheso-called barbarians. Narrow,steeply pitched stairs led tothe kitchen. Opening thedoor, she slipped into thedusty, cobwebby room andkept going upstairs to thesecret ten-by-ten room builtbehind one of the oldstorerooms.

“She’s here! Perk up,Perkins.”

Inthesmallroom,litonlyby a single candle, two mengot to their feet, stood atattention. Both were dressedas French peasants in ill-fittingclothes.

“Captain Ed Perkins,miss,” the bigger of the twomensaid.“Andthisherelout

is IanTrufford or some suchname. He’s Welsh. I’m aYank. We’re both damnedhappytoseeyou.We’vebeengoin’ half mad in this smallspace.”

“Only half mad?” sheasked. Water dripped fromherhoodedcloakandmadeapuddle around her feet. Shewanted nothingmore than to

crawl into her sleeping bagand go to sleep, but she hadbusiness to conduct first.“Perkins,yousay.”

“Yes,miss.”“From?”“Bend,Oregon,miss.My

pa’s a plumber and my mamakes the best apple pie infourcounties.”

“What’s the weather like

inBendthistimeofyear?”“What’s this? Middle o’

March? Cold, I guess. Notsnowinganymore,maybe,butnosunshineyet.”

She bent her neck fromside to side, massaging thepaininhershoulders.Allthispedaling and lying andsleeping on the floor took atoll.

She interrogated the twomen until she was certaintheywerewhotheysaidtheywere—two downed airmenwho’d been waiting weeksfor their chance togetoutofFrance.Whenshewasfinallyconvinced, she opened herrucksack and brought outsupper, such as it was. Thethreeofthemsatonaragged,

mouse-eaten carpet on thefloor with the candle set inthemiddle.Shebroughtoutabaguette and a wedge ofCamembert and a bottle ofwine, which they passedaround.

The Yank—Perkins—talked almost constantly,while theWelshman chewedin silence, saying no thank

youtotheofferofwine.“You must have a

husband somewhere who isworried about you,” Perkinssaid as she closed herrucksack. She smiled.Already this had become acommon question, especiallyfromthemenherage.

“And you must have awife who is waiting for

word,” she said. It was whatshe always said. A pointedreminder.

“Nah,”Perkinssaid.“Notme.Aluglikemedon’thavegirlsliningup.Andnow…”

She frowned. “Nowwhat?”

“I know it’s not exactlyheroic to think about, but Icould walk out of this

boarded-up house in thistown I can’t fuckingpronounce and get shot bysome guy I got nothingagainst. I could die trying tobikeacrossyourhills—”

“Mountains.”“I couldget shotwalking

into Spain by the Spanishorthe Nazis. Hell, I couldprobably freeze to death in

yourdamnedhills.”“Mountains,” she said

again,hergazesteadyonhis.“That’snotgoingtohappen.”

Ianmadeasighingsound.“There,yousee,Perkins.Thisslipofagirl isgoing tosaveus.”TheWelshmangavehera tired smile. “I’m gladyou’re here, miss. This lad’sbeen sending me ’round the

bendwithhischatter.”“You might as well let

him talk, Ian. By this timetomorrow, it’ll take all youhave inside to keepbreathing.”

“The hills?” Perkinsasked,hiseyeswide.

“Oui,” she said, smiling.“Thehills.”

Americans. They didn’t

listen.

***

In late May, spring broughtlife and color and warmthback to the Loire Valley.Vianne found peace in hergarden. Today, as she pulledweeds and plantedvegetables, a caravan oflorries and soldiers and

Mercedes-Benzes rolled pastLeJardin. In the fivemonthssince the Americans hadjoinedthewar,theNazishadlostallpretenseofpoliteness.Theywerealwaysbusynow,marching and rallying andgathering at the munitionsdump. The Gestapo and theSSwereeverywhere, lookingfor saboteurs and resisters. It

took nothing to be called aterrorist—just a whisperedaccusation. The roar ofaeroplanes overhead wasnearly constant, as werebombings.

Howoftenthisspringhadsomeonesidledup toViannewhile shewas in aqueue forfoodorwalkingthroughtownor waiting at the poste and

asked her about the latestBBCbroadcast?

Ihavenoradio.Theyarenot allowed was always herresponse, and it was true.Still, every time she wasaskedsuchaquestionshefelta shiver of fear. They hadlearned a new word: lescollabos. The collaborators.Frenchmenandwomenwho

did the Nazis’ dirty work,who spied on friends andneighbors and reported backto the enemy, relaying everyinfraction, real or imagined.On their word, people hadbegun tobearrestedfor littlethings, and many who weretaken to the Kommandant’sofficewereneverseenagain.

“Madame Mauriac!”

Sarahran through thebrokengate and into the yard. Shelooked frail and too thin, herskinsopalethebloodvesselsshowed through. “You needtohelpmymaman.”

Vianne sat back on herheels and pushed the strawhat back on her head.“What’swrong?DidshehearfromMarc?”

“I don’t know what’swrong, Madame. Mamanwon’t talk. When I told herAri was hungry and neededchanging, she shrugged andsaid, ‘What does it matter?’She’s in the backyard, juststaringathersewing.”

Viannegottoherfeetandpeeled off her gardeninggloves, tucking them into the

pocketofherdenimoveralls.“I’llcheckonher.GetSophieandwe’llallwalkover.”

While Sarah was in thehouse, Vianne washed herhandsandfaceattheoutdoorpump and put away her hat.In its place, she tied abandanaaroundherhead.Assoon as the girls were withher,Vianneputhergardening

toolsintheshedandthethreeofthemheadednextdoor.

When Vianne opened thedoor, she found three-year-oldAriasleepontherug.Shescooped him into her arms,kissed his cheek, and turnedto the girls. “Why don’t yougo play in Sarah’s room?”Sheliftedtheblackoutshade,saw Rachel sitting alone in

thebackyard.“Is my maman okay?”

Sarahasked.Vianne nodded

distractedly. “Run alongnow.” As soon as the girlswere in the next room, shetook Ari into Rachel’s roomand put him in his crib. Shedidn’t bother covering him,notonadaythiswarm.

Outside, Rachel was inher favorite wooden chair,seated beneath the chestnuttree. At her feet was hersewing basket. She wore abrown khaki twill jumpsuitandapaisleyturban.Shewassmokingasmallbrownhand-rolled cigarette. There was abottle of brandy beside herandanemptycaféglass.

“Rach?”“Sarah went for

reinforcements,Isee.”Viannemovedintostand

beside Rachel. She laid ahandonherfriend’sshoulder.She could feel Racheltrembling.“IsitMarc?”

Rachelshookherhead.“ThankGod.”Rachel reached sideways

forthebrandybottle,pouringherself a glass. She drankdeeply, emptied the glass,then set it down. “Theyhavepassed a new statute,” shesaid at last. Slowly, sheunfurled her left hand torevealwrinkledbitsofyellowcloth that had been cut intotheshapeofastar.WrittenoneachonewasthewordJUIFin

black. “We are to wearthese,” Rachel said. “Wehave to stitch them onto ourclothes—the three pieces ofouterwear we are allowed—andwear thematall timesinpublic.Ihadtobuythemwithmy ration cards. Maybe Ishouldn’t have registered. Ifwe don’t wear them, we’resubject to ‘severe sanctions.’

Whateverthatmeans.”Vianne sat down in the

chairbesideher.“But…”“You’ve seen the posters

in town, how they show usJews as vermin to be sweptaway and money grubberswhowanttoowneverything?I can handle it, but… whatabout Sarah? She’ll feel soashamed… it’s hard enough

to be eleven without this,Vianne.”

“Don’tdoit.”“It is immediate arrest if

youarecaughtnotwearingit.And they know about me.I’ve registered. Andthere’s…Beck.He knows IamJewish.”

In the silence thatfollowed, Vianne knew they

were both thinking of thearrests thatwere takingplacearound Carriveau, of thepeople who were“disappearing.”

“YoucouldgototheFreeZone,” Vianne said softly.“It’sonlyfourmilesaway.”

“A Jew can’t get anAusweis, and if I gotcaught…”

Vianne nodded. It wastrue; running was perilous,especially with children. IfRachel were caught crossingthe frontier without anAusweis, she would bearrested.Orexecuted.

“I’mafraid,”Rachelsaid.Vianne reached over and

held her friend’s hand. Theystared at each other. Vianne

tried to come up withsomething to say, a bit ofhope to offer, but there wasnothing.

“It’sgoingtogetworse.”Vianne was thinking the

samething.“Maman?”Sarah came into the

backyard, holding Sophie’shand. The girls looked

frightened and confused.Theyknewhowwrongthingswerethesedaysandbothhadlearnedanewkindoffear.Itbroke Vianne’s heart to seehow changed these girls hadalreadybeenbythewar.Onlythree years ago, they’d beenordinary children wholaughed and played anddefied their mothers for fun.

Now they moved forwardcautiously,as ifbombscouldbe buried beneath their feet.Bothwere thin, their pubertyheldatbaybypoornutrition.Sarah’s dark hair was stilllong,butshe’dbeguntoyankit out in her sleep so therewere balding patches hereand there, and Sophie neverwentanywherewithoutBébé.

Thepoorpinkstuffedanimalwas beginning to spewstuffingaroundthehouse.

“Here,” Rachel said.“Comehere.”

The girls shuffledforward, holding hands sotightly they appeared fusedtogether. And in a way theywere, as were Rachel andVianne, joined by a

friendship so strong it wasmaybe all they had left tobelieve in. Sarah sat in thechair by Rachel, and Sophiefinally let her friend go. Shecame over to stand byVianne.

Rachel looked at Vianne.In that single glance, sorrowflowed between them. Howcouldtheyhavetosaythings

likethistotheirchildren?“These yellow stars,”

Rachelsaid,openingher fist,revealing the ugly littleflower of ragged fabric,withits blackmarking. “We haveto wear them on our clothesatalltimesnow.”

Sarah frowned. “But …why?”

“We’re Jews,” Rachel

said. “And we’re proud ofthat. You have to rememberhowproudweareof it,evenifpeople—”

“Nazis,” Vianne saidmoresharplythanintended.

“Nazis,” Rachel added,“wanttomakeusfeel…badaboutit.”

“Willpeoplemakefunofme?” Sarah asked, her eyes

widening.“I will wear one, too,”

Sophiesaid.Sarah looked pathetically

hopefulatthat.Rachelreachedoutforher

daughter’s hand and held it.“No, baby. This is one thingyouandyourbestfriendcan’tdotogether.”

Vianne saw Sarah’s fear

and embarrassment andconfusion.Shewastryingherbest to be a good girl, tosmile and be strong even astearsglazedhereyes.“Oui,”shesaidatlast.

It was the saddest soundVianne had heard in nearlythreeyearsofsorrow.

TWENTY-ONE

When summer came to the

LoireValley,itwasashotasthe winter had been cold.Vianne longed to open herbedroomwindowtoletairin,but not a breeze stirred onthis hot late June night. Shepushed the damp hair fromher face and slumped in herchairbythebed.

Sophie made awhimpering sound. In it,

Vianne heard a muddled,drawn-out“Maman,”andshedipped her rag into the bowlof water she’d placed on theonly remaining nightstand.The water was as warm aseverything else in thisupstairsroom.Shetwistedtherag over the bowl, watchedtheexcesswaterfallbackintothebowl.Thensheplacedthe

wet rag on her daughter’sforehead.

Sophie mutteredsomething incomprehensibleandstartedtothrash.

Vianne held her down,whispering lovewords inherear, feeling heat against herlips. “Sophie,” she said, thename a prayer with nobeginning, no end. “I’m

here.” She said it over andover until Sophie calmedagain.

The fever was gettingworse. For days now Sophiehad been ailing, feeling achyand out of sorts. At firstViannehadthoughtitwasanexcuse to avoid theresponsibilities they shared.Gardening, laundry, canning,

sewing. Vianne wasconstantly trying to domore,getmoredone.Evennow, inthe middle of the summer,sheworriedaboutthecomingwinter.

This morning had shownVianne the truth, however(and made her feel like aterriblemotherfornotseeingitfromthestart):Sophiewas

sick,verysick.Shehadbeenplaguedbyfeverallday,andher temperature was rising.Shehadn’tbeenable tokeepanything down, not even thewater her body needed sodesperately.

“How about somelemonade?”shesaid.

Noanswer.Vianne leaned over and

kissedSophie’shotcheek.Dropping the rag back

into the bowl full of water,she went downstairs. On thedining room table, a boxwaitedtobefilled—hermostrecent care package toAntoine. She’d started ityesterday and would havefinished and mailed it off ifnot for Sophie’s turn for the

worse.She was almost at the

kitchen when she heard herdaughter’sscream.

Vianne ran back up thestairs.

“Maman,” Sophiecroaked, coughing. It was aterrible, rattling sound. Shethrashed in the bed, yankingat the blankets, trying to

shove them away. Viannetried to calm her daughter,but Sophie was a wildcat,twisting and screaming andcoughing.

If only she had some ofDr. Collis Browne’sChlorodyne. Itworkedmagicon a cough, but of coursetherewasnoneleft.

“It’s all right, Soph.

Maman ishere,”Vianne saidsoothingly,butherwordshadnoeffect.

Beckappearedbesideher.She knew she should havebeen angry that he was here—here, in her bedroom—butshe was too tired and scaredto lie to herself. “I don’tknowhow tohelpher.Therearenoaspirinorantibioticsto

behadatanypriceintown.”“Notevenforpearls?”She looked at him in

surprise. “You know I soldmymaman’spearls?”

“I live with you.” Hepaused. “I make it mybusiness to know what youaredoing.”

She didn’t know what tosaytothat.

He looked down atSophie. “She coughed allnight.Icouldhearit.”

Sophie had gone still,frighteningly so. “She’ll getbetter.”

He reached into hispocketandpulledoutasmallbottleofantibiotics.“Here.”

She looked up at him.Was she overstating it to

think that he was saving herdaughter’s life? Or did hewant her to think that? Shecould rationalize what itmeant to take food fromhim—after all, he needed to eatanditwasherjobtocookforhim.

Thiswasafavor,pureandsimple, and therewouldbe apriceforit.

“Takeit,”hesaidgently.She took the bottle from

him.Forasecond, theywereboth holding it. She felt hisfingersagainsthers.

Their gazes locked, andsomething passed betweenthem, a question was askedandanswered.

“Thankyou,”shesaid.“Youaremostwelcome.”

***

“Sir,theNightingaleishere.”The British consul

nodded.“Sendherin.”Isabelle entered the dark,

mahogany-lined office at theendof the elaborate hallway.Before she even reached thedesk,themanbehinditstood.“Goodtoseeyouagain.”

She sank into the

uncomfortable leather chairand took the glass of brandyhe offered. This latestcrossing of the Pyrenees hadbeen difficult, even in theperfect July weather. One oftheAmericanairmenhadhaddifficulty following“agirl’s”orders and had gone off onhis own.They’dgottenwordthathe’dbeenarrestedbythe

Spaniards.“Yanks,”shesaid,shaking her head. There wasno more that needed to besaid.Sheandhercontact,Ian—code name Tuesday—hadworked together from thebeginning of the Nightingaleescape route.Withhelp fromPaul’s network, they had setup a complex series of safehouses across France and a

group of partisans ready togive their lives to help thedowned airmen get home.French men and womenscanned the skies at night,watching for aeroplanes introuble and parachutesfloating downward. Theycombed the streets, peeringinto shadows, lookingthroughbarns,seekingAllied

soldiers inhiding.Oncebackin England, the pilotscouldn’tflymissionsagain—not with their knowledge ofthe network—instead, theyprepared their colleagues forthe worst: taught themevasiontechniques,toldthemhow to find help, andsupplied them with francnotes and compasses and

photographs ready-made forfalsepapers.

Isabelle sipped thebrandy. Experience hadtaughthertobecautiouswithalcoholafterthecrossing.Shewas usuallymore dehydratedthan she realized, especiallyintheheatofsummer.

Ian pushed an envelopetoward her. She took it,

counted the franc notesinside, and slid the moneyinto a pocket in her coat.“That’s eighty-seven airmenyou’vebroughtusinthepasteight months, Isabelle,” hesaid, taking his seat.Only inthisroom,one-on-one,didheuse her real name. In allofficial correspondence withMI9,shewastheNightingale.

Totheotheremployeesoftheconsulate and in Britain, shewasJulietteGervaise.“Ithinkyoushouldslowdown.”

“Slowdown?”“TheGermansarelooking

fortheNightingale,Isabelle.”“That’soldnews,Ian.”“They’re trying to

infiltrate your escape route.Nazis are out there,

pretending to be downedairmen.Ifyoupickuponeofthem…”

“We’re careful, Ian. Youknowthat.Iinterrogateeverymanmyself.AndthenetworkinParisistireless.”

“They’re looking for theNightingale. If they findyou…”

“Theywon’t.” She got to

herfeet.He stood, too, and faced

her.“Becareful,Isabelle.”“Always.”He came around thedesk

and took her by the arm andledheroutofthebuilding.

She took a little time toenjoy the seaside beauty ofSanSebastián, towalk alongthe path above the crashing

white surf below and enjoybuildings that didn’t bearswastikas, but suchmomentsofbrushinguptoordinarylifewere a luxury she couldn’tindulge for long. She sentPaul a message via courierthatread:

DearUncle,Ihopethis

notefindsyouwell.

Iamatourfavoriteplacebythesea.

Ourfriendshavearrivedsafely.

TomorrowIshallvisitGrandmèrein

Parisatthreeo’clock.

Lovealways,Juliette

ShereturnedtoParisviaacircuitous route; she stoppedateachofthesafehouses—inCarriveau and Brantôme andPau and Poitiers—and paid

her helpers. The feeding andclothing of airmen in hidingwas no small undertaking,andsinceeveryman,woman,and child (mostly women)who maintained the escaperoutedidsoattheriskoftheirlives, the network strived tomake it not ruinousfinancially,too.

Sheneverwalkedthrough

the streets of Carriveau(hidden beneath a cloak andhood)without thinking abouther sister. Lately, she hadbegun to miss Vianne andSophie. Memories of theirnights playing Belote orcheckers by the fire, Vianneteaching Isabelle to knit (ortrying to), and Sophie’slaughterhadtakenonawarm

patina. She imaginedsometimes that Vianne hadoffered Isabelle a possibilityshehadn’tseenatthetime:ahome.

Butitwastoolateforthatnow. Isabelle couldn’t riskputting Vianne in danger byshowing up at Le Jardin.Surely Beckwould ask whatshe’dbeendoing inParis for

so long. Maybe he wouldwonderenoughtocheck.

In Paris, she exited thetrain amid a crowd of drab-eyed, dark-clothed peoplewho looked like theybelonged in an EdvardMunch painting. As shepassed the glittering golddomeoftheInvalides,alightfog moved through the

streets, plucking color fromthe trees. Most of the caféswere closed, their chairs andtables stacked beneathtattered awnings. Across thestreet was the apartmentshe’dcalledhomeforthepastmonth,adark,squalid lonelylittle attic tucked above anabandoned charcuterie. Thewallsstillsmelledvaguelyof

porkandspices.She heard someone yell,

“Halt!” Whistles shrieked;people screamed. SeveralWehrmacht soldiers,accompanied by Frenchpolicemen, encircled a smallgroup of people, whoimmediately dropped to theirknees and raised their arms.Shesawyellowstarsontheir

chests.Isabelleslowed.Anouk appeared beside

her, linking her arm throughIsabelle’s. “Bonjour,” shesaidinavoicesoanimateditalertedIsabelletothefactthattheywere beingwatched.Orat least Anouk worried thattheywere.

“You are like a character

in one of those Americancomics the way you appearand disappear. The Shadow,perhaps.”

Anouk smiled. “Andhowwasyourlatestholidayinthemountains?”

“Unremarkable.”Anouk leaned close. “We

hearwordofsomethingbeingplanned. The Germans are

recruitingwomen for clericalwork on Sunday night.Double pay. All verysecretive.”

Isabelle slipped theenvelope full of franc notesfromherpocketandhandeditto Anouk, who dropped itinto her open handbag.“Nightwork?Andclerical?”

“Paul has gotten you a

position,” Anouk said. “Youstart at nine. When you arefinished, go to your father’sapartment.Hewillbewaitingforyou.”

“Oui.”“Itmightbedangerous.”Isabelle shrugged. “What

isn’t?”

***

That night, Isabelle walkedacross town to the prefectureofpolice.Therewasahuminthe pavement beneath herfeet, the sound of vehiclesmoving somewhere close by.Alotofthem.

“You,there!”Isabellestopped.Smiled.A German walked up to

her,hisrifleattheready.His

gaze dropped to her chest,lookingforayellowstar.

“I am to work tonight,”she said, indicating theprefecture of police buildingin front of her.Although thewindows were blacked out,the place was busy. Therewere German Wehrmachtofficers and Frenchgendarmes milling about,

going in and out of thebuilding,whichwasanoddityat this late hour. In thecourtyard was a long row ofbusesparkedendtoend.Thedrivers stood together in ahuddle,smokingandtalking.

Thepolicemancockedhishead.“Go.”

Isabelle clutched thecollarofherdrabbrowncoat.

Although it was warm out,she didn’t want to drawattention to herself tonight.One of the best ways todisappear in plain sight wastodress like awren—brown,brown,andmorebrown.Shehad covered her blond hairwith a black scarf, tied in aturbanstylewithabigknotinfront, and had used no

cosmetics,notevenlipstick.She kept her head down

as she walked through athrong of men in Frenchpolice uniforms. Just insidethebuilding,shestopped.

It was a huge space withstaircases on either side andofficedoorsspacedeveryfewfeet,buttonightitlookedlikea sweatshop, with hundreds

of women seated at deskspressed close together.Telephones rangnonstopandFrenchpoliceofficersmovedinarush.

“Youareheretohelpwiththe sorting?” asked a boredFrench gendarme at the desknearestthedoor.

“Oui.”“I’ll find you a place to

work.Comewithme.”Heledher around the perimeter oftheroom.

Desks were spaced soclosely together that Isabellehadtoturnsidewaystomakeher way down the narrowaisle to the empty desk he’dindicated.Whenshesatdownand scooted close, she waselbow-to-elbow with the

womenon either side of her.The surface of her desk wascoveredwithcardboxes.

She opened the first boxand saw the stack of cardswithin. She pulled out thefirstoneandstaredatit.

STERNHOLZ,ISSAC12avenueRast

4tharrondissement

Sabotier(clogmaker)

Itwenton to listhiswifeandchildren.

“You are to separate theforeign-born Jews,” said thegendarme, who she hadn’tnoticedhadfollowedher.

“Pardon?”shesaid,takingout another card. This onewasfor“Berr,Simone.”

“That box there. Theemptyone.SeparatetheJewsborn in France from thoseborn elsewhere.We are onlyinterested in foreign-bornJews. Men, women, andchildren.”

“Why?”“They’re Jews. Who

cares?Nowgettowork.”Isabelle turned back

around in her seat. She hadhundreds of cards in front ofher,and therewereat leastahundredwomeninthisroom.The sheer scale of thisoperation was impossible tocomprehend. What could itpossiblymean?

“Howlonghaveyoubeenhere?” she asked the womanbesideher.

“Days,” the woman said,opening another box. “Mychildren weren’t hungry lastnight for the first time inmonths.”

“Whatarewedoing?”The woman shrugged.

“I’ve heard them sayingsomething about OperationSpringWind.”

“Whatdoesitmean?”

“Idon’twanttoknow.”Isabelle flipped through

thecardsinthebox.Oneneartheendstoppedher.

LÉVY,PAUL61rueBlandine,Apt.C7tharrondissement

Professorofliterature

Shegottoherfeetsofast

she bumped into the womanbesideher,whocursedat theinterruption.Thecardsonherdesk slid to the floor in acascade.Isabelleimmediatelyknelt down and gatheredthem up, daring to stickMonsieurLévy’scarduphersleeve.

The moment she stood,someone grabbed her by the

arm and dragged her downthenarrowaisle.Shebumpedintowomenalldowntherow.

Intheemptyspacebythewall, shewas twisted aroundand shovedback so hard sheslammedintothewall.

“What is the meaning ofthis?” snarled the Frenchpoliceman, his grip on herarm tight enough to leave a

bruise.Could he feel the index

cardbeneathhersleeve?“I’m sorry. So sorry. I

need to work, but I’m sick,you see. The flu.” Shecoughed as loudly as shecould.

Isabelle walked past himandleftthebuilding.Outside,she kept coughing until she

got to the corner. There, shestartedtorun.

***

“Whatcoulditmean?”Isabelle peered past the

blackout shade in theapartment, staring down atthe avenue. Papa sat at thedining room table, nervouslydrumming his ink-stained

fingers on the wood. It feltgood to be here again—withhim—aftermonthsaway,butshewas too agitated to relaxand enjoy the homey feel oftheplace.

“You must be mistaken,Isabelle,” Papa said, on hissecond brandy since herreturn.“Yousaidtherehadtobetensofthousandsofcards.

Thatwouldbe all the JewishpeopleinParis.Surely—”

“Question what it means,Papa, but not the facts,” sheanswered. “TheGermans arecollecting the names andaddresses of every foreign-born Jewish person in Paris.Men,women,andchildren.”

“Butwhy?PaulLévyisofPolish descent, it’s true, but

hehaslivedherefordecades.He fought for France in theGreat War—his brother diedfor France. The Vichygovernment has assured usthat veterans are protectedfromtheNazis.”

“Vianne was asked for alist of names,” Isabelle said.“ShewasaskedtowritedowneveryJewish,communist,and

Freemason teacher at herschool. Afterward they wereallfired.”

“They can hardly firethem twice.” He finished hisdrink and poured another.“And it is the French policegathering names. If it werethe Germans, it would bedifferent.”

Isabellehadnoanswer to

that. They had been havingthis same conversation for atleastthreehours.

Now it was edging pasttwo in the morning, andneither of them could comeupwithacrediblereasonwhythe Vichy government andthe French police werecollecting the names andaddresses of every foreign-

born Jewish person living inParis.

She saw a flash of silveroutside. Lifting the shade alittle higher, she stareddownatthedarkstreet.

A row of buses rolleddown the avenue, theirpainted headlamps off,looking like a slow-movingcentipede that stretched for

blocks.She had seen buses

outside of the prefecture ofpolice,dozensofthemparkedin the courtyard. “Papa…”Before she could finish, sheheardfootstepscomingupthestairs outside of theapartment.

Apamphletof somekindslid into the apartment

through the slit beneath thedoor.

Papa left the table andbenttopickitup.Hebroughtittothetableandsetitdownnexttothecandle.

Isabellestoodbehindhim.Papalookedupather.“It’sawarning.Itsaysthe

police are going to round upall foreign-born Jews and

deport them to camps inGermany.”

“Weare talkingwhenweneed to be acting,” Isabellesaid. “We need to hide ourfriendsinthebuilding.”

“It’s so little,” Papa said.His hand was shaking. Itmade her wonder again—sharply—what he’d seen intheGreatWar,whatheknew

thatshedidnot.“It’s what we can do,”

Isabelle said. “We can makesome of them safe. At leastfortonight.We’llknowmoretomorrow.”

“Safe. And where wouldthat be, Isabelle? If theFrench police are doing this,wearelost.”

Isabellehadnoanswerfor

that.Sayingnomore, they left

theapartment.Stealth was difficult in a

building as old as this one,and her father, moving infront of her, had never beenlight on his feet. Brandymade him even moreunsteady as he led her downthenarrow, twisting staircase

to the apartment directlybelow theirs. He stumbledtwice, cursing his imbalance.Heknockedonthedoor.

Hewaited to thecountoften and knocked again.Harderthistime.

Very slowly, the dooropened, just a crack at first,and then all the way. “Oh,Julien, it is you,” said Ruth

Friedman.Shewaswearingaman’s coat over a floor-length nightgown, with herbarefeetstickingoutbeneath.Her hair was in rollers andcoveredwithascarf.

“You’ve seen thepamphlet?”

“Igotone.Itistrue?”shewhispered.

“Idon’tknow,”herfather

said. “There are buses outfront and lorries have beenrumbling past all night.Isabellewasat theprefectureof police tonight, and theywere collecting the namesand addresses of all foreign-bornJewishpeople.Wethinkyoushouldbringthechildrento our place for now. Wehaveahidingplace.”

“But…my husband is aprisoner of war. The Vichygovernment promises us thatwewillbeprotected.”

“I am not sure we cantrust the Vichy government,Madame,”Isabellesaidtothewoman.“Please.Justhidefornow.”

Ruth stood there amoment, her eyes widening.

The yellow star on herovercoatwasastarkreminderof the way the world hadchanged. Isabelle saw whenthe woman decided. Sheturnedonherheelandwalkedout of the room. Less than aminute later, she guided hertwo daughters toward thedoor.“Whatdowebring?”

“Nothing,” Isabelle said.

Sheherded theFriedmansupthestairs.Whentheyreachedthe safety of the apartment,her father led them to thesecret room in the backbedroomandclosed thedooronthem.

“I’ll get the Vizniaks,”Isabelle said. “Don’t put thearmoireinplaceyet.”

“They’re on the third

floor, Isabelle. You’ll never—”

“Lock the front doorbehind me. Don’t open itunlessyouhearmyvoice.”

“Isabelle,no—”She was already gone,

running down the stairs,barely touching the banisterin her haste. When she wasnearly to the third-floor

landing, she heard voicesbelow.

Theywerecomingup thestairs.

She was too late. Shecrouched where she was,hiddenbytheelevator.

Two French policemensteppedontothelanding.Theyounger of the two knockedtwice on the Vizniaks’ door,

waited a second or two, andthenkicked itopen. Inside,awomanwailed.

Isabelle crept closer,listening.

“… are MadameVizniak?” the policeman onthe left said. “Your husbandis Emile and your children,AntonandHélène?”

Isabellepeeredaroundthe

corner.Madame Vizniak was a

beautiful woman, with skinthe color of fresh cream andluxurious hair that neverlooked as messy as it didnow.Shewaswearinga lacysilk negligee that must havecost a fortune when it waspurchased. Her young sonand daughter,whom she had

pulled in close, were wide-eyed.

“Packupyourthings.Justthe necessaries. You arebeing relocated,” said theolderpolicemanasheflippedthroughalistofnames.

“But…myhusbandis inprison near Pithiviers. Howwillhefindus?”

“After the war, you will

comeback.”“Oh.” Madame Vizniak

frowned, ran a hand throughhertangledhair.

“Your children areFrench-born citizens,” thepoliceman said. “You mayleave themhere. They’re notonmylist.”

Isabelle couldn’t remainhidden. She got to her feet

and descended the stairs tothe landing. “I’ll take themfor you, Lily,” she said,tryingtosoundcalm.

“No!”thechildrenwailedin unison, clinging to theirmother.

The French policementurned to her. “What is yourname?” one of them askedIsabelle.

She froze. Which nameshouldshegive?“Rossignol,”she said at last, althoughwithout the correspondingpapers, it was a dangerouschoice. Still, Gervaise mightmake them wonder why shewasinthisbuildingatalmostthree in themorning, puttingher nose in her neighbor’sbusiness.

The policeman consultedhis list and then waved heraway. “Go. You are noconcerntometonight.”

Isabelle looked past themtoLilyVizniak.“I’lltakethechildren,Madame.”

Lily seemed not tocomprehend. “You think I’llleavethembehind?”

“Ithink—”

“Enough,” the olderpoliceman yelled, thumpinghis rifle butt on the floor.“You,” he said to Isabelle.“Get out. This doesn’tconcernyou.”

“Madame, please,”Isabelle pleaded. “I’ll makesuretheyaresafe.”

“Safe?” Lily frowned.“But we are safe with the

French police. We’ve beenassured. And a mother can’tleave her children. Somedayyou’ll understand.” Sheturned her attention to herchildren.“Packafewthings.”

The French policeman atIsabelle’s side touched herarmgently.Whensheturned,he said, “Go.” She saw thewarning in his eyes but

couldn’t tell if he wanted toscare her or protect her.“Now.”

Isabelle had no choice. Ifshe stayed, if she demandedanswers, sooner or later hernamewould be passed up tothe prefecture of police—maybe even to the Germans.With what she and thenetworkwere doingwith the

escape route, and what herfather was doing with falsepapers, she didn’t dare drawattention. Not even forsomething as slight asdemanding to know where aneighborwasbeingtaken.

Silently,keepinghergazeon the floor (she didn’t trustherself to look at them), sheeasedpast thepolicemenand

headedforthestairs.

TWENTY-TWO

After she returned from the

Vizniaks’ apartment, Isabellelit an oil lamp andwent intothe salon, where she foundherfatherasleepatthediningroom table, his head restingon the hard wood as if he’dpassedout.Besidehimwasahalf-empty brandy bottle thathad been full not long ago.Shetookthebottleandput iton the sideboard,hoping that

outof reachwould equaloutofmindinthemorning.

She almost reached outfor him, almost stroked thegray hair that obscured hisface, a small, oval-shapedbald spot revealedby repose.She wanted to be able totouch him that way, incomfort, in love, incompanionship.

Instead, shewent into thekitchen, where she made apot of bitter, dark, made-from-acornscoffeeandfounda small loaf of the tastelessgray bread that was all theParisians could get anymore.She broke off a piece (whatwould Madame Dufour sayabout that? Eating whilewalking), and chewed it

slowly.“That coffee smells like

shit,” her father said, bleary-eyed, lifting his head as shecameintotheroom.

She handed him her cup.“Ittastesworse.”

Isabelle poured anothercup of coffee for herself andsat down beside him. Thelamplight accentuated the

road-map look of his face,deepening the pits andwrinkles, making the fleshbeneath his eyes look wax-likeandswollen.

Shewaitedforhimtosaysomething, but he just staredat her. Beneath his pointedgaze, she finished her coffee(sheneededit toswallowthedry, terrible bread) and

pushed the empty cup away.Isabelle stayed there until hefellasleepagainandthenshewent intoherown room.Butthere was no way she couldsleep.Shelaythereforhours,wondering and worrying.Finally, she couldn’t stand itanymore. She got out of bedandwentintothesalon.

“I’m going out to see,”

sheannounced.“Don’t,” he said, still

seatedatthetable.“I won’t do anything

stupid.”She returned to her

bedroom and changed into asummer-weightblueskirtandshort-sleeved white blouse.Sheputafadedbluesilkscarfaroundhermessyhair,tiedit

beneathherchin,andleft theapartment.

On the third floor, shesaw that the door to theVizniak apartmentwas open.Shepeeredinside.

The room had beenlooted. Only the biggestpieces of furniture remainedand the drawers of the blackbombé chest were open.

Clothes and inexpensiveknickknacks were scatteredacross the floor. Rectangularblack marks on the wallrevealedmissingartwork.

She closed the doorbehind her. In the lobby, shepaused just long enough tocompose herself and thenopenedthedoor.

Buses rolled down the

street, one after another.Through the dirty buswindows, she saw dozens ofchildren’s faces, with theirnoses pressed to the glass,and their mothers seatedbeside them. The sidewalkswerecuriouslyempty.

Isabelle saw a Frenchpoliceman standing at thecorner and she went to him.

“Wherearetheygoing?”“Vélodromed’Hiver.”“The sporting stadium?

Why?”“You don’t belong here.

Go or I’ll put you on a busandyou’llendupwiththem.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.Maybe—”

The policeman leanedclose, whispered, “Go.” He

grabbedherarmanddraggedher to the side of the road.“Our orders are to shootanyone who tries to escape.Youhearme?”

“You’d shoot them?Womenandchildren?”

The young policemanlookedmiserable.“Go.”

Isabelle knew she shouldstay.Thatwasthesmartthing

to do.But she couldwalk tothe Vél d’Hiv almost asquickly as these buses coulddrivethere.Itwasonlyafewblocksaway.Maybethenshewould know what washappening.

For the first time inmonths, thebarricadesontheside streets of Paris wereunmanned. She ducked

aroundoneandrandownthestreet, toward the river, pastclosed-up shops and emptycafés. Only a few blocksaway, she came to abreathless stop across thestreet from the stadium. Anendless stream of busesjammedwithpeopledrewupalongside the huge buildingand disgorged passengers.

Then thedoorswheezedshutandthebusesdroveoffagain;others drove up to take theirplace. She saw a sea ofyellowstars.

There were thousands ofmen, women, and children,looking confused anddespairing, being herded intothe stadium. Most werewearing layers of clothing—

too much for the July heat.Policepatrolledtheperimeterlike American cowboysherding cattle, blowingwhistles, shouting orders,forcing the Jewish peopleforward, into the stadium orontootherbuses.

Families.She saw a policeman

shove a woman with his

batonsohardshestumbledtoher knees. She staggeredupright, reaching blindly tothe little boy beside her,protectinghimwithherbodyas she limped toward thestadiumentrance.

She saw a young Frenchpolicemanandfoughtthroughthecrowdtogettohim.

“What’s happening?” she

asked.“That’snotyour concern,

M’mselle.Go.”Isabelle looked back at

thelargecyclingstadium.Allshe saw were people, bodiescrammed together, familiestrying to hold on to eachotherinthemelee.Thepoliceshoutedatthem,shovedthemforward toward the stadium,

yanked children andmothersto their feet when they fell.She could hear childrencrying. A pregnant womanwas on her knees, rockingback and forth, clutching herdistendedbelly.

“But … there are toomany of them in there…”Isabellesaid.

“They’ll be deported

soon.”“Where?”He shrugged. “I know

nothingaboutit.”“You must know

something.”“Work camps,” he

mumbled. “In Germany.That’sallIknow.”

“But … they’re womenandchildren.”

Heshruggedagain.Isabelle couldn’t

comprehend it. How couldthe French gendarmes bedoing this to Parisians? Towomen and children?“Children can hardly work,M’sieur. You must havethousands of children inthere, and pregnant women.How—”

“Do I look like themastermindof this? I just dowhatI’mtold.Theytellmetoarrest the foreign-born JewsinParis,soIdoit.Theywantthe crowd separated—singlemen to Drancy, families tothe Vél d’Hiv. Voilà! It’sdone.Pointriflesatthemandbe prepared to shoot. Thegovernment wants all of

France’s foreign Jews senteast to work camps, andwe’restartinghere.”

All of France? Isabellefelt the air rush out of herlungs. Operation SpringWind. “You mean this isn’tjusthappeninginParis?”

“No. This is just thestart.”

***

Vianne had stood in queuesall day, in the oppressivesummerheat,andforwhat—ahalf a pound of dry cheeseandaloafofterriblebread?

“Can we have somestrawberry jam today,Maman? It hides the taste ofthebread.”

As they left the shop,

Vianne kept Sophie close toher,tuckedagainstherhipasif she were a much youngerchild.“Maybejustalittle,butwe can’t go overboard.Remember how terrible thewinter was? Another will becoming.”

Vianne saw a group ofsoldiers coming their way,riflesglintinginthesunshine.

Theymarchedpast,andtanksfollowed them, grumblingoverthecobblestonedstreet.

“There is a lot going onoutheretoday,”Sophiesaid.

Viannehadbeen thinkingthesamething.Theroadwasfull of French police;gendarmes were coming intotownindroves.

Itwasarelieftostepinto

Rachel’s quiet, well-tendedyard. She looked forward toher visits with Rachel somuch. It was really the onlytime she felt like herselfanymore.

At Vianne’s knock,Rachel peered outsuspiciously,sawwhowasatthedoor,andsmiled,openingthe door wide, letting

sunshinestreaminto thebarehouse. “Vianne! Sophie!Comein,comein.”

“Sophie!”Sarahyelled.Thetwogirlshuggedeach

other as if they’d been apartfor weeks instead of days. Ithad taken a toll on both ofthem to be separated whileSophie was sick. Sarah tookSophie by the hand and led

her out into the front yard,where they sat beneath anappletree.

Rachel left thedoor openso that theycouldhear them.Vianne uncoiled the floralscarf from around her headand stuffed it into thepocketof her skirt. “I brought yousomething.”

“No, Vianne. We have

talked about this,” Rachelsaid. Shewaswearing a pairof overalls that she’d madefrom an old shower curtain.Her summer cardigan—oncewhite and now grayed fromtoo many washings and toomuch wear—hung from thechair back. From here,Vianne could see two pointsof the yellow star sewn onto

thesweater.Vianne went to the

counter in the kitchen andopenedthesilverwaredrawer.Therewasalmostnothingleftin it—in the twoyearsof theoccupation, they had all lostcount of the times theGermans had gone door todoor “requisitioning” whatthey needed. How often had

Germans broken into thehomes at night, takingwhatevertheywanted?Allofit ended up on trains headedeast.

Nowmost of thedrawersand closets and trunks intownwereempty.AllRachelhadleftwereafewforksandspoons, and a single breadknife. Vianne took the knife

over to the table.Withdrawing the bread andcheese from her basket, shecarefullycutboth inhalfandreturned her portion to thebasket. When she looked upagain,Rachelhadtearsinhereyes. “I want to tell you nottogiveusthat.Youneedit.”

“Youneedit,too.”“I should just rip the

damnedstaroff.ThenatleastIwould be allowed to queueup for food when there wasstill some to be had.” Therewere constantly newrestrictions in place forJewishpeople: theycouldnolongerownbicyclesandwerebannedfromallpublicplacesexceptbetweenthreeandfourP.M.,whentheywereallowed

to shop. By then, there wasnothingleft.

Before Vianne couldanswer, she heard amotorcycle out on the road.She recognized the sound ofit and went to stand in theopendoorway.

Rachelsqueezedinbesideher.“Whatishedoinghere?”

“I’llsee,”Viannesaid.

“I’mcomingwithyou.”Vianne walked through

the orchard, past ahummingbird hovering at theroses,tothegate.Openingit,shesteppedthrough,ontotheroadside,letRachelinbehindher. Behind them, the gatemade a little click, like thesnappingofabone.

“Mesdames,” Beck said,

doffing his military cap,wedging it under his armpit.“I am sorry to disturb yourladies’ time,butIhavecometo tell you something,Madame Mauriac.” He puttheslightestemphasisonyou.It made it sound as if theysharedsecrets.

“Oh?Andwhatisit,HerrCaptain?”Vianneasked.

He glanced left to rightand then leaned slightlytoward Vianne. “Madame deChamplain should not be athometomorrowmorning,”hesaidquietly.

Vianne thought perhapshe’d translated his intentionpoorly.“Pardon?”

“Madame de Champlainshould not be at home

tomorrow,”herepeated.“My husband and I own

this house,” Rachel said.“WhyshouldIleave?”

“It will not matter, thisownership of the house. Nottomorrow.”

“My children—” Rachelstarted.

Beck finally looked atRachel.“Yourchildrenareof

no concern to us. Theywereborn in France. They are notonthelist.”

List.A word that was feared

now. Vianne said quietly,“Whatareyoutellingus?”

“I am telling you that ifsheisheretomorrow,shewillnotbeherethedayafter.”

“But—”

“If sheweremy friend, Iwouldfindaway tohideherforaday.”

“Onlyforaday?”Vianneasked,studyinghimclosely.

“ThatisallIcametosay,Mesdames, and I should nothave done it. I would be…punished if word got out.Please, if you are questionedabout this later, do not

mentionmyvisit.”Heclickedhis heels together, pivoted,andwalkedaway.

Rachel looked at Vianne.They had heard rumors ofroundups in Paris—womenand children being deported—but no one believed it.How could they? The claimswere crazy, impossible—tensof thousands of people taken

from their homes in themiddle of the night by theFrench police. And all atonce?Itcouldn’tbetrue.“Doyoutrusthim?”

Vianne considered thequestion. She surprisedherselfbysaying,“Yes.”

“SowhatdoIdo?”“Take the children to the

Free Zone. Tonight.” Vianne

couldn’t believe she wasthinkingit,letalonesayingit.

“Last week MadameDurant tried to cross thefrontierandshewasshotandherchildrendeported.”

Vianne would say thesamethinginRachel’splace.Itwasonethingforawomanto run by herself; it wasanother thing to risk your

children’s lives. But what ifthey were risking their livesbystayinghere?

“You’re right. It’s toodangerous. But I think youshould do as Beck advises.Hide. It is only for a day.Then perhaps we’ll knowmore.”

“Where?”“Isabellepreparedforthis

andIthoughtshewasafool.”She sighed. “There’s a cellarinthebarn.”

“Youknowthatifyouarecaughthidingme—”

“Oui,” Vianne saidsharply. She didn’t want tohearitsaidaloud.Punishablebydeath.“Iknow.”

***

Vianne slipped a sleepingdraught into Sophie’slemonadeandputthechildtobed early. (Not the sort ofthing thatmade one feel likea good mother, but neitherwasitallrighttotakeSophiewith them tonight or let herwaken alone. Bad choices.That was all there wereanymore.) While waiting for

her daughter to fall asleep,Vianne paced. She heardevery clatter of wind againstthe shutters, every creakysettling of the timbers of theold house. At just past sixo’clock, she dressed in herold gardening overalls andwentdownstairs.

ShefoundBecksittingonher divan, an oil lamp lit

besidehim.Hewasholdingasmall, framed portrait of hisfamily. His wife—Hilda,Vianne knew—and hischildren,GiselaandWilhelm.

At her arrival, he lookedupbutdidn’tstand.

Vianne didn’t knowquitewhat to do. She wanted himto be invisible right now,tuckedbehindthecloseddoor

of his room, someone shecould completely discount.And yet he had risked hiscareer to help Rachel. Howcouldsheignorethat?

“Bad things arehappening, Madame.Impossiblethings.Itrainedtobe a soldier, to fight for mycountry andmakemy familyproud. It was an honorable

choice.Whatwill be thoughtof us upon our return?Whatwillbethoughtofme?”

Shesatdownbesidehim.“Iworry aboutwhatAntoinewillthinkofme,too.Ishouldnothavegivenyouthatlistofnames. I should have beenmorefrugalwithmymoney.Ishouldhaveworkedhardertokeep my job. Perhaps I

should have listened toIsabellemore.”

“You should not blameyourself. I’m sure yourhusband would agree. Wemenareperhaps tooquick toreachforourguns.”

He turned slightly, hisgazetakinginherattire.

She was dressed in heroveralls and a black sweater.

A black scarf covered herhair. She looked like ahousewifeversionofaspy.

“Itisdangerousforhertorun,”hesaid.

“Andtostay,apparently.”“And there it is,”hesaid.

“Aterribledilemma.”“Which is more

dangerous, I wonder?”Vianneasked.

She expected no answerand was surprised when hesaid,“Staying,Ithink.”

Viannenodded.“You should not go,” he

said.“Ican’tlethergoalone.”Beck considered that.

Finally he nodded. “Youknow the land of MonsieurFrette, where the cows are

raised?”“Oui.But—”“There is a cattle trail

behind the barn. It leads tothe least manned of thecheckpoints.Itisalongwalk,but one should make thecheckpoint before curfew. Ifsomeone were wonderingabout that. Not that I knowanyonewhois.”

“My father, JulienRossignol,livesinParisat57Avenue de La Bourdonnais.IfI…didn’tcomehomeoneday…”

“I would see that yourdaughtermadeittoParis.”

Herose,takingthepicturewith him. “I am to bed,Madame.”

She stood beside him. “I

amafraidtotrustyou.”“I would be more afraid

notto.”They were closer now,

ringedtogetherbythemeagerlight.

“Are you a good man,HerrCaptain?”

“I used to think so,Madame.”

“Thankyou,”shesaid.

“Do not thank me yet,Madame.”

Heleftheralonewiththelight and returned to hisroom,closingthedoorfirmlybehindhim.

Vianne sat back down,waiting. At seven thirty, sheretrieved the heavy blackshawl that hung fromahookbythekitchendoor.

Be brave, she thought.Justthisonce.

Shecoveredherheadandshoulderswith the shawlandwentoutside.

Rachel and her childrenwere waiting for her behindthebarn.Awheelbarrowwasbeside them; in it Ari laywrapped in blankets, asleep.Tucked around him were a

few possessions Rachel hadchosentotakewithher.“Youhave false papers?” Vianneasked.

Rachel nodded. “I don’tknowhowgoodtheyare,andthey cost me my weddingring.” She looked at Vianne.They communicatedeverything without speakingaloud.

Areyou sure youwant tocomewithus?

I’msure.“Why do we have to

leave?” Sarah said, lookingfrightened.

Rachel put a hand onSarah’sheadandgazeddownat her. “I need you to bestrong for me, Sarah.Rememberourtalk?”

Sarah nodded slowly.“ForAriandPapa.”

Theycrossedthedirtroadandpushedtheirwaythroughthe field of hay toward thecopseoftreesinthedistance.Once in the spindly forest,Vianne felt safer, protectedsomewhat. By the time theyarrivedat theFretteproperty,night had fallen. They found

the cattle trail that led into adeeper wood, where thick,ropey roots veined the dryground, causing Rachel tohavetopushthewheelbarrowhardtokeepitmoving.Timeandagain,itthumpedupoversome root and clattered backdown. Ari whimpered in hissleepandgreedilysuckedhisthumb.Viannecould feel the

sweatrunningdownherback.“I have been in need of

exercise,” Rachel said,breathingheavily.

“And I love a goodwalkthrough the woods,” Vianneanswered. “What about you,M’mselleSarah,whatdoyoufind lovely about ouradventure?”

“I’m not wearing that

stupid star,” Sarah said.“HowcomeSophieisn’twithus? She loves the woods.Remember the scavengerhunts we used to have? Shefoundeverythingfirst.”

Through a break in thetreesupahead,Viannesawaflashing light, and then theblack-and-white markings ofthebordercrossing.

The gate was illuminatedby lights so bright only theenemy would dare use them—or be able to afford to. AGerman guard stood by, hisrifle glinting silver in theunnatural light. There was asmall line of people waitingto pass through. Approvalwould only be granted if thepaperwork was in order. If

Rachel’s false papers didn’twork, she and the childrenwouldbearrested.

It was real suddenly.Vianne came to a stop. Shewould have to watch it allfromhere.

“I’ll write if I can,”Rachelsaid.

Vianne’s throat tightened.Even if the best happened,

she might not hear from herfriend for years. Or ever. Inthisnewworld, therewasnocertain way to keep in touchwiththoseyouloved.

“Don’t give me thatlook,” Rachel said. “Wewillbe together again in no time,drinking champagne anddancing to that jazz musicyoulove.”

Vianne wiped the tearsfrom her eyes. “You know Iwon’t be seen with you inpublic when you startdancing.”

Sarah tugged at hersleeve. “T-tell Sophie I saidgood-bye.”

Vianne knelt down andhuggedSarah.Shecouldhaveheld on forever; instead she

letgo.She started to reach for

Rachel,butherfriendbackedaway. “If I hug you I’ll cryandIcan’tcry.”

Vianne’s arms droppedheavilytoherside.

Rachel reached down forthewheelbarrow.Sheandherchildrenleft theprotectionofthetreesandjoinedthequeue

ofpeopleatthecheckpoint.Aman on a bicycle pedaledthrough and kept going, andthenanoldwomanpushingaflower cart was waved on.Rachel was almost to thefront of the queue when awhistleshriekedandsomeoneyelled inGerman.The guardturnedhismachinegunonthecrowdandopenedfire.

Tiny red bursts pepperedthedark.

Ra-ta-ta-tat.Awomanscreamedasthe

man beside her crumpled tothe ground. The queueinstantly dispersed; peopleraninalldirections.

It happened so fastVianne couldn’t react. Shesaw Rachel and Sarah

running toward her, back tothe trees; Sarah in front,Rachel in back with thewheelbarrow.

“Here!”Viannecriedout,her voice lost in the splatterofgunfire.

Sarah dropped to herkneesinthegrass.

“Sarah!”Rachelcried.Vianne swooped forward

and pulled Sarah into herarms.Shecarriedherintothewoods and laid her on theground,unbuttoninghercoat.

The girl’s chest wasriddled with bullet holes.Blood bubbled up, spilledover,oozing.

Vianne wrenched off hershawl and pressed it to thewounds.

“How is she?” Rachelasked,comingtoabreathlessstop beside her. “Is thatblood?” Rachel crumpled tothegrassbesideherdaughter.In the wheelbarrow, Aristartedtoscream.

Lights flashed at thecheckpoint, soldiers gatheredtogether. Dogs startedbarking.

“Wehave togo,Rachel,”Vianne said. “Now.” Sheclambered to her feet in theblood-slick grass and tookAri out of the wheelbarrow,shoving him at Rachel, whoseemed not to understand.Vianne threw everything outof the wheelbarrow and, ascarefullyasshecould,placedSarah in the rusted metal,

withAri’sblanketbehindherhead. Clutching the handlesin her bloody hands, shelifted the back wheels andbegan pushing. “Come on,”she said to Rachel. “We cansaveher.”

Rachelnoddednumbly.Vianne shoved the

wheelbarrow forward, overthe ropey roots and dirt. Her

heart was pounding and fearwasasourtasteinhermouth,but she didn’t stop or lookback. She knew that Rachelwas behind her—Ari wasscreaming—and if anyoneelsewas following them, shedidn’twanttoknow.

As theynearedLeJardin,Vianne struggled to push theheavy wheelbarrow through

the gully alongside the roadand up the hill to the barn.Whenshefinallystopped,thewheelbarrow thumped downto the ground and Sarahmoanedinpain.

Rachel put Ari down.Then she lifted Sarah out ofthe wheelbarrow and gentlyplaced her on the grass. Ariwailed andheldhis armsout

tobeheld.RachelkneltbesideSarah

and saw the terribledevastation of Sarah’s chest.She looked up at Vianne,gave her a look of such painandlossthatViannecouldn’tbreathe. Then Rachel lookeddown again, and placed ahand on her daughter’s palecheek.

Sarah lifted her head.“Did we make it across thefrontier?” Blood bubbled upfrom her colorless lips, sliddownherchin.

“We did,” Rachel said.“We did. We are all safenow.”

“Iwasbrave,”Sarahsaid,“wasn’tI?”

“Oui,” Rachel said

brokenly.“Sobrave.”“I’m cold,” Sarah

murmured.Sheshivered.Sarah drew in a

shuddering breath, exhaledslowly.

“Wearegoingtogohavesome candy now. And amacaron. I love you, Sarah.AndPapalovesyou.Youareour star.” Rachel’s voice

broke. She was crying now.“Ourheart.Youknowthat?”

“TellSophieI…”Sarah’seyelids fluttered shut. Shedrewalast,shudderingbreathandwentstill.Herlipsparted,but no breath slipped pastthem.

ViannekneltdownbesideSarah.Shefeltforapulseandfound none. The silence

turnedsour, thick;allViannecould think about was thesoundof thischild’s laughterand how empty the worldwould be without it. Sheknew about death, about thegrief that ripped you apartand left you broken forever.She couldn’t imagine howRachelwas still breathing. Ifthis was any other time,

Vianne would sit downbesideRachel, takeherhand,and let her cry. Or hold her.Or talk. Or say nothing.Whatever Rachel needed,Vianne would have movedHeavenandEarthtoprovide;butshecouldn’tdothatnow.Itwasanotherterribleblowinallofthis:Theycouldn’teventaketimetogrieve.

Vianne needed to bestrong for Rachel. “We needto bury her,” Vianne said asgentlyasshecould.

“Shehatesthedark.”“Mymamanwill bewith

her,” Vianne said. “Andyours. You and Ari need togo into the cellar. Hide. I’lltakecareofSarah.”

“How?”

Vianne knew Rachelwasn’taskinghow tohide inthebarn;shewasaskinghowto live after a loss like this,howtopickuponechildandlet theothergo,how tokeepbreathing after you whisper“good-bye.” “I can’t leaveher.”

“You have to. For Ari.”Viannegotslowlytoherfeet,

waiting.Racheldrewinabreathas

clattery as broken glass andleaned forward to kissSarah’scheek.“Iwillalwaysloveyou,”shewhispered.

At last, Rachel rose. Shereached down for Ari, tookhiminherarms,heldhimsotightlyhestartedtocryagain.

Vianne reached for

Rachel’s hand and led herfriendintothebarnandtothecellar.“Iwillcomegetyouassoonasit’ssafe.”

“Safe,”Rachelsaiddully,staringbackthroughtheopenbarndoor.

Viannemovedthecarandopenedthetrapdoor.“There’sa lantern down there. Andfood.”

Holding Ari, Rachelclimbeddown the ladderanddisappearedintothedarkness.Vianneshutthedooronthemandreplacedthecarandthenwent to the lilac bush hermother had planted thirtyyears ago. It had spread talland wide along the wall.Beneath it, almost lost amidthe summer greenery, were

three small white crosses.Two for the miscarriagesshe’dsufferedandonefortheson who’d lived less than aweek.

Rachel had stood herebesideheraseachofherboyswasburied.NowViannewashere toburyherbest friend’sdaughter.Herdaughter’sbestfriend. What kind of

benevolent God would allowsuchathing?

TWENTY-THREE

In the last few momentsbeforedawn,Viannesatnearthe mound of fresh-turnedearth.Shewantedtopray,buther faith felt far away, theremnant of another woman’slife.

Slowly, she got to herfeet.

As the sky turnedlavenderandpink—ironically

beautiful—she went to herbackyard,wherethechickensclucked and flapped theirwings at her unexpectedarrival. She stripped off herbloodyclothes,lefttheminaheap on the ground, andwashedupatthepump.Thenshe took a linen nightdressfromtheclothesline,putiton,andwentinside.

She was bone tired andsoulweary, but therewas nowayshecouldrest.Shelitanoillampandsatonthedivan.Sheclosedhereyesandtriedto imagine Antoine besideher. What would she say tohim now? I don’t know theright thing to do anymore. Iwant to protect Sophie andkeepher safe, butwhatgood

issafetyifshehastogrowupin a world where peopledisappear without a tracebecause they pray to adifferent God? If I amarrested…

The door to the guestroomopened.SheheardBeckcoming toward her. He wasdressed in his uniform andfreshlyshaved,andsheknew

instinctively that he’d beenwaiting for her to return.Worryingabouther.

“You’re returned,” hesaid.

Shewassurehesawsomespatter of blood or dirtsomewhere on her, at hertemple or on the back of herhand. There was an almostimperceptible pause; she

knew hewaswaiting for herto look at him, tocommunicate what hadhappened, but she just satthere. If she opened hermouth she might startscreaming.Orifshelookedathim she might cry, mightdemand to know how it wasthatchildrencouldbeshot inthedarkfornothing.

“Maman?” Sophie said,coming into the room. “YouwerenotinbedwhenIwokeup,”shesaid.“Igotscared.”

She clasped her hands inherlap.“Iamsorry,Sophie.”

“Well,” Beck said. “Imustleave.Good-bye.”

As soon as the doorclosed behind him, Sophiecame closer. She looked a

little bleary-eyed. Tired.“You’re scaringme,Maman.Issomethingwrong?”

Vianne closed her eyes.She would have to give herdaughter this terrible news,and then what? She wouldhold her daughter and strokeher head and let her cry andshewould have to be strong.She was so tired of being

strong. “Come, Sophie,” shesaid, rising. “Let’s sleep alittlelongerifwecan.”

***

That afternoon, in town,Vianne expected to seesoldiers gathering, riflesdrawn,policewagonsparkedin the town square, dogsstraining on leashes, black-

cladSSofficers;somethingtoindicatetrouble.

Buttherewasnothingoutoftheordinary.

She and Sophie remainedinCarriveauallday,standingin queuesVianne knewwerea waste of time, walkingdownonestreetafteranother.At first, Sophie talkedincessantly. Vianne barely

noticed. How could sheconcentrate on normalconversationwithRachelandAri hiding in her cellar andSarahgone?

“Can we leave now,Maman?” Sophie said atnearlythreeo’clock.“There’snothing more to be had.We’rewastingourtime.”

Beck must have made a

mistake. Or perhaps he wassimplybeingoverlycautious.

Certainly they would notround up and arrest Jewishpeopleat thishour.Everyoneknew that arrests were nevermade during mealtimes. TheNazis were much toopunctual and organized forthat—and they loved theirFrenchfoodandwine.

“Oui, Sophie.We can gohome.”

Theyheadedoutof town.Vianneremainedonalert,butifanything,theroadwaslesscrowded than usual. Theairfieldwasquiet.

“Can Sarah come over?”SophieaskedasVianneeasedthebrokengateopen.

Sarah.

Vianne glanced down atSophie.

“You look sad,” herdaughtersaid.

“I am sad,” Vianne saidquietly.

“Are you thinking ofPapa?”

Vianne drew in a deepbreath and released it. Thenshe said gently, “Come with

me,”andledSophietoaspotbeneath theapple tree,wheretheysattogether.

“You are scaring me,Maman.”

Vianne knew she washandlingitbadlyalready,butshe had no idea how to dothis. Sophie was too old forlies and too young for thetruth.Viannecouldn’ttellher

that Sarah had been shottryingtocrosstheborder.Herdaughtermightsaythewrongthingtothewrongperson.

“Maman?”Vianne cupped Sophie’s

thinfaceinherhands.“Sarahdied last night,” she saidgently.

“Died?Shewasn’tsick.”Viannesteeledherself.“It

happens thatway sometimes.God takes you unexpectedly.She’sgone toHeaven.Tobewith her grandmère, andyours.”

Sophie pulled away, gottoherfeet,backedaway.“DoyouthinkI’mstupid?”

“Wh-whatdoyoumean?”“She’sJewish.”Vianne hated what she

saw in her daughter’s eyesrightnow.Therewasnothingyoung in her gaze—noinnocence, no naïveté, nohope. Not even grief. Justanger.

A better mother wouldshapethatangerintolossandthen, at last, into the kind ofmemory of love one cansustain, but Vianne was too

empty to be a good motherrightnow.Shecouldthinkofnowordsthatweren’talieoruseless.

She ripped away the lacytrimat theendofher sleeve.“You see thatbitof redyarnin the tree branch over ourheads?”

Sophie looked up. Theyarn had lost a bit of color,

faded, but still it showed upagainst the brown branchesand green leaves andunripened apples. Shenodded.

“I put that there toremember your papa. Whydon’t you tie one for Sarahand we’ll think of her everytimeweareoutside.”

“But Papa is not dead!”

Sophie said. “Are you lyingto—”

“No. No. We rememberthe missing as much as thelost,don’twe?”

Sophie took the threadycoil of lace in her hand.Looking a little unsteady onher feet, she tied the strandontothesamebranch.

Vianne ached for Sophie

to come back, turn to her,reach out for a hug, but herdaughter just stood there,staring at the scrap of lace,hereyesbrightwithtears.“Itwon’t always be like this”wasallViannecouldthinkoftosay.

“Idon’tbelieveyou.”Sophie looked at her at

last.“I’mtakinganap.”

Vianne could only nod.Ordinarily she would havebeen undone by this tensionwith her daughter,overwhelmed by a sense ofhaving failed. Now, she justsighed and got to her feet.Shewipedthegrassfromherskirt and headed up to thebarn. Inside, she rolled theRenault forward and opened

the cellar door. “Rach? It’sme.”

“Thank God” came awhispery voice from thedarkness. Rachel climbed upthe creaking ladder andemerged into the dusty light,holdingAri.

“Whathappened?”Rachelaskedtiredly.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”“I went to town.

Everything seems normal.Maybe Beck was beingoverly cautious, but I thinkyou should spend one morenightdownthere.”

Rachel’s facewas drawn,tired-looking. “I’ll needdiapers.Andaquickbath.AriandIbothsmell.”Thetoddler

startedtocry.Shepushedthedamp curls away from hersweat-dampened foreheadand murmured to him in asoft,liltingvoice.

They left the barn andheaded for Rachel’s housenextdoor.

They were nearly to thefront door when a Frenchpolicecarpulledupoutfront.

Paul got out of the car andstrode into theyard, carryinghis rifle. “AreyouRacheldeChamplain?”heasked.

Rachel frowned. “YouknowIam.”

“You are being deported.Comewithme.”

Rachel tightenedherholdon Ari. “Don’t take my son—”

“He is not on the list,”Paulsaid.

Viannegrabbedtheman’ssleeve. “You can’t do this,Paul.SheisFrench!”

“She’saJew.”HepointedhisrifleatRachel.“Move.”

Rachel started to saysomething, but Paul silencedher; he grabbed her by thearm, yanked her out to the

road, and forced her into thebackseatofhisautomobile.

Vianne meant to staywhere she was—safe—intendedto,butthenextthingshe knew she was runningalongside the automobile,banging on the bonnet,beggingtobelet inside.Paulslammed on the brakes, lether climb into the backseat,

and then he stomped on thegas.

“Go,”RachelsaidastheypassedLeJardin.“This isnoplaceforyou.”

“This is no place foranyone,”Viannesaid.

Even a week ago, shemight have let Rachel goalone.Shemighthave turnedaway—with regret, probably,

and guilt, certainly—but shewould have thought thatprotecting Sophie was moreimportantthananythingelse.

Last night had changedher. She still felt fragile andfrightened, maybe more so,butshewasangrynow,too.

In town, there werebarricadesonadozenstreets.Police wagons were

everywhere, disgorgingpeople with yellow stars ontheir chests, herding themtoward the train station,where cattle cars waited.There were hundreds ofpeople; theymusthavecomefromallthecommunesinthearea.

Paul parked and openedthe car doors. Vianne and

Rachel and Ari stepped intothe crowd of Jewish womenand children and old menmaking their way to theplatform.

A train waited, puffingblack smoke into the alreadyhotair.TwoGermansoldierswere standing on theplatform. One of them wasBeck.Hewasholdingawhip.

Awhip.But it was French police

who were in charge of theroundup; they were forcingpeopleintolinesandshovingthem onto the cattle cars.Menwentintoonecattlecar;women and children in theother.

Up ahead, a womanholdingababytriedtorun.A

gendarme shot her in theback. She pitched to theground,dead;thebabyrolledto the boots of the gendarmeholdingasmokinggun.

Rachel stopped, turned toVianne. “Take my son,” shewhispered.

Thecrowdjostledthem.“Take him. Save him,”

Rachelpleaded.

Vianne didn’t hesitate.She knew now that no onecould be neutral—notanymore—and as afraid asshe was of risking Sophie’slife, she was suddenly moreafraid of letting her daughtergrow up in a world wheregood people did nothing tostop evil, where a goodwoman could turn her back

on a friend in need. Shereached for the toddler, tookhiminherarms.

“You!” A gendarmestabbed Rachel in theshoulder with the butt of hisrifle so hard she stumbled.“Move!”

ShelookedatVianne,andthe universe of theirfriendship was in her eyes—

the secrets they’d shared, thepromises they’d made andkept, the dreams for theirchildren that bound them asneatlyassisters.

“Getoutofhere,”Rachelcriedhoarsely.“Go.”

Vianne backed away.Before she knew it, she hadturnedandbegunshovingherwaythroughthecrowd,away

from the platform and thesoldiers and the dogs, awayfromthesmelloffearandthecrackofwhipsandthesoundofwomenwailingandbabiescrying. She didn’t allowherself to slow until shereached the end of theplatform. There, holding Ariclosely,sheturnedaround.

Rachelstoodintheblack,

yawning entrance of a cattlecar, her face and hands stillsmeared with her daughter’sblood. She scanned thecrowd, saw Vianne, andraisedherbloodyhandintheair, and then she was gone,shoved back by the womenstumbling inaroundher.Thedoor to thecattlecarclangedshut.

***

Vianne collapsed onto thedivan. Ari was cryinguncontrollably and his diaperwas wet and he smelled ofurine.Sheshouldgetup,takecare of him, do something,but she couldn’t move. Shefelt weighed down by loss,suffocatedbyit.

Sophie came into the

living room. “Why do youhaveAri?”shesaidinaquiet,frightened voice. “Where’sMadamedeChamplain?”

“She is gone,” Viannesaid. She hadn’t the strengthto fabricate a lie, and whatwasthegoodofoneanyway?

There was no way toprotect her daughter from alloftheevilaroundthem.

Noway.Sophie would grow up

knowing toomuch.Knowingfear and loss and probablyhatred.

“Rachel was born inRomania,” Vianne saidtightly. “That—along withbeingJewish—washercrime.The Vichy governmentdoesn’tcarethatshehaslived

in France for twenty-fiveyears and married aFrenchmanandthathefoughtfor France. So they deportedher.”

“Where will they takeher?”

“Idon’tknow.”“Willshecomebackafter

thewar?”Yes. No. I hope so.What

answerwouldagoodmothergive?

“Ihopeso.”“AndAri?”Sophieasked.“Hewillstaywithus.He

wasn’tonthelist.Iguessourgovernment believes childrencanraisethemselves.”

“ButMaman,whatdowe—”

“Do? What do we do? I

have no idea.” She sighed.“For now, you watch thebaby. I’ll go next door andgethiscribandclothes.”

Viannewas almost to thedoor when Sophie said,“WhataboutCaptainBeck?”

Viannestoppeddead.Sheremembered seeing him onthe platform with a whip inhis hand; a whip he cracked

to herd women and childrenonto a cattle car.“Oui,” shesaid. “What about CaptainBeck?”

***

Vianne washed her blood-soakedclothesandhungthemtodryinthebackyard,tryingnot to notice how red thesoapy water was when she

splashed it across the grass.She made Sophie and Arisupper (What had shemade?She couldn’t remember.) andputthemtobed,butoncethehousewasquietanddark,shecouldn’t suppress heremotions. She was angry—howlingly so—anddevastated.

She couldn’t stand how

dark and ugly her thoughtswere, how bottomless heranger and grief. She rippedtheprettylacefromhercollarand stumbled outside,remembering when Rachelhad given her this blouse.Threeyearsago.

It’s what everyone’swearinginParis.

The apple trees spread

their arms above her. It tookher two tries to tie the scrapof fabric to the knobbywooden branch betweenAntoine’s and Sarah’s, andwhen she’d done it, shesteppedback.

Sarah.Rachel.Antoine.The scraps of color

blurred; that was when sherealizedshewascrying.

“Please God,” she begantopray,lookingupatthebitsof fabric and lace and yarn,tied around the knobbybranch, interspersed withunripe apples. What goodwere prayers now, when herlovedonesweregone?

She heard a motorcycle

come up the road and parkoutsideLeJardin.

Moments later:“Madame?”

She spun to face him.“Where’s your whip, HerrCaptain?”

“Youwerethere?”“Howdoesitfeeltowhip

aFrenchwoman?”“You can’t think Iwould

do that, Madame. It sickensme.”

“Andyetthereyouwere.”“As were you. This war

has put us all where we donotwanttobe.”

“Less so for youGermans.”

“I tried to help her,” hesaid.

At that, Vianne felt the

rage go out of her; her griefreturned.HehadtriedtosaveRachel. If only they hadlistened to him and kept herhidden longer. She swayed.Beck reached out andsteadiedher.

“You said to hide her inthemorning. Shewas in thatterrible cellar all day. Byafternoon, I thought …

everythingseemednormal.”“VonRichteradjustedthe

timetable. There was aproblemwiththetrains.”

Thetrains.Rachelwavinggood-bye.Vianne lookedup at him.

“Wherearetheytakingher?”Itwasthefirstsubstantive

question she’d ever askedhim.

“To a work camp inGermany.”

“Ihidherallday,”Viannesaid again, as if it matterednow.

“TheWehrmachtaren’tincontrol anymore. It’s theGestapo and the SS. They’remore…brutesthansoldiers.”

“Whywereyouthere?”“I was following orders.

Whereareherchildren?”“Your Germans shot

Sarah in the back at thefrontiercheckpoint.”

“Mein Gott,” hemuttered.

“I have her son. Whywasn’tArionthelist?”

“He was born in Franceand is under fourteen. Theyare not deporting French

Jews.” He looked at her.“Yet.”

Viannecaughtherbreath.“WilltheycomeforAri?”

“I believe that soon theywill deport all Jews,regardless of age or place ofbirth. And when they do, itwill become dangerous tohaveanyJewinyourhome.”

“Children, deported.

Alone.”The horror of itwasunbelievable,evenafterwhatshe’d already seen. “Ipromised Rachel I’d keephim safe. Will you turn mein?”sheasked.

“I am not a monster,Vianne.”

It was the first time he’deverusedherChristianname.

Hemovedcloser.“Iwant

toprotectyou,”hesaid.Itwas theworst thing he

couldhave said.Shehad feltlonelyforyears,butnowshetrulywasalone.

He touched her upperarm,almostacaress,andshefelt it in every part of herbody, like an electricalcharge. Unable to helpherself,shelookedathim.

Hewasclosetoher,justakiss away.All she had to dowas give him the slightestencouragement—a breath, anod, a touch—and he wouldclose the gap between them.For a moment, she forgotwho she was and what hadhappened today; she longedto be soothed, to forget. Sheleaned the smallest bit

forward, enough to smell hisbreath,feelitonherlips,andthen she remembered—all atonce,inawhooshofanger—and she pushed him away sohestumbled.

She scrubbed her lips, asifthey’dtouchedhis.

“Wecan’t,”shesaid.“Ofcoursenot.”Butwhenhelookedather

—and she looked at him—theybothknewthattherewassomethingworsethankissingthewrongperson.

Itwaswantingto.

TWENTY-FOUR

Summer ended. Hot golden

daysgavewaytowashed-outskiesandfallingrain.Isabellewassofocusedontheescaperoute that she hardly noticedthechangeinweather.

On a chilly Octoberafternoon, she steppedout ofthe train carriage in a crowdof passengers, holding abouquetofautumnflowers.

As she walked up the

boulevard,Germanmotorcarsclogged the street, honkingloudly. Soldiers strodeconfidently among thecowed, drab Parisians.Swastika flags flapped in thewintry wind. She hurrieddowntheMétrosteps.

The tunnel was crowdedwith people and papered inNazi propaganda that

demonizedtheBritsandJewsand made the Führer theanswertoeveryquestion.

Suddenly, the air raidsirenshowled.Theelectricitysnapped off, plungingeveryone into darkness. Sheheard people muttering andbabies crying and old mencoughing.Fromfaraway,shecould hear the thump and

grumbleofexplosions.Itwasprobably Boulogne-Billancourt—again—andwhynot? Renault was makinglorriesfortheGermans.

When theall clear finallysounded, noonemoveduntilmoments later, when theelectricity and lights camebackon.

Isabellewasalmosttothe

trainwhenawhistleblared.She froze. Nazi soldiers,

accompanied by Frenchcollaborators,moved throughthe tunnel, talking to oneanother, pointing at people,pulling them out to theperimeter, forcing them totheirknees.

A rifle appeared in frontofher.

“Papers,” the Germansaid.

Isabelle clutched theflowers in one hand andfumbled nervously with herpursewiththeother.Shehada message for Anoukwrapped within the bouquet.It was not unexpected, ofcourse, this search. Since theAllied successes in North

Africa had begun, theGermans stopped peopleconstantly, demandingpapers. In the streets, theshops, the train stations, thechurches.Therewasnosafetyanywhere. She handed overher false carte d’identité. “Iam meeting a friend of mymother’sforlunch.”

The Frenchman sidled up

to the German and perusedthepapers.Heshookhisheadand the German handedIsabelle her papers and said,“Go.”

Isabelle smiled quickly,nodded a thank-you, andhurried for the train, slippinginto an open carriage just asthedoorsslidshut.

By the time she exited in

the sixteenth arrondissement,hercalmhadreturned.Awetfog clung to the streets,obscuring the buildings andthebargesmoving slowlyonthe Seine. Sounds wereamplifiedby thehaze, turnedstrange. Somewhere, a ballwasbouncing(probablyboysplaying in the street).Oneofthe barges honked its horn

andthenoiselingered.At theavenue, she turned

the corner and went to abistro—one of the few withits lights on. A nasty windruffled the awning. Shepassed the empty tables andwent to the outside counter,where she ordered a café aulait (without coffee or milk,ofcourse).

“Juliette?Isthatyou?”Isabelle saw Anouk and

smiled. “Gabrielle. Howlovely to see you.” IsabellehandedAnouktheflowers.

Anouk ordered a coffee.While they stood there,sipping coffee in the icyweather, Anouk said, “Ispoke with my uncle Henriyesterday.Hemissesyou.”

“Isheunwell?”“No. No. Quite the

opposite. He is planning aparty fornextTuesdaynight.He asked me to extend aninvitation.”

“ShallItakehimagiftforyou?”

“No,butaletterwouldbenice.Here,Ihaveitreadyforyou.”

Isabelletooktheletterandslipped it into the lining ofherpurse.

Anouk looked at her.Smoky shadows circled hereyes.Newlineshadbeguntocrease her cheeks and brow.This life in the shadows hadbeguntotakeatollonher.

“Are you all right, myfriend?”Isabelleasked.

Anouk’s smile was tiredbut true. “Oui.” She paused.“I sawGaëtan last night. Hewill be at the meeting inCarriveau.”

“Whytellme?”“Isabelle, you are the

most transparent person Ihaveevermet.Everythoughtand feeling you have revealsitself in your eyes. Are you

unaware howoften you havementionedhimtome?”

“Really? I thought I hadhiddenit.”

“It’s nice, actually. Itreminds me of what we arefighting for.Simple things: agirl and a boy and theirfuture.” She kissed Isabelle’scheeks. Then she whispered,“Hementionsyouaswell.”

***

Luckily for Isabelle, it wasraining in Carriveau on thislateOctoberday.

No one paid attention topeople in weather like this,not even the Germans. Sheflippedherhoodupandheldher coat shut at her throat;even so, rain pelted her faceandslidincoldstreaksdown

her neck as she hauled herbicycle off the train andwalkeditacrosstheplatform.

On the outskirts of town,she climbed aboard.Choosing a lesser-used alley,she pedaled into Carriveau,bypassing the square. On arainy autumn day like this,therewerefewpeopleoutandabout; only women and

children standing in foodqueues, their coats and hatsdripping rainwater. TheGermansweremostlyinside.

By the time she reachedthe Hôtel Bellevue, she wasexhausted. She dismounted,locked her bicycle to astreetlamp,andwentinside.

A bell jangled overhead,announcing her arrival to the

German soldiers who wereseated in the lobby, drinkingtheirafternooncoffees.

“M’mselle,” one of theofficers said, reaching for aflaky, golden pain auchocolat. “You are soakingwet.”

“These French do notknowenoughtogetoutoftherain.”

Theylaughedatthat.She kept smiling and

walked past them. At thehotel’s front desk, she rangthebell.

Henri came out of theback room, holding a tray ofcoffees. He saw her andnodded.

“Onemoment,Madame,”Henri said, gliding past her,

carrying the tray to a tablewhere twoSSagents sat likespiders in their blackuniforms.

When Henri returned tothe front desk, he said,“MadameGervaise,welcomeback. It is good to see youagain.Yourroomisready,ofcourse. If you’ll followme…”

She nodded and followedHenri down the narrowhallway and up the stairs tothe second floor. There, hepresseda skeletonkey into alock, gave it a twist, andopened the door to reveal asmall bedroom with a singlebed,anightstand,andalamp.He led her inside, kicked thedoor shut with his foot, and

tookherinhisarms.“Isabelle,”hesaid,pulling

her close. “It is good to seeyou.” He released her andstepped back. “WithRomainville…Iworried.”

Isabelle lowered her wethood. “Oui.” In the past twomonths, the Nazis hadcracked down on what theycalledsaboteursandresisters.

Theyhadfinallybeguntoseetherolewomenwereplayingin this war and hadimprisoned more than twohundred French women inRomainville.

She unbuttoned her coatanddraped itover theendofthe bed. Reaching into thelining, she pulled out anenvelope and handed it to

Henri. “Here you go,” shesaid, giving him money thathad come from MI9. Hishotelwasoneofthekeysafehouses their groupmaintained. Isabelle lovedthat they housed Brits andYanks and resisters rightunder the Nazis’ noses.Tonightshewouldbeaguestinthissmallestofrooms.

She pulled out a chairfrombehindascarredwritingdesk and sat down. “Themeetingissetfortonight?”

“Eleven P.M. In theabandoned barn on theAngelerfarm.”

“What’sitabout?”“I’mnotintheknow.”He

sat down on the end of thebed. She could tell by the

look on his face that hewasgoing to get serious and shegroaned.

“I hear the Nazis aredesperate to find theNightingale. Word is thatthey’re trying to infiltrate theescaperoute.”

“Iknow this,Henri.”Shelifted one eyebrow. “I hopeyou are not going to tell me

thatit’sdangerous.”“Youaregoing toooften,

Isabelle. How many tripshaveyoumade?”

“Twenty-four.”Henrishookhishead.“No

wonder they are desperate tofind you. We hear word ofanotherescaperoute,runningthrough Marseille andPerpignan, that is having

success,too.Thereisgoingtobetrouble,Isabelle.”

Shewassurprisedbyhowmuch his concernmoved herand how nice it was to hearherownname.Itfeltgoodtobe Isabelle Rossignol again,even if only for a fewmoments, and to sit withsomeone who knew her. Somuch of her life was spent

hidingandontherun,insafehouseswithstrangers.

Still,shesawnoreasontotalk about this. The escaperoute was invaluable andworth the risk they weretaking. “You are keeping aneyeonmysister,oui?”

“Oui.”“The Nazi still billets

there?”

Henri’s gaze slid awayfromhers.

“Whatisit?”“Vianne was fired from

her teaching post some timeago.”

“Why? Her students loveher. She’s an excellentteacher.”

“The rumor is that shequestioned a Gestapo

officer.”“That doesn’t sound like

Vianne. So she has noincome. What is she livingon?”

Henri lookeduncomfortable. “There isgossip.”

“Gossip?”“AboutherandtheNazi.”

***

Allsummer long,ViannehidRachel’s son in Le Jardin.She made sure never toventure out with him, noteven to garden. Withoutpapers, she couldn’t pretendhe was anyone other thanAriel deChamplain.Shehadto let Sophie stay at homewith the child, and so each

journeytotownwasanerve-wracking event that couldn’tbe over soon enough. Shetoldeveryoneshecouldthinkof—shopkeepers, nuns,villagers—that Rachel hadbeen deported with both herchildren.

Itwas all she could thinkoftodo.

Today, after a long,

sloggingday standing in lineonly to be told there wasnothingleft,Viannelefttownfeeling defeated. There wererumors ofmore deportations,moreroundups,happeningallover France. Thousands ofFrenchJewswerebeingheldatinternmentcamps.

At home, she hung herwetcloakonanexteriorhook

bythefrontdoor.Shehadnoreal hope that it would dryout before tomorrow, but atleast itwouldn’tdripalloverher floor. She stepped out ofher muddy rubber boots bythe door and went into thehouse. As usual, Sophie wasstandingby thedoor,waitingforher.

“I’mfine,”Viannesaid.

Sophie nodded solemnly.“Soarewe.”

“WillyougiveAriabathwhileImakesupper?”

Sophie scooped Ari intoherarmsandlefttheroom.

Vianne uncoiled the scarffromherhairandhungitup.Thenshesetherbasketinthesink to dry out and wentdowntothepantry,whereshe

chose a sausage and someundersized, softeningpotatoesandonions.

Back in the kitchen, shelitthestoveandpreheatedherblack cast-iron skillet.Addingadropofthepreciousoil,shebrownedthesausage.

Viannestareddownatthemeat,breaking itupwithherwooden spoon, watching it

turn from pink to gray to anice, crusty brown. When itwas crispy, she added cubedpotatoesanddicedonionsandgarlic.Thegarlicpoppedandbrowned and released itsscentintotheair.

“Thatsmellsdelicious.”“Herr Captain,” she said

quietly. “I didn’t hear yourmotorcycle.”

“M’mselle Sophie let mein.”

She turned down theflame on the stove andcovered the pan, then facedhim.Bytacitagreement,theyboth pretended that the nightin the orchard had neverhappened. Neither hadmentionedit,andyetitwasintheairbetweenthemalways.

Things had changed thatnight, subtly. He ate supperwith them most nights now;mostly food that he broughthome—never large amounts,just a ham slice or a bag offlour or a few sausages. Hespokeopenlyofhiswifeandchildren,andshetalkedaboutAntoine.Alltheirwordsweredesigned to reinforce a wall

that had already beenbreached. He repeatedlyoffered—most kindly—tomail Vianne’s care packagesto Antoine, which she filledwith whatever small itemsshe could spare—old wintergloves that were too big,cigarettesBeck leftbehind, apreciousjarofjam.

Vianne made sure never

to be alone with Beck. Thatwas the biggest change. Shedidn’tgoout to thebackyardat night or stay up afterSophie went to bed. Shedidn’ttrustherselftobealonewithhim.

“I have brought you agift,”hesaid.

He held out a set ofpapers.Abirthcertificate for

a baby born in June of 1939to Etienne and AiméeMauriac. A boy namedDanielAntoineMauriac.

Vianne looked at Beck.HadshetoldhimthatsheandAntoine hadwanted to nameasonDaniel?Shemusthave,althoughshedidn’trememberit.

“It is unsafe to house

Jewish children now. Or itwillbeverysoon.”

“You have taken such arisk for him. For us,” shesaid.

“Foryou,”hesaidquietly.“And they are false papers,Madame.Remember that.Togo along with the story thatyou adopted him from arelative.”

“I will never tell themtheycamefromyou.”

“It is not myself I worryabout, Madame. Ari mustbecome Daniel immediately.Completely.Andyoumustbeextremely careful. TheGestapo and the SS are …brutes.TheAlliedvictoriesinAfrica are hitting us hard.Andthisfinalsolutionforthe

Jews … it is an evilimpossible to comprehend.I…”He paused, gazed downat her. “I want to protectyou.”

“You have,” she said,lookingupathim.

Hestartedtomovetowardher, and she to him, even assheknewitwasamistake.

Sophiecame running into

the kitchen. “Ari is hungry,Maman. He keepscomplaining.”

Beck came to a stop.Reaching past her—brushingher arm with his hand—hepicked up a fork on thecounter.Takingit,hespearedoneperfectbiteofsausage,acrispy brown cube of potato,achunkofcarmelizedonion.

As he ate it, he stareddownather.Hewassoclosenowshecouldfeelhisbreathon her cheek. “You are amost amazing cook,Madame.”

“Merci,” she said in atightvoice.

Hesteppedback.“IregretI cannot stay for supper,Madame.Imustaway.”

Vianne tore her gazeawayfromhimandsmiledatSophie. “Set the table forthree,”shesaid.

***

Later,whilesuppersimmeredonthestove,Viannegatheredthechildren togetheron theirbed.“Sophie,Ari,comehere.Ineedtospeakwithyou.”

“What is it, Maman?”Sophie asked, lookingworriedalready.

“They are deportingFrench-born Jews.” Shepaused.“Children,too.”

Sophie drew in a sharpbreath and looked at three-year-old Ari, who bouncedhappily on the bed. He wastoo young to learn a new

identity. She could tell himhisnamewasDanielMauriacfromnowuntilforeverandhewouldn’t understand why. Ifhe believed in his mother’sreturn, and waited for that,sooner or later he wouldmake a mistake that wouldgethimdeported,maybeonethatwouldgetthemallkilled.She couldn’t risk that. She

wouldhavetobreakhishearttoprotectthemall.

Forgiveme,Rachel.She and Sophie

exchanged a pained look.Theyboth knewwhat had tobe done, but how could onemother do this to anotherwoman’schild?

“Ari,” she said quietly,taking his face in her hands.

“Your maman is with theangels inHeaven. Shewon’tbecomingback.”

He stopped bouncing.“What?”

“She’s gone forever,”Viannesaidagain,feelingherown tears rise and fall. Shewould say it over and overuntil he believed it. “I amyour maman now. And you

willbecalledDaniel.”He frowned, chewing

noisily on the inside of hismouth,splayinghisfingersasif he were counting. “Yousaidshewascomingback.”

Vianne hated to say it.“She’s not. She’s gone. Likethe sick baby rabbit we lostlastmonth,remember?”Theyhadburieditintheyardwith

greatceremony.“Gone like the bunny?”

Tears filled his brown eyes,spilled over. His mouthtrembled.Viannetookhiminher arms and held him andrubbed his back. But shecouldn’t soothe him enough,nor could she let him go.Atlast,sheeasedbackenoughtolook at him. “Do you

understand…Daniel?”“You’ll be my brother,”

Sophie said, her voiceunsteady.“Truly.”

Vianne felt her heartbreak,butsheknewtherewasno other way to keepRachel’ssonsafe.Sheprayedthathewasyoungenough toforget he was ever Ari, andthesadnessofthatprayerwas

overwhelming. “Say it,” shesaid evenly. “Tell me yourname.”

“Daniel,” he said,obviouslyconfused, trying toplease.

Viannemadehimsayitadozen times that night,whilethey ate their supper ofsausage and potatoes andlater, when they washed the

dishes and dressed for bed.She prayed that this rusewouldbeenoughtosavehim,that his papers would passinspection. Never againwould she call him Ari oreven think of him as Ari.Tomorrow,shewouldcuthishairasshortaspossible.Thenshewouldgototownandtelleveryone (that gossipHélène

Ruelle would be first) of thechild she’d adopted from adeadcousininNice.

Godhelpthemall.

TWENTY-FIVE

Isabelle crept through the

empty streets of Carriveaudressed in black, her goldenhair covered. It was aftercurfew. A meager moonoccasionallycast lighton theuneven cobblestones; moreoften, it was obscured byclouds.

She listened for footstepsand lorry motors and frozewhensheheardeither.Atthe

end of town, she climbedover a rose-covered wall,heedless of the thorns, anddropped into a wet, blackfieldofhay.Shewashalfwaytotherendezvouspointwhenthree aeroplanes roaredoverhead, so low in the skythe trees shivered and theground shook.Machine gunsfiredatoneanother,burstsof

soundandlight.The smaller aeroplane

bankedandswerved.Shesawthe insignia of America ontheundersideofitswingasitbanked left and climbed.Moments later, sheheard thewhistling of a bomb—theinhuman, piercing wail—andthensomethingexploded.

The airfield. They were

bombingit.The aeroplanes roared

overhead again. There wasanother round of gunfire andthe American aeroplane washit. Smoke roiled out. Ascreaming sound filled thenight; the aeroplaneplummeted toward theground, twirled, its wingscatching the moonlight,

reflectingit.It crashedhardenough to

rattle Isabelle’s bones andshakethegroundbeneathherfeet; steel hitting dirt, rivetspopping from metal, rootsbeing torn up. The brokenaeroplaneskiddedthroughtheforest, breaking trees as ifthey were matchsticks. Thesmell of smoke was

overwhelming, and then in agiant whoosh, the aeroplaneburstintoflames.

In the sky, a parachuteappeared, swinging back andforth, the man suspendedbeneathitlookingassmallasacomma.

Isabelle cut through theswath of burning trees.Smokestunghereyes.

Wherewashe?Aglimpseofwhitecaught

hereyeandsherantowardit.The limp parachute lay

across the scrubby ground,theairmanattachedtoit.

Isabelle heard the soundof voices—they weren’t faraway—and the crunching offootsteps. She hoped to Goditwashercolleagues,coming

forthemeeting,buttherewasno way to know. The Naziswouldbebusyattheairfield,butnotforlong.

She skidded toherknees,unhooked the airman’sparachute,gathereditup,andranwithitasfarasshedared,burying it as best she couldbeneathapileofdeadleaves.Thensheranbacktothepilot

andgrabbedhimbythewristsand dragged him deeper intothewoods.

“You’llhavetostayquiet.Do you understand me? I’llcome back, but you need toliestillandbequiet.”

“You…betcha,”hesaid,hisvoicebarelyawhisper.

Isabellecoveredhimwithleaves and branches, but

whenshestoodback,shesawher footprints in the mud,each one oozing with blackwater now, and the rutteddrag marks she’d madehaulinghimoverhere.Blacksmoke rolled past her,engulfed her. The fire wasgetting closer, burningbrighter. “Merde,” shemuttered.

Therewerevoices.Peopleyelling.

Shetriedtorubherhandsclean but the mud justsmeared and smeared,markingher.

Threeshapescameoutofthe woods, moving towardher.

“Isabelle,”amansaid.“Isthatyou?”

A torchlight flicked on,revealing Henri and Didier.AndGaëtan.

“You found the pilot?”Henriasked.

Isabelle nodded. “He’swounded.”

Dogs barked in thedistance. The Nazis werecoming.

Didier glanced behind

them. “We haven’t muchtime.”

“We’ll never make it totown,”Henrisaid.

Isabelle made a split-second decision. “I knowsomewhereclosewecanhidehim.”

***

“This is not a good idea,”

Gaëtansaid.“Hurry,” Isabelle said

harshly. They were in thebarn at Le Jardin now, withthe door shut behind them.The airman lay slumped onthe dirty floor, unconscious,his blood smearing acrossDidier’s coat and gloves.“Pushthecarforward.”

Henri and Didier pushed

theRenault forwardand thenlifted the cellar door. Itcreaked in protest and fellforward and banged into thecar’sfender.

Isabellelitanoillampandhelditinonehandasshefelther way down the wobblyladder. Some of theprovisionsshe’dlefthadbeenused.

She lifted the lamp.“Bringhimdown.”

The men exchanged aworriedlook.

“Idon’tknowaboutthis,”Henrisaid.

“What choice do wehave?” Isabelle snapped.“Nowbringhimdown.”

Gaëtan and Henri carriedtheunconsciousairmandown

intothedark,dankcellarandlaid him on the mattress,which made a rustling,whispery sound beneath hisweight.

Henri gave her a worriedlook.Thenheclimbedoutofthe cellar and stood abovethem.“Comeon,Gaëtan.”

GaëtanlookedatIsabelle.“We’ll have tomove the car

backintoplace.Youwon’tbeable to get out of here untilwe come for you. Ifsomethinghappenedtous,noone would know you werehere.” She could tell hewanted to touch her, and sheached for it. But they stoodwhere they were, their armsattheirsides.“TheNaziswillbe relentless in their search

for this airman. If you’recaught…”

She tiltedherchin, tryingto hide how scared she was.“Don’tletmebecaught.”

“YouthinkIdon’twanttokeepyousafe?”

“Iknowyoudo,”shesaidquietly.

Before he could answer,Henri said, “Come on,

Gaëtan,” from above. “Weneed to find a doctor andfigure out how to get themoutofheretomorrow.”

Gaëtansteppedback.Thewholeworldseemed to lie inthat small space betweenthem. “Whenwe come back,we’ll knock three times andwhistle,sodon’tshootus.”

“I’lltrynotto,”shesaid.

Hepaused.“Isabelle…”Shewaited,buthehadno

more to say, just her name,spokenwiththekindofregretthat had become common.With a sigh, he turned andclimbeduptheladder.

Moments later, thetrapdoor banged shut. Sheheard the boards overheadgroan as the Renault was

rolledbackintoplace.Andthen,silence.Isabellestartedtopanic.It

was the locked bedroomagain; Madame Doomslamming the door, clickingthelock,tellinghertoshutupandquitaskingforthings.

She couldn’t get out ofhere, not even in anemergency.

Stop it. Be calm. Youknowwhatneeds tobedone.She went over to theshelving, pushed her father’sshotgun aside, and retrievedthe box of medical supplies.A quick inventory revealedscissors, aneedleand thread,alcohol, bandages,chloroform, Benzedrinetablets,andadhesivetape.

She knelt beside theairmanandsetthelampdownonthefloorbesideher.Bloodsoaked the chestofhis flightsuit,andittookgreatefforttopeel the fabric away. Whenshe did, she saw the giant,gaping hole in his chest andknew there was nothing shecoulddo.

She sat beside him,

holdinghishanduntilhetookonelast,troubledbreath;thenhis breathing stopped. Hismouthslowlygapedopen.

She gently eased the dogtags from around his neck.They would need to behidden. She looked down atthem. “Lieutenant KeithJohnson,”shesaid.

Isabelleblewoutthelamp

and sat in the dark with adeadman.

***

The next morning, Viannedressedindenimoverallsanda flannel shirt of Antoine’sthat she had cut down to fither. She was so thin thesedays that still the shirtoverwhelmedherslimframe.

Shewould have to take it inagain.HerlatestcarepackagetoAntoine saton thekitchencounter,readytobemailed.

Sophie had had a restlessnight,soViannelethersleep.Shewentdownstairstomakecoffee and almost ran intoCaptain Beck, who waspacing the living room. “Oh.HerrCaptain.Iamsorry.”

He seemed not to hearher. She had never seen himlook so agitated. His usuallypomaded hair was untended;alockkeptfallinginhisfaceand he cursed repeatedly ashe brushed it away. He waswearing his gun, which heneverdidinthehouse.

He strode past her, hishands fisted at his sides.

Anger contorted hishandsome face, made himalmost unrecognizable. “Anaeroplane went down nearhere last night,” he said,facing her at last. “AnAmericanaeroplane.TheonetheycallaMustang.”

“I thought you wantedtheir aeroplanes to go down.Isn’t that why you shoot at

them?”“We searched all night

and didn’t find a pilot.Someoneishidinghim.”

“Hidinghim?Oh,Idoubtthat.Mostlikelyhedied.”

“Then there would be abody, Madame. We found aparachutebutnobody.”

“But who would be sofoolish?”Viannesaid.“Don’t

you … execute people forthat?”

“Swiftly.”Vianne had never heard

him speak in such a way. Itmade her draw back, andrememberthewhiphe’dheldon the day Rachel and theothersweredeported.

“Forgive my manner,Madame.Butwehaveshown

you all our best behaviors,and this iswhatweget frommanyofyouFrench.Liesandbetrayalandsabotage.”

Vianne’s mouth droppedopeninshock.

He looked at her, sawhow she was staring at him,and he tried to smile.“Forgive me again. I don’tmean you, of course. The

Kommandant is blaming mefor this failure to find theairman. I am charged withdoingbetter today.”Hewentto the front door, opened it.“IfIdonot…”

Through the open door,she saw a glimpse of gray-green in her yard. Soldiers.“Goodday,Madame.”

Vianne followed him as

farasthefrontstep.“Lock and close all the

doors, Madame. This pilotmay be desperate. Youwouldn’t want him to breakintoyourhome.”

Viannenoddednumbly.Beckjoinedhisentourage

of soldiersand took the lead.Their dogs barked loudly,strained forward, sniffing at

the ground along the base ofthebrokenwall.

Vianneglancedupthehilland saw that the barn doorwas partially open. “HerrCaptain!”shecalledout.

The captain stopped; sodid his men. The snarlingdogsstrainedattheirleashes.

And then she thought ofRachel.This iswhereRachel

wouldcomeifshe’descaped.“N-nothing, Herr

Captain,”Viannecalledout.He nodded brusquely and

ledhismenuptheroad.Vianne slipped into the

bootsbythedoor.Assoonasthesoldierswereoutofsight,shehurriedupthehilltowardthe barn. In her haste, sheslippedtwiceinthewetgrass

and nearly fell. Rightingherselfatthelastminute,shetook a deep breath andopened the barn door all theway.

She noticed right awaythatthecarhadbeenmoved.

“I’m coming, Rachel!”she said. She put the car inneutral and rolled it forwarduntil the cellar door was

revealed.Squattingdown,shefelt for the flat metal handleand lifted the hatch door.When it was high, she let itbangagainstthecarfender.

She got a lantern, lit it,and peered down into thedarkcellar.“Rach?”

“Go away, Vianne.NOW.”

“Isabelle?” Vianne

descended the ladder, saying,“Isabelle, what are—” Shedropped to the ground andturned,thelanterninherhandswinginglight.

Her smile faded.Isabelle’s dress was coveredinblood,herblondhairwasamess—full of leaves andtwigs—and her face was soscratchedit lookedlikeshe’d

gone running in a blackberrypatch.

But thatwasn’t theworstofit.

“The pilot,” Viannewhispered,staringat themanlying on the misshapenmattress. It scared her somuch she backed into theshelving. Something clangedto the ground and rolled.

“The one they’re lookingfor.”

“You shouldn’t havecomedownhere.”

“I am the one whoshouldn’t be here? You fool.Doyouknowwhatthey’lldoto us if they find him here?How could you bring thisdangertomyhouse?”

“I’m sorry. Just close the

cellar door and put the carback in place. Tomorrowwhen youwake up, we’ll begone.”

“You’re sorry,” Viannesaid. Anger swept throughher. How dare her sister dothisthing,putSophieandherat risk? And now there wasAri here, who still didn’tunderstand that he needed to

beDaniel. “You’ll get us allkilled.”Viannebackedaway,reached for the ladder. Shehad to put as much distanceas she could between herselfand this airman … and herreckless, selfish sister. “Begone by tomorrow morning,Isabelle. And don’t comeback.”

Isabelle had the nerve to

lookwounded.“But—”“Don’t,”Vianne snapped.

“I’m done making excusesforyou.Iwasmeantoyouasagirl,Mamandied,Papaisadrunk, Madame Dumastreatedyoubadly.Allof it isthetruth,andIhavelongedtobe a better sister to you, butthat stops here. You are asthoughtless and reckless as

always,onlynowyouwillgetpeople killed. I can’t let youendanger Sophie. Do notcome back. You are notwelcomehere.Ifyoureturn,Iwill turn you inmyself.”Onthat,Vianneclambereduptheladderandslammedthecellardoorshutbehindher.

***

Vianne had to keep busy orshe would fall into a full-blown panic. She woke thechildrenand fed thema lightbreakfast and got started onherchores.

After harvesting the lastof the autumn’s vegetables,she pickled cucumbers andzucchini and canned somepumpkinpuree.Allthewhile,

she was thinking aboutIsabelleandtheairmaninthebarn.

What should be done?The question haunted her allday, reasserting itselfconstantly.Every choicewasdangerous. Obviously sheshould just keep quiet aboutthe airman in the barn.Silencewasalwayssafest.

Butwhat ifBeck and theGestapoand theSSand theirdogs went into the barn ontheirown? IfBeck found theairman in a barn on theproperty where he wasbilleted, the Kommandantwould not be pleased. Beckwouldbehumiliated.

The Kommandant isblamingmeforthisfailureto

findtheairman.Humiliatedmen could be

dangerous.Maybe she should tell

Beck. He was a good man.He had tried to save Rachel.HehadgottenAripapers.Hemailed Vianne’s carepackagestoherhusband.

Perhaps Beck could beconvinced to take the airman

and leave Isabelle out of it.The airmanwould be sent toa prisoner of war camp; thatwasnotsobad.

She was still grapplingwith these questions longafter supper had ended andshe’dputthechildrentobed.She didn’t even try to go tosleep. How could she sleepwith her family at such risk?

Thethoughtof thatmadeheranger with Isabelle swellagain. At ten o’clock, sheheard footsteps out front andasharprap-raponthedoor.

Sheputdownherdarningand got to her feet.Smoothingthehairbackfromherface,shewenttothedoorand opened it. Her handswere trembling so badly she

fistedthemathersides.“HerrCaptain,” she said. “You arelate. Shall I make yousomethingtoeat?”

He muttered, “No, thankyou,” and pushed past her,rougher than he’d ever beenbefore.Hewentintohisroomand came back with a bottleof brandy. Pouring himself ahuge draught in a chipped

café glass, he downed theliquid and poured himselfanother.

“HerrCaptain?”“Wedidn’tfindthepilot,”

he said, downing the seconddrink,pouringathird.

“Oh.”“These Gestapo.” He

looked at her. “They’ll killme,”hesaidquietly.

“No,surely.”“They do not like to be

disappointed.” He drank thethird glass of brandy andslammed the glass down onthetable,almostbreakingit.

“I have lookedeverywhere,”he said. “Everynook and cranny of thisgodforsaken town. I’velooked in cellars and

basements and chicken pens.In thickets of thorns andunder piles of garbage. Andwhat do I have to show formyefforts?Aparachutewithbloodonitandnopilot.”

“S-surely you haven’tlookedeverywhere,”shesaidto console him. “Shall I getyousomethingtoeat?Isavedyousomesupper.”

Hestoppedsuddenly.Shesaw his gaze narrow, heardhim say, “It is not possible,but…” He grabbed atorchlight and strode to thecloset in the kitchen andyankedthedooropen.

“Whatareyoud-doing?”“I am searching your

house.”“Surely you don’t

think…”Shestood there,herheart

thumpingashesearchedfromroomtoroomandyankedthecoats out of the closet andpulled the divan away fromthewall.

“Areyousatisfied?”“Satisfied, Madame? We

lostfourteenpilotsthisweek,and God knows how many

aeroplanecrew.AMercedes-Benz factory was blown uptwo days ago and all theworkers were killed. Myuncleworks in that building.Worked,Isuppose.”

“I’msorry,”shesaid.Vianne drew in a deep

breath, thinking it was over,andthenshesawthathewasgoingoutside.

Did she make a sound?She was afraid that she did.Shesurgedafterhim,wantingto grab his sleeve, but shewas too late.Hewas outsidenow, following the beam ofhis torchlight, the kitchendoor standing open behindhim.

Sheranafterhim.He was at the dovecote,

yankingthedooropen.“Herr Captain.” She

slowed, tried to calm herbreathing as she rubbed herdamp palms down her pantlegs. “You will not findanythingoranyonehere,HerrCaptain. You must knowthat.”

“Are you a liar,Madame?”Hewasnotangry.

Hewasafraid.“No.YouknowIamnot.

Wolfgang,” she said, usinghis Christian name for thefirst time. “Surely yoursuperiors will not blameyou.”

“This is theproblemwithyou French,” he said. “Youfail to see the truth when itsits down beside you.” He

pushed past her and walkedupthehill,towardthebarn.

He would find Isabelleandtheairman…

Andifhedid?Prison for all of them.

Maybeworse.He would never believe

thatshedidn’tknowaboutit.She had already shown toomuch to go back to

innocence. And it was toolatenowtorelyonhishonorinsavingIsabelle.Viannehadliedtohim.

He opened the barn doorandstoodthere,hishandsonhis hips, looking around. Heputdownhistorchlightandlitan oil lamp. Setting it down,he checkedevery inchof thebarn, each stall and the

hayloft.“Y-you see?” Vianne

said.“Nowcomeback to thehouse. Perhaps you’d likeanotherbrandy.”

He looked down. Therewere faint tire tracks in thedust. “You said once thatMadamedeChamplainhidinacellar.”

No. Vianne meant to say

something, but when sheopened her mouth, nothingcameout.

He opened the Renault’sdoor, put the car in neutral,andpusheditforward,rollingit far enough to reveal thecellardoor.

“Captain,please…”He bent down in front of

her.His fingersmovedalong

the floor, searching thecreases for the edges of thehatch.

If he opened that door, itwas over. He would shootIsabelle, or take her intocustody and send her toprison. And Vianne and thechildren would be arrested.Therewouldbeno talking tohim,noconvincinghim.

Beckunholsteredhisgun,cockedit.

Vianne lookeddesperatelyforaweapon,sawa shovel leaned against thewall.

He lifted the hatch andyelledsomething.Asthedoorbanged open, he stood up,taking aim. Vianne grabbedthe shovel and swung it at

him with all of her strength.The metal scoop made asickening thunk as it hit himin the back of the head andsliced deeply into his skull.Bloodspurteddownthebackofhisuniform.

At the same time, twoshots rang out; one fromBeck’sgunandonefromthecellar.

Beck staggered sidewaysand turned.Therewasaholethe size of an onion in hischest, spurting blood. A flapof hair and scalp hung overone eye. “Madame,” he said,crumpling to his knees. Hispistol clattered to the floor.The torchlight rolled acrosstheunevenboards,clattering.

Vianne threw the shovel

aside and knelt down besideBeck,wholaysprawledface-first in a pool of his blood.Using all of her weight, sherolledhimover.Hewaspalealready, chalkily so. Bloodclottedhishair,streakedfromhis nostrils, bubbled at everybreathhetook.

“I’msorry,”Viannesaid.Beck’s eyes fluttered

open.Vianne tried to wipe the

blood off his face, but it justmade more of a mess. Herhands were red with it now.“I had to stopyou,” she saidquietly.

“Tellmyfamily…”Vianne saw the life leave

his body, saw his chest stoprising,hisheartstopbeating.

Behindher,sheheardhersister climbingup the ladder.“Vianne!”

Viannecouldn’tmove.“Are … you all right?”

Isabelleaskedinabreathless,wheezing voice. She lookedpaleandalittleshaky.

“Ikilledhim.He’sdead,”Viannesaid.

“No, you didn’t. I shot

him in the chest,” Isabellesaid.

“Ihithimintheheadwithashovel.Ashovel.”

Isabelle moved towardher.“Vianne—”

“Don’t,” Vianne saidsharply.“Idon’twanttohearsome excuse from you. Doyouknowwhatyou’vedone?ANazi.Deadinmybarn.”

Before Isabelle couldanswer, there was a loudwhistle, and then a mule-drawn wagon entered thebarn.

ViannelurchedforBeck’sweapon,staggeredtoherfeeton the blood-slickedfloorboards, and pointed thegunatthestrangers.

“Vianne, don’t shoot,”

Isabelle said. “They’refriends.”

Vianne looked at theragged-looking men in thewagon;thenathersister,whowas dressed all in black andlooked milky pale, withshadows under her eyes. “Ofcourse they are.” Shemovedsideways but kept the guntrained on the men crowded

onto the front of the ricketywagon. Behind them, in thebed of thewagon, lay a pinecoffin.

She recognized Henri—themanwho ran thehotel intown,withwhomIsabellehadrun off to Paris. Thecommunist with whomIsabellethoughtshemightbein love a little. “Of course,”

Viannesaid.“Yourlover.”Henri jumped down from

the wagon and closed thebarndoor. “What in the fuckhappened?”

“Vianne hit him with ashovel and I shot him,”Isabelle said. “There’s somesisterlydisputeonwhokilledhim, but he’s dead. CaptainBeck.Thesoldierwhobillets

here.”Henri exchanged a look

with one of the strangers—ascrappy, sharp-faced youngman with hair that was toolong.“That’saproblem,”themansaid.

“Can you get rid of thebody?” Isabelle asked. Shewas pressing a hand to herchest, as if her heart was

beating too fast. “And theairman’s, too—he didn’tmakeit.”

A big, shaggy man in apatched coat and pants thatwere too small jumpeddownfrom the wagon. “Disposingofthebodiesistheeasypart.”

Whowerethesepeople?Isabelle nodded. “They’ll

come looking for Beck. My

sister can’t stand up toquestioning. We’ll need toputherandSophieinhiding.”

That did it. They weretalkingaboutVianneasifsheweren’t even here. “Runningwouldonlyprovemyguilt.”

“Youcan’tstay,” Isabellesaid.“Itisn’tsafe.”

“By all means, Isabelle,worry about me now, after

you’ve put me and thechildrenatriskandforcedmetokilladecentman.”

“Vianne,please—”Vianne felt something in

her harden. It seemed thatevery time she thought she’dhit rock bottom in this war,somethingworsecamealong.Nowshewasamurderessandit was Isabelle’s fault. The

lastthingshewasgoingtodonow was follow her sister’sadviceandleaveLeJardin.“IwillsaythatBecklefttolookfor the airman and neverreturned. What do I, anordinary French housewife,knowofsuchthings?Hewashere and then he was gone.C’estlavie.”

“It’sasgoodanansweras

any,”Henrisaid.“This is my fault,”

Isabelle said, approachingVianne. She saw her sister’sregret for this, and her guilt,but Vianne didn’t care. Shewas too scared for thechildren to worry aboutIsabelle’sfeelings.

“Yesitis,butyoumadeitmine, too. We killed a good

man,Isabelle.”Isabelle swayed a little,

unsteady. “V. They’ll comeforyou.”

Vianne started to say“And whose fault is that?,”but when she looked atIsabelle, thewords caught inherthroat.

Shesawbloodoozingoutfrom between Isabelle’s

fingers.Forasplitsecond,theworld slowed down, tilted,became nothing but noise—the men talking behind her,the mule stomping his hoofonthewoodenfloor,herownlabored breathing. Isabellecrumpled to the floor,unconscious.

BeforeViannecouldevencryout,ahandclampedover

her mouth, arms yanked herback. The next thing sheknew shewas being draggedaway from her sister. Shewrestled to be free but theman holding her was toostrong.

ShesawHenridroptohisknees beside Isabelle and ripopen her coat and blouse torevealabulletholejustbelow

hercollarbone.Henri toreoffhis shirtandpressed it to thewound.

Vianne elbowed hercaptor hard enough to makehimooph.Shewrenchedfreeand rushed to Isabelle’s side,slipping in the blood, almostfalling.“There’samedicalkitinthecellar.”

The dark-haired man—

who suddenly looked asshakyasVianne felt—leapeddown the cellar stairs andreturnedquickly,carryingthesupplies.

Vianne’s hands wereshakingasshereachedforthebottle of alcohol andwashedherhandsasbestshecould.

She took a deep breathand took over the job of

pressingHenri’s shirt againstthe wound, which she feltpulsingbeneathher.

Twice she had to drawback,wring blood out of theshirt, and start again, butfinally, the bleeding stopped.Gently, she rolled Isabelleintoherarmsandsawtheexitwound.

ThankGod.

ShecarefullylaidIsabellebackdown.“This isgoing tohurt,” she whispered. “Butyou’re strong, aren’t you,Isabelle?”

She doused the woundwith alcohol. Isabelleshuddered at the contact, butshedidn’twakenorcryout.

“That’s good,” Viannesaid. The sound of her own

voice calmed her, remindedherthatshewasamotherandmothers took care of theirfamilies. “Unconscious isgood.” She fished the needlefrom themedicalkit, suchasit was, and threaded it. Shedoused the needle in alcoholand then leaned down to thewound. Very carefully, shebegan stitching the gaping

flesh together. It didn’t takelong—and she hadn’t done agood job, but itwas the bestshecoulddo.

Once she’d stitched theentrance wound, she felt alittle confidence, enough tostitchtheexitwoundandthentobandageit.

At last, she sat back,staring down at her bloody

handsandbloodiedskirt.Isabelle looked so pale

and frail, not herself at all.Her hair was filthy andmatted, her clotheswerewetwithherownblood—andtheairman’s—and she lookedyoung.

Soyoung.Vianne felt a shame so

deep it made her sick to her

stomach. Had she really toldher sister—her sister—to goawayandnotcomeback?

How often had Isabelleheard that in her life, andfrom her own family, frompeoplewhoweresupposedtoloveher?

“I’ll take her to the safehouse in Brantôme,” theblack-hairedonesaid.

“Oh, no, you won’t,”Vianne said. She looked upfrom her sister, saw that thethree men were standingtogether by the wagon,conspiring. She got to herfeet. “She’s not goinganywhere with you. You’rethereasonshe’shere.”

“She’s the reason we’rehere,” the dark-haired man

said.“I’mtakingher.Now.”Vianne approached the

youngman.Therewasalookin his eyes—an intensity—that ordinarily would havefrightened her, but she wasbeyond fear now, beyondcaution. “I know who youare,” Vianne said. “Shedescribed you tome. You’rethe one from Tours who left

herwithanotepinned toherchest as if she were a straydog.Gaston,right?”

“Gaëtan,” he said in avoicethatwassosoftshehadto lean toward him to hear.“Andyoushouldknowaboutthat.Aren’t you theonewhocouldn’t bother to be hersisterwhensheneededone?”

“If you try to take her

awayfromme,I’llkillyou.”“You’ll killme,” he said,

smiling.She cocked her head

toward Beck. “I killed himwith a shovel and I likedhim.”

“Enough,” Henri said,stepping between them. “Shecan’t stay here, Vianne.Think about it.TheGermans

aregoingtocomelookingfortheirdeadcaptain.Theydon’tneed to findawomanwith agunshot wound and falsepapers.Youunderstand?”

The big man steppedforward. “We’ll bury thecaptain and the airman. Andwe’ll make sure themotorcycle disappears.Gaëtan,yougether toa safe

houseintheFreeZone.”Vianne looked from man

toman.“Butit’saftercurfewand the border is four milesaway and she’s wounded.Howwill…”

Halfway through thequestion, she figured out theanswer.

Thecoffin.Vianne took a step back.

Theideaofitwassoterrible,sheshookherhead.

“I’ll take care of her,”Gaëtansaid.

Vianne didn’t believehim. Not for a second. “I’mgoingwithyou.Asfarastheborder. Then I’ll walk backwhenIseethatyou’vegottenhertotheFreeZone.”

“You can’t do that,”

Gaëtansaid.She looked up at him.

“You’d be surprised what Icando.Now,let’sgetheroutofhere.”

TWENTY-SIX

May6,1995TheOregonCoast

That damned invitation is

hauntingme.I’dswearithasaheartbeat.

FordaysIhaveignoredit,but on this bright springmorning, I findmyself at thecounter, staring down at it.Funny. I don’t rememberwalking over here and yethereIam.

Another woman’s handreaches out. It can’t be my

hand, not that veiny, big-knuckled monstrosity thattrembles. She picks up theenvelope,thisotherwoman.

Her hands are shakingevenmorethanusual.

PleasejoinusattheAFEESreunionin

Paris,onMay

7,1995.Thefiftieth

anniversaryoftheendofthe

war.

Forthefirsttime,familiesandfriendsofpasseurswillcometogether

ingratitudetohonorthe

extraordinary“Nightingale,”alsoknownas

JulietteGervaise,inthegrandballroomoftheÎlede

FranceHôtel,

inParis.7:00P.M.

Beside me, the phonerings. As I reach for it, theinvitation slips from mygrasp, falls to the counter.“Hello?”

Someone is talking tomeinFrench.OramIimaginingthat?

“Is this a sales call?” Iask,confused.

“No! No. It is about ourinvitation.”

Ialmostdropthephoneinsurprise.

“Ithasbeenmostdifficulttotrackyoudown,Madame.Iam calling about thepasseurs’ reunion tomorrownight. We are gathering to

celebrate the people whomade the Nightingale escaperoute so successful. Did youreceivetheinvitation?”

“Oui,” I say, clutchingthereceiver.

“Thefirstonewesentyouwas returned, I am sorry tosay. Please forgive thetardiness of the invitation.But…willyoubecoming?”

“It isnotmepeoplewantto see. It’s Juliette. And shehasn’t existed for a longtime.”

“You couldn’t be morewrong, Madame. Seeing youwouldbemeaningfultomanypeople.”

I hang up the phone soharditislikesmashingabug.

But suddenly the idea of

going back—going home—isin my mind. It’s all I canthinkabout.

For years, I kept thememories at bay. I hid themin a dusty attic, far fromprying eyes. I told myhusband, my children,myself,thattherewasnothingforme inFrance. I thought Icould come to America and

makethisnewlifeformyselfandforgetwhatIhaddonetosurvive.

NowIcan’tforget.Do Imake a decision?A

conscious, let’s-think-it-out-and-decide-what’s-best kindofdecision?

No.Imakeaphonecalltomy travel agent and book aflight to Paris, through New

York.ThenIpackabag.It’ssmall, just a rollingcarry-on,the sort of suitcase that abusinesswoman would takeonatwo-daytrip.Init,Ipacksome nylons, a few pairs ofslacksandsomesweaters,thepearl earrings that myhusband bought me on ourfortieth anniversary, andsome other essentials. I have

noideawhatIwillneed,andI’m not really thinkingstraightanyway.ThenIwait.Impatiently.

At the lastminute, after Ihave called a taxi, I call myson and get his messagemachine.Abitofluck,that.Idon’t know if I would havethe courage to tell him thetruthstraightup.

“Hello, Julien,” I say asbrightlyasIcan.“IamgoingtoParisfor theweekend.Myflight leaves at one ten andI’ll call youwhen I arrive tolet you know I’m all right.Givemy love to the girls.” Ipause, knowing how he willfeel when he gets thismessage, how it will upsethim.That’sbecauseIhavelet

himthinkIamweak,alltheseyears;hewatchedmeleanonhis father and defer to hisdecision making. He heardme say, “If that’s what youthink, dear,” amillion times.Hewatchedme stand on thesidelinesofhislifeinsteadofshowing him the field ofmyown.Thisismyfault.It’snowonderhe lovesaversionof

me that is incomplete. “Ishould have told you thetruth.”

WhenIhangup,Iseethetaxi pull up out front. And Igo.

TWENTY-SEVEN

October1942France

ViannesatwithGaëtaninthefront of the wagon, with thecoffin thumping in thewooden bed behind them.The trail through the woodswas hard to find in the dark;they were constantly startingand stopping and turning.Atsomepoint, it started to rain.The only words they’dexchanged in the last hour

andahalfweredirections.“There,” Vianne said

later,as theyreachedtheendof the woods. A light shoneup ahead, straining throughthe trees, turning them intoblack slashes against ablindingwhite.

Theborder.“Whoa,” Gaëtan said,

pullingbackonthereins.

Vianne couldn’t helpthinking about the last timeshe’dbeenhere.

“Howwillyoucross?It’safter curfew,” she said,claspingherhandstogethertostilltheirtrembling.

“I will be LaurenceOlivier.Aman overcome bygrief,takinghisbelovedsisterhometobeburied.”

“What if they check herbreathing?”

“Then someone at theborder will die,” he saidquietly.

Vianne heard what hedidn’t say as clearly as thewords he chose. She was sosurprised that she couldn’tthinkhowtorespond.Hewassayinghewoulddietoprotect

Isabelle. He turned to her,gazed at her. Gazed, notlooked. Again she saw thepredator intensity in thosegrayeyes,buttherewasmorethere, too.Hewaswaiting—patiently—for what shewouldsay.Itmatteredtohim,somehow.

“My father came homechanged from the Great

War,” she said quietly,surprising herself with theadmission. This was notsomething she talked about.“Angry. Mean. He starteddrinking too much. WhileMaman was alive, he wasdifferent…” She shrugged.“Afterherdeath,therewasnopretense anymore. He sentIsabelle andme away to live

withastranger.Wewerebothjust girls, and heartbroken.The difference between uswas that I accepted therejection. I closedhimoutofmy life and found someoneelse to love me. ButIsabelle…shedoesn’tknowhow to concede defeat. Shehurledherselfatthecoldwallof our father’s disinterest for

years, trying desperately togainhislove.”

“Why are you telling methis?”

“Isabelle seemsunbreakable. She has a steelexterior, but it protects acandyfloss heart. Don’t hurther,that’swhatI’msaying.Ifyoudon’tloveher—”

“Ido.”

Vianne studied him.“Doessheknow?”

“Ihopenot.”Vianne would not have

understoodthatanswerayearago. She wouldn’t haveunderstood how dark a sidelove could have, how hidingit was the kindest thing youcoulddo sometimes. “Idon’tknowwhyit’ssoeasyforme

to forget how much I loveher.Westartfighting,and…”

“Sisters.”Vianne sighed. “I

suppose, although I haven’tbeenmuchofonetoher.”

“You’ll get anotherchance.”

“Doyoubelievethat?”His silence was answer

enough. At last, he said,

“Take care of yourself,Vianne.She’llneedaplacetocome home to when all ofthisisover.”

“Ifit’severover.”“Oui.”Viannegotdownfromthe

wagon; her boots sunk deepinto wet, muddy grass. “I’mnotsureshethinksofmeasasafeplacetocomehometo,”

shesaid.“You’llneedtobebrave,”

Gaëtansaid.“WhentheNaziscome looking for their man.You know our real names.That’sdangerousforallofus.Youincluded.”

“I’ll be brave,” she said.“You just tell my sister thatshe needs to start beingafraid.”

For the first time,Gaëtansmiled and Vianneunderstoodhowthisscrawny,sharp-featured man in hisbeggar’s clothes had sweptIsabelle off her feet. He hadthe kind of smile thatinhabited every part of hisface—his eyes, his cheeks;there was even a dimple. Iwearmy heart onmy sleeve,

that smile said, and nowomancouldbeunmovedbysuch transparency.“Oui,” hesaid.“Becauseitissoeasytotellyoursisteranything.”

***

Fire.It’s all around her,

leaping, dancing. A bonfire.She can see it in quivering

strandsof red that comeandgo. A flame licks her face,burnsdeep.

It’s everywhere andthen…it’sgone.

The world is icy, white,sheer and cracked. Sheshiverswiththecold,watchesher fingers turn blue andcrackleandbreakapart.Theyfall away like chalk, dusting

herfrozenfeet.“Isabelle.”Birdsong. A nightingale.

She hears it singing a sadsong.Nightingalesmeanloss,don’t they? Love that leavesor doesn’t last or neverexisted in the first place.There’s a poem about that,shethinks.Anode.

No,notabird.

A man. The king of thefiremaybe.Aprinceinhidinginthefrozenwoods.Awolf.

Shelooksforfootprintsinthesnow.

“Isabelle.Wakeup.”Sheheardhisvoiceinher

imagination.Gaëtan.Hewasn’treallyhere.She

was alone—she was alwaysalone—and this was too

strange to be anything but adream.Shewashot andcoldandachyandwornout.

She rememberedsomething—a loud noise.Vianne’s voice: Don’t comeback.

“I’mhere.”She felt him sit beside

her. The mattress shifted toaccommodate his imaginary

weight.Somethingcoolanddamp

pressedtoherforeheadanditfelt so good that she wasmomentarily distracted. Andthen she felt his lips grazehersand linger there;he saidsomething she couldn’t quitehear and then he drew back.Shefelttheendofthekissasdeeply as she’d felt the start

ofit.Itfeltso…real.Shewantedtosay“Don’t

leave me,” but she couldn’tdo it, not again. She was sotired of begging people toloveher.

Besides, he wasn’t reallyhere, so what would be thepointofsayinganything?

She closed her eyes and

rolled away from the manwhowasn’tthere.

***

ViannesatonBeck’sbed.Ridiculous that she

thought of it that way, butthere it was. She sat in thisroom that had become his,hoping that it wouldn’talwaysbehisinhermind.In

her hand was the smallportraitofhisfamily.

You would love Hilda.Here, she sent you thisstrudel,Madame.Forputtingupwithaloutsuchasmyself.

Vianne swallowed hard.Shedidn’tcry forhimagain.She refused to, butGod, shewanted to cry forherself, forwhat she had done, for who

she had become. Shewantedto cry for the man she’dkilled and the sister whomightnotlive.Ithadbeenaneasy choice, killing Beck tosave Isabelle. So why hadViannebeensoquick to turnon Isabelle before? You arenotwelcomehere.Howcouldshehavesaidthattoherownsister? What if those were

among the last words everspokenbetweenthem?

As she sat, staring at theportrait (tell my family), shewaited for a knock at thedoor. It had been forty-eighthours since Beck’s murder.TheNazisshouldbehereanyminute.

Itwasn’t aquestionof if,but when. They would bang

on her door and push theirway inside. She had spenthours trying to figure outwhat todo.Shouldshego totheKommandant’sofficeandreportBeckmissing?

(No,foolish.WhatFrenchperson would report such athing?)

Or should she wait untiltheycametoher?

(Neveragoodthing.)Orshouldshetrytorun?That only made her

remember Sarah and themoonlit night that wouldforever make her think ofbloody streaks on a child’sface and brought her rightbacktothebeginningagain.

“Maman?” Sophie said,standingintheopendoorway,

thetoddleronherhip.“You need to eat

something,”Sophie said.Shewas taller, almost Vianne’sheight. When had thathappened?Andshewas thin.Viannerememberedwhenherdaughter had had apple-likecheeksandeyesthatsparkledwith mischief. Now she waslike all of them, stretched as

thinasjerkyandagedbeyondheryears.

“They’regoingtocometothe door soon,” Vianne said.She’d said it so often in thepast twodays that herwordssurprised no one. “Yourememberwhattodo?”

Sophie nodded solemnly.Sheknewhowimportantthiswas, even if shedidn’t know

what had become of thecaptain. Interestingly, shehadn’tasked.

Viannesaid,“If they takemeaway—”

“They won’t,” Sophiesaid.

“Andif theydo?”Viannesaid.

“Wewaitforyoutoreturnforthreedaysandthenwego

to Mother Marie-Therese attheconvent.”

Someone pounded on thedoor. Vianne lurched to herfeet so fast she stumbledsidewaysandhitherhip intothe corner of the table,dropping the portrait. Theglassonitcracked.“Upstairs,Sophie.Now.”

Sophie’s eyesbulged,but

sheknewbetterthantospeak.Shetightenedherholdonthetoddler and ran upstairs.When Vianne heard thebedroomdoor slam shut, shesmoothedherwornskirt.Shehad dressed carefully in agray wool cardigan and anoften-mended black skirt. Arespectablelook.Herhairhadbeen curled and carefully

styled into waves thatsoftenedherthinface.

The pounding returned.She allowed herself oneindrawn, calming breath asshe crossed the room. Herbreathing was almost steadyassheopenedthedoor.

Two GermanSchutzstaffel—SS—soldiersstood there, wearing

sidearms. The shorter of thetwo pushed past Vianne,shovingheroutofhiswayashe entered the house. Hestrode from room to room,pushing thingsaside,sendingwhat few knickknacksremained crashing to thefloor. At Beck’s room, hestopped and turned back.“This is Hauptmann Beck’s

room?”Viannenodded.The taller soldiercameat

Vianne fast, leaning forwardas if therewereaharshwindat his back.He looked downat her from on high, hisforeheadobscuredbyashinymilitarycap.“Whereishe?”

“H-howwouldIknow?”“Who is upstairs?” the

soldier demanded. “I hearsomething.”

Itwasthefirst timeshe’deverbeenaskedaboutAri.

“My…children.”Theliecaughtinhervoice,cameouttoo soft. She cleared herthroat and tried again. “Youmay go up there, of course,but please don’t waken thebaby. He’s … sick with the

flu.Orperhaps tuberculosis.”This last she added becauseshe knewhow frightened theNazis were of getting sick.She reached down for herhandbag, clamped it to herchest as if it offered someprotection.

He nodded at the otherGerman, who strodeconfidentlyup the stairs.She

heard him moving aroundoverhead. The ceilingcreaked. Moments later, hecame back downstairs andsaidsomethinginGerman.

“Comewithus,”thetallerone said. “I’m sureyouhavenothingtohide.”

HegrabbedVianne’s armand dragged her out to theblack Citroën parked by the

gate. He shoved her into thebackseat and slammed thedoorshut.

Vianne had about fiveminutes to consider hersituation before they stoppedagain and she was beingyanked up the stone steps ofthe town hall. There werepeople all around the square,soldiers and locals. The

villagers dispersed quicklywhentheCitroënpulledup.

“It’s Vianne Mauriac,”she heard someone say, awoman.

The Nazi’s hold on herupper arm was bruising, butshe made no sound as hepulled her into the town halland down a set of narrowsteps. There, he shoved her

through an open door andslammeditshut.

Ittookhereyesamomentto adjust to the gloom. Shewas in a small, windowlessroomwith stone walls and awoodfloor.Adesksatinthemiddleoftheroom,decoratedwith a plain black lamp thatdeliveredaconeoflightontothe scratched wood. Behind

thedesk—andinfrontofit—were straight-backedwoodenchairs.

She heard the door openbehind her and then close.Footstepsfollowed;sheknewsomeonehadcomeupbehindher. She could smell hisbreath—sausage andcigarettes—and the muskyscentofhissweat.

“Madame,” he said soclose to her ear that sheflinched.

Hands clamped aroundher waist, squeezing tightly.“Doyouhaveanyweapons?”he said, his terrible Frenchdrawing sibilance from thewords. He felt up her sides,slidhisspideryfingersacrossher breasts—giving the

smallest of squeezes—andthenfeltdownherlegs.

“Noweapons.Good.”Hewalked past her and took hisseat at the desk. Blue eyespeered out from beneath hisshiny black military hat.“Sit.”

She did as she was told,foldingherhandsintoherlap.

“I am Sturmbannführer

Von Richter. You areMadameVianneMauriac?”

Shenodded.“You know why you are

here,” he said, taking acigarette from his pocket,lighting it with a match thatglowedintheshadows.

“No,” she said, her voiceunsteady, her hands shakingjustalittle.

“Hauptmann Beck ismissing.”

“Missing. Are youcertain?”

“Whenisthelasttimeyousawhim,Madame?”

She frowned. “I hardlykeeptrackofhismovements,butifpressed…Iwouldsaytwonightsago.Hewasquiteagitated.”

“Agitated?”“It was the downed

airman. He was mostunhappythathehadnotbeenfound.HerrCaptain believedsomeonewashidinghim.”

“Someone?”Vianne forced herself not

tolookaway;nordidshetapher foot nervously on thefloor or scratch the itch that

wasmakingitsuncomfortableway across her neck. “Hesearched all day for theairman.Whenhecamehome,hewas…agitatedistheonlywordIknowtouse.Hedrankanentirebottleofbrandyandbroke a few things in myhouse in his rage. Andthen…” She paused, lettingherfrowndeepen.

“Andthen?”“I’m sure it means

nothingatall.”He slammed his palm

downonthetablesohardthelightshuddered.“What?”

“Herr Captain suddenlysaid, ‘I know where he’shiding,’ and grabbed hissidearm and left my home,slamming the door shut

behind him. I saw him jumpon his motorcycle and takeoff down the road at anunsafe speed, and then …nothing.Henever returned. Iassumed he was busy at theKommandantur.AsIsaid,hiscomings and goings are notmyconcern.”

Themandrewalongdragon his cigarette. The tip

glowed red and then slowlyfaded to black. Ash raineddownonthedesk.Hestudiedher from behind a veil ofsmoke. “A man would notwant to leave a woman asbeautifulasyourself.”

Viannedidn’tmove.“Well,” he said at last,

dropping his cigarette butt tothe floor. He stood abruptly

and stomped on the still-litcigarette, grinding on it withhis boot heel. “I suspect theyoungHauptmannwasnotasskilled with a gun as heshould have been. TheWehrmacht,”hesaid,shakinghis head. “Often they are adisappointment. Disciplinedbutnot…eager.”

Hecameout frombehind

the desk and walked towardVianne. As he neared, shestood. Politeness demandedit. “The Hauptmann’smisfortuneismyfortune.”

“Oh?”Hisgazemoveddownher

throat to the pale skin aboveher breasts. “I need a newplace to billet. The HôtelBellevue is unsatisfactory. I

believe your house will donicely.”

***

WhenVianne stepped out ofthe town hall, she felt like awoman who’d just washedashore. Shewas unsteady onher feet and tremblingslightly, her palms weredamp, her forehead itchy.

Everywhereshelookedinthesquare were soldiers; thesedays the black SS uniformswerepredominant.Sheheardsomeoneyell“Halt!”andsheturned, saw a pair ofwomenin ratty coats with yellowstars on their chests beingshoved to their knees by asoldier with a gun. Thesoldier grabbed one of the

two and dragged her to herfeet while the older onescreamed. It was MadameFournier, the butcher’s wife.Her son,Gilles,yelled, “Youcan’t take my maman!” andstartedtosurgeattwoFrenchpolicemenwhowerenearby.

A gendarme grabbed theboy, yanked hard enough tomake him stop. “Don’t be a

fool.”Vianne didn’t think. She

saw her former student introuble and shewent to him.Hewas justaboy, forGod’ssake. Sophie’s age. Viannehad been his teacher sincebefore he could read. “Whatare you doing?” shedemanded to know, realizinga second too late that she

should have tempered hervoice.

The policeman turned tolook at her. Paul. He waseven fatter than the last timeshe’d seenhim.His facehadpuffed out enough to makehis eyes as small and slittedas sewing needles. “Stay outofthis,Madame,”Paulsaid.

“Madame Mauriac,”

Gilles cried, “they’re takingmy maman to the train! Iwanttogowithher!”

Vianne looked atGilles’smother, Madame Fournier,the butcher’s wife, and sawdefeatinhereyes.

“Come with me, Gilles,”Vianne said without reallythinking.

“Merci,” Madame

Fournierwhispered.Paul yanked Gilles close

again. “Enough. The boy ismakingascene.Heiscomingwithus.”

“No!”Viannesaid.“Paul,please, we are all French.”She hoped the use of hisnamewould remind him thatbeforeallof this they’dbeena community. She’d taught

his daughters. “The boy is aFrench citizen. He was bornhere!”

“We don’t care where hewas born, Madame. He’s onmy list. He goes.” His eyesnarrowed. “Do you want tolodgeacomplaint?”

Madame Fournier wascrying now, clutching herson’s hand. The other

policeman blew his whistleand prodded Gilles forwardwiththebarrelofhisgun.

Gilles and his motherstumbled into the crowd ofothers being herded towardthetrainstation.

We don’t care where hewasborn,Madame.

Beck had been right.Being French would no

longerprotectAri.Sheclampedherhandbag

tightlybeneathherarmpitandheaded for home. As usual,the road had turned to mudand ruined her shoes by thetime she reached the gate atLeJardin.

Bothof thechildrenwerewaiting in the living room.Relief loosened her

shoulders. She smiled tiredlyasshesetdownherhandbag.

“You’reallright?”Sophiesaid.

Ari immediately movedtowardher,grinning,openinghis arms for a hug, saying,“Maman,” with a grin toprove that he understood therulesoftheirnewgame.

Shepulledthethree-year-

old into her arms and heldhim tightly. To Sophie, shesaid, “I was questioned andreleased. That is the goodnews.”

“Andthebadnews?”Vianne looked at her

daughter, defeated. Sophiewas growing up in a worldwhereboys inherclasswereput in train carriages like

cattle at the point of a gunandperhapsneverseenagain.“AnotherGerman isgoing tobillethere.”

“Will he be like HerrCaptainBeck?”

Vianne thought of theferal gleam in Von Richter’sice-blueeyesand thewayhehad“searched”her.

“No,” she said softly. “I

don’t expect hewill be.Youarenottospeaktohimunlessyoumust.Don’t lookathim.Just stay as invisible as youcan. And Sophie, they’redeporting French-born Jewsnow—children, too—puttingthem on trains and sendingthem away to work camps.”Vianne tightenedherholdonRachel’s son. “He is Daniel

now. Your brother. Always.Evenwhenwearealone.Thestory is that we adopted himfrom a relative in Nice. Wecannevermake amistake orthey’ll take him—and us—away. You understand? Idon’t want anyone to everevenlookathispapers.”

“I’mscared,Maman,”shesaidquietly.

“AsamI,Sophie”wasallViannecouldsay.Theywerein this together now, takingthis terrible risk. Before shecould say more, there was aknock on the door andSturmbannführerVonRichterwalked into her home,standing as straight as abayonet blade, his faceimpassive beneath the glossy

blackmilitaryhat.Silverironcrosses hung from variousplacesonhisblackuniform—his stand-upcollar,his chest.A swastika pin decorated hisleft breast pocket. “MadameMauriac,”hesaid.“Iseeyouwalkedhomeintherain.”

“Mais oui,” sheanswered, smoothing thedamp, frizzy hair from her

face.“You should have asked

my men for a ride. Abeautiful woman such asyourself should not slogthroughthemudlikeaheifertothetrough.”

“Oui,merci, I will be sobold as to ask them nexttime.”

Hestrodeforwardwithout

removing his hat. He lookedaround, studying everything.Shewas sure that he noticedthemarksonthewallswherepaintings had once hung andthe empty mantel and thediscoloration in the floorwhere rugs had lain fordecades.Allgonenow.“Yes.This will do.” He looked atthe children. “Andwho have

wehere?”heaskedinterribleFrench.

“My son,” Vianne said,standing beside him, movingincloseenoughtotouchthemboth.Shedidn’tsay“Daniel”in case Ari corrected her.“Andmydaughter,Sophie.”

“I do not rememberHauptmannBeckmentioningtwochildren.”

“Andwhywouldhe,HerrSturmbannführer. It is hardlynoteworthy.”

“Well,” he said, noddingcrisply toSophie. “You, girl,gogetmybags.”ToVianne,hesaid,“Showmetherooms.IwillchoosetheoneIwant.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Isabellewokeinapitch-blackroom.Inpain.

“You’re awake, aren’tyou?”saidavoicebesideher.

She recognized Gaëtan’svoice. How often in the pasttwo years had she imaginedlying in bed with him?“Gaëtan,” she said, and withhisnamecamethememories.

Thebarn.Beck.

Shesatupsofastherheadspun and dizziness hit herhard.“Vianne,”shesaid.

“Your sister is fine.” Helit the oil lamp and left it ontheoverturnedapplecratebythe bed. The butterscotchglowembraced them,createda small oval world in theblackness. She touched thespot of pain in her shoulder,

wincing.“The bastard shot me,”

she said, surprised to realizethat such a thing could beforgotten. She rememberedhidingtheairmanandgettingcaught by Vianne … Sheremembered being in thecellarwiththedeadflier…

“Andyoushothim.”She remembered Beck

flinging the hatch door openandpointinghispistolather.She remembered twogunshots…andclimbingoutof the cellar, staggering,feelingdizzy.Hadsheknownshe’dbeenshot?

Vianne holding a shovelcovered in gore. Beside her,Beckinapoolofblood.

Vianne pale as chalk,

trembling.Ikilledhim.After that her memories

were jumbled except forVianne’s anger. You are notwelcome here. If you return,I’llturnyouinmyself.

Isabelle lay back downslowly. The pain of thatmemory was worse than herinjury. For once,Vianne hadbeenrighttocastIsabelleout.

What had she been thinkingto hide the airman on hersister’s property, with aGerman Wehrmacht captainbilleted there? No wonderpeopledidn’t trusther.“HowlonghaveIbeenhere?”

“Four days. Your woundis much improved. Yoursister stitched it up nicely.Yourfeverbrokeyesterday.”

“And … Vianne? She isnotfine,ofcourse.Sohowisshe?”

“Weprotectedherasbestwe could. She refused to gointo hiding. So Henri andDidierburiedbothbodiesandcleaned thebarnand tore themotorcycledowntoparts.”

“She’ll be questioned,”Isabelle said. “And killing

that man will haunt her.Hatingdoesn’tcomeeasyforher.”

“Itwill before thiswar isover.”

Isabelle felt her stomachtighten in shame and regret.“I love her, you know. Or Iwant to. How come I forgetthat the minute we disagreeaboutsomething?”

“She said something verysimilaratthefrontier.”

Isabelle started to rolloverandgaspedatthepaininher shoulder. Taking a deepbreath,shesteeledherselfandeased slowly onto her side.She’d misjudged how closehewas toher,howsmall thebed. They were lying likelovers; she on her side

looking up at him; he on hisback staring at the ceiling.“Viannewenttotheborder?”

“You were in a coffin inthe back of the wagon. Shewanted to make sure wecrossed safely.” She heard asmile in his voice, orimagined she did. “Shethreatened to kill me if Ididn’ttakegoodcareofyou.”

“Mysistersaidthat?”shesaid, not quite believing it.But she hardly believed thatGaëtan was the kind of manwho would lie to reunitesisters.Inprofile,hisfeatureswere razor sharp, even bylamplight.Herefusedtolookather,andhewasasclosetothe edge of the bed as hecouldbe.

“Shewasafraidyou’ddie.Webothwere.”

He said it so softly shebarely could hear. “It feelslike old times,” she saidcautiously, afraid to say thewrong thing. More afraid tosaynothingatall.Whoknewhow many chances therewould be in such uncertaintimes?“Youandmealonein

thedark.Remember?”“Iremember.”“Toursalreadyfeelslikea

lifetimeago,”shewenton.“Iwasjustagirl.”

Hesaidnothing.“Lookatme,Gaëtan.”“Gotosleep,Isabelle.”“You know I will keep

asking until you can’t standit.”

Hesighedandrolledontohisside.

“I think about you,” shesaid.

“Don’t.” His voice wasrough.

“You kissed me,” shesaid.“Itwasn’tadream.”

“You can’t rememberthat.”

Isabelle felt something

strange at his words, abreathless little flutter in herchest.“YouwantmeasmuchasIwantyou,”shesaid.

He shook his head indenial, but it was the silencesheheard; theaccelerationofhisbreathing.

“YouthinkI’mtooyoungand too innocent and tooimpetuous. Too everything. I

get it. People have alwayssaid that about me. I’mimmature.”

“That’snotit.”“But you’re wrong.

Maybe you weren’t wrongtwoyearsago.IdidsayIloveyou, which must havesoundedinsane.”Shedrewina breath. “But it’s not insanenow, Gaëtan. Maybe it’s the

onlysane thing inallof this.Love, I mean. We’ve seenbuildingsblownupinfrontofusandourfriendsaregettingarrested and deported. Godknows ifwe’ll ever see themagain. I could die, Gaëtan,”she said quietly. “I’m notsaying that in someschoolgirl-try-to-get-the-boy-to-kiss-me kind of way. It’s

true and you know it. Eitheroneofuscoulddietomorrow.Andyouknowwhat Iwouldregret?”

“What?”“Us.”“Therecan’tbeanus, Iz.

Not now. That’s what I’vebeen trying to tell you fromthebeginning.”

“If I promise to let it go,

willyouansweronequestiontruthfully?”

“Justone?”“One.And then I’ll go to

sleep.Ipromise.”Henodded.“If we weren’t here—

hidinginasafehouse—iftheworld weren’t ripping itselfapart, if this was just anordinary day in an ordinary

world,would youwant theretobeanus,Gaëtan?”

She saw how his facecrumpled, how pain exposedhislove.

“It doesn’t matter, don’tyouseethat?”

“It’s the only thing thatmatters, Gaëtan.” She sawlove in his eyes. What didwordsmatterafterthat?

Shewaswiser than she’dbeen before. Now she knewhow fragile life and lovewere.Maybe shewould lovehim for only this day, ormaybe for only the nextweek,ormaybeuntilshewasanold,oldwoman.Maybehewould be the love of herlife … or her love for theduration of this war … or

maybe hewould only be herfirstlove.Allshereallyknewwas that in this terrible,frightening world, she hadstumbled into somethingunexpected.

And she would not let itgoagain.

“I knew it,” she said toherself, smiling. His breathskimmed against her lips, as

intimate as any kiss. Sheleanedoverhim,hergazeonhim, steady, honest, andturnedoffthelamp.

In the dark, she snuggledagainsthim,burroweddeeperundertheblankets.Atfirsthelaystifflyagainsther,asifhewereafraideventotouchher,butgradually,he relaxed.Herolled onto his back and

started to snore. Sometime—she didn’t know when—sheclosed her eyes and reachedout, placing a hand in thehollow of his stomach,feelingitriseandfallwithhisbreathing. It was like restingher hand on the ocean insummer, when the tide wascomingin.

Touching him, she fell

asleep.

***

The nightmares wouldn’t lethergo.Insomedistantpartofher brain she heard her ownwhimpering, heard Sophiesay, “Maman, you’re takingall theblankets,”butnoneofit wakened her. In hernightmare,shewasinachair,

being interrogated. The boy,Daniel.He’saJew.Givehimto me, Von Richter said,shovinghisguninherface…thenhisfacechanged,melteda little, and he turned intoBeck, who was holding thephotograph of his wife andshakinghishead,butthesideof his face was missing …andthenIsabellelyingonthe

floor, bleeding, saying, I’msorryVianne,andViannewasyelling. You’re not welcomehere…

Viannewokewithastart,breathing hard. The samenightmares had plagued herfor six days; she consistentlywoke feeling exhausted andworried. It was Novembernow, and there had been no

word about Isabelle at all.She eased out from beneaththe blankets. The floor wascold, but not as cold as itwouldbeinafewweeks.Shereached for the shawl she’dleftonthefootofthebedandwrapped it around hershoulders.

Von Richter had claimedtheupstairsbedroom.Vianne

had abandoned the floor tohim, choosing to move withher children into the smallerdownstairs bedroom, wherethey slept together on thedoublebed.

Beck’s room. No wondershe dreamed of him in here.The air held on to his scent,reminded her that the manshe’dknownno longer lived,

that she had killed him. Shelongedtodopenancefor thissin, but what could she do?She had killed a man—adecentman, in spiteof it all.Itdidn’tmatter toher thathewas the enemy or even thatshe’d done it to save hersister. She knew she hadmade the right choice. Itwasn’t right or wrong that

haunted her. It was the actitself.Murder.

She left the bedroom andclosed the door behind her,shuttingitwithaquietclick.

Von Richter sat on thedivan, reading a novel,drinkingacupofrealcoffee.The aroma made her almostsick with longing. The Nazihad billeted here for several

days already, and each ofthose mornings had smelledof rich, bitter roasted coffee—andVonRichtermadesureshesmelledit,andwantedit.But she couldn’t have somuch as a sip; hemade sureof that, too. Yesterdaymorning he had dumped anentire pot into the sink,smilingatherashedidso.

He was a man who hadstumbled into a little bit ofpowerandseizeditwithbothhands. She’d known thatwithin the first few hours ofhisarrival,whenhe’dchosenthebestroomandgatheredupthe warmest blankets for hisbed, when he’d taken all ofthe pillows left in the houseandallofthecandles,leaving

Vianne a single oil lamp forheruse.

“Herr Sturmbannführer,”she said, smoothing hershapeless dress and worncardigan.

He didn’t look up fromthe German newspaper thatheld his attention. “Morecoffee.”

She took his empty cup

and went to the kitchen,returning quickly withanothercup.

“The Allies are wastingtheir time in North Africa,”he said, taking the cup fromher, putting it on the tablebesidehim.

“Oui, HerrSturmbannführer.”

His hand snaked out and

coiled around her wrist tightenough to leave a bruise. “Iam having men over forsupper tonight. You willcook. And keep that boyaway from me. His cryingsoundslikeadyingpig.”

Heletgo.“Oui, Herr

Sturmbannführer.”She got out of his way

quickly, hurrying into thebedroomandclosingthedoorbehind her. She bent andwakened Daniel, feeling hissoft breathing against thecrookofherneck.

“Maman,” he mumbledaround his thumb, which hewas furiously sucking.“Sophieissnoringtooloud.”

Vianne smiled and

reached over to tousleSophie’s hair. Amazingly,even though it was wartimeand they were terrified andstarving, somehow a girl herage could still manage tosleepthroughanything.“Yousound like a water buffalo,Sophie,”Vianneteased.

“Very funny,” Sophiemuttered, sitting up. She

glanced at the closed door.“Is Herr Doryphore stillhere?”

“Sophie!” Vianneadmonished, glancingworriedlyatthecloseddoor.

“He can’t hear us,”Sophiesaid.

“Still,” Vianne saidquietly, “I cannot imaginewhy youwould compare our

guest to a bug that eatspotatoes.” She tried not tosmile.

Daniel hugged Vianneandgaveherasloppykiss.

Asshepattedhisbackandheld him close, nuzzling thedowny softness of his cheek,she heard a car engine startup.

ThankGod.

“He is leaving,” shemurmured to the boy,nuzzling his cheek. “Comealong, Sophie.” She carriedDaniel into the living room,whichstill smelledof freshlybrewed coffee and men’scologne,andbeganherday.

***

People had called Isabelle

impetuous for as long as shecould remember. And thenrash and, most lately,reckless.Inthepastyear,shehad grown up enough to seethe truth of it. From earliestmemory, she had acted firstand thought aboutconsequenceslater.Perhapsitwas because she’d felt alonefor so long.Noonehadever

beenher soundingboard,herbest friend. She hadn’t hadsomeone with whom tostrategize or work throughherproblems.

Beyond that, she hadnever had great impulsecontrol.Maybebecauseshe’dneverhadanythingtolose.

Now, she knew what itmeant to be afraid, to want

something—or someone—somuch it made your heartache.

The old Isabelle wouldsimply have told Gaëtan sheloved him and let the cardsfallastheywould.

The new Isabelle wantedto walk away without eventrying.Shedidn’tknowifshehadthestrengthtoberejected

again.Andyet.They were at war. Time

was the one luxury no onehad anymore. Tomorrow feltas ephemeral as a kiss in thedark.

She stood in the small,pitched-roof cupboard theyused as awater closet in thesafe house. Gaëtan had

carried up buckets of hotwater for her bath, and shehad luxuriated in the coppertub until the water cooled.The mirror on the wall wascracked and hung askew. Itmade her reflection appeardisjointed, with one side ofher face slightly lower thantheother.

“Howcanyoubeafraid?”

shesaidtoherreflection.ShehadhikedthePyreneesinthefalling snow and swum therushing cold waters of theBidassoa River beneath theglare of a Spanishsearchlight; she’donceaskeda Gestapo agent to carry asuitcase full of false identitypapers across a Germancheckpoint “because he

lookedsostrongandshewassovery tiredfromtraveling,”but she had never been asnervousasshewasrightnow.She knew suddenly that awoman could change herwhole life and uproot herexistencewithonechoice.

Takingadeepbreath,shewrapped herself in a tatteredtowelandreturnedtothesafe

house’s main room. Shepaused at the door just longenough to calm her racingheart (a failed attempt) andthensheopenedthedoor.

Gaëtan stood by theblacked-out window in histornand tatteredclothes, stillstained with her blood. Shesmilednervouslyandreachedfortheendofthetowelshe’d

tuckedinatherchest.Hewentsostillitseemed

he’d stopped breathing, evenas her breathing sped up.“Don’t do it, Iz.” His eyesnarrowed—before,shewouldhave said it was anger, butnowsheknewbetter.

Sheunwrappedthetowel,let it fall to the floor. Thebandage on her gunshot

woundwasallsheworenow.“What do youwant from

me?”hesaid.“Youknow.”“You’re an innocent. It’s

war. I’m a criminal. Howmanyreasonsdoyouneedtostayawayfromme?”

They were arguments foranotherworld.“Iftimesweredifferent,I’dmakeyouchase

me,” she said, taking a stepforward.“Iwouldhavemadeyou jump through hoops toget me naked. But we don’thavetime,dowe?”

At the quiet admission,she felt a wave of sadness.This had been the truthbetween them from thebeginning; they had no time.They couldn’t court and fall

in love and get married andhave babies. They might noteven have tomorrow. Shehatedthatherfirsttimewouldbe bathed in sorrow, steepedin a sense of having alreadylost what they’d just found,butthatwastheworldnow.

One thing she knew forsure: She wanted him to bethe firstman in her bed. She

wanted to remember him foras long as foreverwas. “Thenuns always said I wouldcome to a bad end. I thinktheymeantyou.”

He came toward her,cuppedherfaceinhishands.“Youterrifyme,Isabelle.”

“Kiss me” was all shecouldsay.

At the first touch of his

lips, everything changed, orIsabelle changed. A shudderof desiremoved throughher,stopped her breath. She feltlost within his arms andfound, broken apart, andremade. The words “I loveyou”burnedinher,desperateto be given voice. But evenmore,shewantedtohear thewords, to be told, just once,

thatshewasloved.“You’regoingtobesorry

youdidthis,”hesaid.How could he say that?

“Never.Willyoubesorry?”“I already am,” he said

quietly. Then he kissed heragain.

TWENTY-NINE

The next week was one of

almost unbearable bliss forIsabelle. There were longconversations by candlelight,and holding hands, andstroking skin; nights ofawakingintoanachingdesireand making love and fallingintosleepagain.

Onthisday,asoneachoftheothers, Isabellewokestilltired,andslightlyinpain.The

wound in her shoulder hadbegun healing enough that ititched and ached. She feltGaëtan beside her, his bodywarmandsolid.Sheknewhewasawake;maybe itwashisbreathing,orthewayhisfootrubbed absently against hers,orthequiet.Shejustknew.Inthepastdays,she’dbecomeastudent of him. Nothing he

did was too small orinsignificantforhertonotice.She’d repeatedly thoughtremember this over thesmallestofdetails.

She had read countlessromantic novels in her lifeand shehaddreamedof loveforever; even so, she’dneverknownthataplainolddoublemattress could become a

world unto itself, an oasis.She turned onto her side andreached past Gaëtan to lightthelamp.In thepaleglowofit,shesettledclosetohim,anarm draped across his chest.Atinysilverscarcutthroughhis messy hairline. Shereachedouttotouchit,traceditwithherfingertip.

“Mybrother threwarock

at me. I was too slow toduck,”hesaid.“Georges,”hesaid fondly; the tenor of hisvoice reminded Isabelle thatGaëtan’s brother was aprisonerofwar.

He had a whole life sheknewalmostnothingabout.Amotherwhowasaseamstressand a father who raisedpigs…helivedinthewoods

somewhere, in a house withno running water and only asingle room for all of them.He answered her questionsabout all of it, butvolunteered almost nothing.He said he preferred to hearher stories about theadventuresthathadgottenherkicked out of so manyschools. It’s better than

stories of poor people justtryingtogetby,hesaid.

But beneath all theirwords,thestoriestradedbackand forth, she felt their timeeroding. They couldn’t stayhere long. Already, they’doverstayed. She was fitenoughtotravel.Nottocrossthe Pyrenees, perhaps, butcertainly she didn’t need to

lieabed.Howcouldsheleavehim?

They might never see eachotheragain.

That was the crux of herfear.

“I get it, you know,”Gaëtansaid.

She didn’t knowwhat hemeant, but she heard thehollowness in his voice and

knew it wasn’t good. Thesadness thatcamewithbeingin his bed—matched equallywithjoy—expanded.

“Get what?” she asked,butshedidn’twanttohear.

“Thatevery timewekiss,it’sgood-bye.”

Sheclosedhereyes.“Thewarisoutthere,Iz.I

needtogetbacktoit.”

She knew and agreed,though it caused aconstriction in her chest. “Iknow”wasallshecouldsay,afraid that any deeperexploration would hurt morethanshecouldbear.

“There is a groupgathering at Urrugne,” shesaid. “I should be there bynightfall on Wednesday, if

we’relucky.”“We are not lucky,” he

said.“Youmustknowthatbynow.”

“You are wrong, Gaëtan.Now that you’ve met me,you’llneverbeabletoforgetme. That’s something.” Sheleanedoverforakiss.

He said something softly,quietly, against her lips;

maybe it was “it’s notenough.”Shedidn’tcare.Shedidn’twanttohear.

***

In November, the people ofCarriveau began to hunkerdown into winter survivalmode again.Theyknewnowwhat they hadn’t known lastwinter:Life couldgetworse.

War was being waged allover the world; in Africa, intheSovietUnion,inJapan,onan island somewhere calledGuadalcanal. With theGermansfightingonsomanyfronts,foodhadbecomeevenmorescarce,ashadwoodandgas and electricity andeverydaysupplies.

This Friday morning was

particularly cold and gray.Notagooddayforventuringout, but Vianne had decidedthat today was The Day. Ithad takensome time toworkup the courage to leave thehouse with Daniel, but sheknew that it had to be done.His hair was cut so short hewas almost bald and she’ddressed him in oversized

clothes to make him looksmaller.Anything todisguisehim.

She forced herself toshow good posture as shewalked through town,with achild on each side of her—SophieandDaniel.

Daniel.At the boulangerie, she

tookher place at thebackof

the queue. She waitedbreathlessly for someone toaskabout theboybesideher,but the women in line weretoo tired and hungry anddowntroddeneventolookup.WhenitwasfinallyVianne’sturn at the counter, Yvettelooked up. She had been abeautiful woman only twoyears ago, with flowing

copper-colored hair and eyesas black as coal. Now, threeyearsintothewar,shelookedaged and tired. “VianneMauriac.Ihavenotseenyouwith your daughter for awhile. Bonjour, Sophie, youhave grown so tall.” Shepeeredoverthecounter.“Andwho is this good-lookingyoungman?”

“Daniel,”hesaidproudly.Vianneplacedatrembling

hand on his shorn head. “Iadopted him from Antoine’scousininNice.She…died.”

Yvette pushed the frizzyhairoutofhereyes,pulledastrand of it out of hermouthas she stared down at thetoddler.Shehadthreesonsofherown,onenotmucholder

thanDaniel.Vianne’s heart hammered

inherchest.Yvette steppedback from

the counter. She went to thesmall door that separated theshop from the bakery. “HerrLieutenant,”shesaid.“Couldyoucomeouthere?”

Vianne tightened her gripon herwillow basket handle,

workingitas if itwerepianokeys.

A portly German ambledout of the back room, hisarms overflowing withfreshly baked baguettes. Hesaw Vianne and stopped.“Madame,”hesaid,hisapplecheeksbulgingatthefullnessofhismouth.

Viannecouldbarelynod.

Yvettesaid to thesoldier,“There’s no more breadtoday, Herr Lieutenant. If Imake more I will save thebest for you and your men.This poor woman couldn’tevengetaday-oldbaguette.”

Theman’s eyesnarrowedappreciatively. He movedtoward Vianne, his flat feetthumping on the stone floor.

Wordlessly, he dropped ahalf-eaten baguette into herbasket. Then he nodded andleft the shop, a little belltinklingathisexit.

When they were alone,Yvette moved in close toVianne, so close she had tofighttheurgetostepback.“IheardyouhaveanSSofficerin your house now. What

happened to the handsomecaptain?”

“Hedisappeared,”Viannesaidevenly.“Nooneknows.”

“No one? Why did theybringyou in forquestioning?Everyonesawyougoin.”

“I am just a housewife.What could I possibly knowofsuchthings?”

Yvette stared at her a

moment longer, assessingVianne in the silence. Thenshesteppedback.“Youareagood friend, VianneMauriac,”shesaidquietly.

Vianne nodded brieflyandherdedthechildrentothedoor.Thedaysofstoppingtotalk to friends on the streetwere gone. Now it wasdangerous enough to simply

make eye contact; friendlyconversation had gone thewayofbutter andcoffee andpork.

Outside, Vianne pausedon the cracked stone step,throughwhichalushpatchoffrostedweedspushedup.Shewaswearingawintercoatshehad made from a tapestriedbedspread. She had copied a

pattern she’d seen in amagazine: double breasted,kneelength,withawidelapelandbuttonsshe’d takenfromone of her mother’s favoriteHarris tweed jackets. It waswarm enough for today, butsoonshewouldneedlayersofnewsprint between hersweaterandhercoat.

Vianne retied the scarf

around her head and knottedit more tightly beneath herchin as the icy wind hit herfull in the face. Leavesskittered across the stoneaisle, cartwheeled across herbootedfeet.

She held tightly toDaniel’s mittened hand andstepped out into the street.She knew instantly that

somethingwaswrong. Therewere German soldiers andFrench gendarmeseverywhere—in cars, onmotorcycles,marchinguptheicystreet,gatheredinpodsatthecafés.

Whatever was happeningouthere, itcouldn’tbegood,anditwasalwaysbesttostayaway from the soldiers—

especially since the AlliedvictoriesinNorthAfrica.

“Come on, Sophie andDaniel.Let’sgohome.”

She tried to turn right atthecornerbutfoundthestreetbarricaded. All up and downthe street doors were lockedandshutterswereclosed.Thebistros were empty. Therewasaterriblesenseofdanger

intheair.The next street she tried

wasbarricaded,too.ApairofNazi soldiers stood guard atit, their rifles pointed at her.Behind them, Germansoldiersmarchedupthestreettoward them, goose-steppinginformation.

Viannetookthechildren’shands and picked up their

pace, but one street afteranother was barricaded andguarded. It became clear thatthere was a plan in place.Lorries and buses werethundering up thecobblestoned streets towardthetownsquare.

Viannecametothesquareand stopped, breathing hard,pulling the children in close

tohersides.Pandemonium. There

werebuseslinedupinarow,disgorgingpassengers—allofwhom wore a yellow star.Women and children werebeing forced, pushed, herdedinto the square. Nazis stoodon the perimeter, a terrible,frighteningpatroledge,whileFrench policemen pulled

people out of the buses,yanked jewelry fromwomen’snecks,shoved thematgunpoint.

“Maman!”Sophiecried.Vianne clamped a hand

overherdaughter’smouth.To her left, a young

woman was shoved to theground and then hauled backup by her hair and dragged

throughthecrowd.“Vianne?”She swung around, saw

Hélène Ruelle carrying asmall leather suitcase andholding a little boy’s hand.An older boy stood close toher side. A yellow, tatteredstaridentifiedthem.

“Take my sons,” HélènesaiddesperatelytoVianne.

“Here?” Vianne said,glancingaround.

“No, Maman,” the olderboy said. “Papa told me totake care of you. I am notleaving you. If you let go ofmyhand,I’lljustfollowyou.Betterwestaytogether.”

Behind them anotherwhistleshrieked.

Hélène shoved the

younger boy into Vianne,pushed him hard againstDaniel. “He is JeanGeorges,likehisuncle.Fouryearsoldthis June. My husband’speopleareinBurgundy.”

“I have no papers forhim…they’llkillmeifItakehim.”

“You!” aNazi shouted atHélène. He came up behind

her, grabbed her by the hair,almost yanking her off herfeet. She slammed into herolderson,whostrovetokeepherupright.

And then Hélène and herson were gone, lost in thecrowd. The boy was besideher, wailing, “Maman!” andsobbing.

“We need to leave,”

Vianne said to Sophie.“Now.” She clutched JeanGeorges’s hand so tightly hecried harder. Every time heyelled, “Maman!” sheflinched and prayed for himto be quiet. They hurried uponestreetanddowntheother,dodging the barricades andbypassing the soldiers whowere breaking down doors

and herding Jewish peopleinto the square. Twice theywere stopped and allowed topass because they had nostarsontheirclothing.Onthemuddy road, shehad to slowdown, but she didn’t stop,even when both boys startedcrying.

At Le Jardin, Viannefinallystopped.

Von Richter’s blackCitroënwasparkedoutfront.

“Ohno,”Sophiesaid.Vianne looked down at

herterrifieddaughterandsawherownfearreplicatedinthebelovedeyes, andall at oncesheknewwhatsheneededtodo. “We have to try to savehimorweareasbadas theyare,” she said. And there it

was. She hated to bring herdaughter into this, but whatchoice was there? “I have tosavethisboy.”

“How?”“I don’t know yet,”

Vianneadmitted.“ButVonRichter—”As if drawn by his own

name, the Nazi appeared atthefrontdoor,lookingfussily

precise in his uniform. “Ah,Madame Mauriac,” he said,his gaze narrowing as heapproached her. “There youare.”

Vianne struggled forcalm.“Wehavebeentotownforshopping.”

“Not a good day for that.Jews are being collected fordeportation.” He walked

towardher,hisbootstampingdown the wet grass. Besidehim,theappletreewasbarrenof leaves; bits of fabricfluttered from the emptybranches. Red. Pink. White.A new one for Beck—inblack.

“And who is this fine-looking youngster?” VonRichter said, touching the

child’s tear-streaked cheekwithoneblack-glovedfinger.

“A f-friend’s boy. Hismother died of tuberculosisthisweek.”

Von Richter lurchedbackward, as if she’d saidbubonicplague.“Idon’twantthatchildinthehouse.Isthatunderstood? You will takehim to the orphanage this

instant.”The orphanage. Mother

Marie-Therese.She nodded. “Of course,

HerrSturmbannführer.”He made a flicking

gesturewithhishandas if tosay, Go, now. He started towalk away. Then he stoppedand turned back to faceVianne. “I want you home

thiseveningforsupper.”“I am always home,Herr

Sturmbannführer.”“Weleave tomorrow,and

Iwantyoutofeedmeandmymen a good meal before wego.”

“Leave?” she asked,feelingaspikeofhope.

“We are occupying therest of France tomorrow. No

more Free Zone. It’s aboutdamn time. Letting youFrench govern yourselveswas a joke. Good day,Madame.”

Vianne remained whereshe was, standing still,holding the child’s hand.Above the sound of JeanGeorges’s crying, she heardthe gate squeak open and

slam shut.Then a car enginestartedup.

When he was gone,Sophie said, “Will MotherMarie-Theresehidehim?”

“I hope so. Take Danielinto the house and lock thedoor. Don’t open it foranyonebutme.I’llbebackassoonasIcan.”

Sophie lookedoldforher

age suddenly, wise beyondher years. “Good for you,Maman.”

“Weshallsee”wasallthehopeshehadleft.

When her children weresafely in the house, with thedoor locked, she said to theboy beside her, “Come, JeanGeorges, we are going for awalk.”

“Tomymaman?”She couldn’t look at him.

“Come.”

***

As Vianne and the boywalked back to town, anintermittent rain began. JeanGeorgesalternatelycriedandcomplained, but Vianne wasso nervous she barely heard

him.How could she ask

Mother Superior to take thisrisk?

Howcouldshenot?They walked past the

church to theconventhiddenbehind it. The Order of theSisters of St. Joseph hadbegun in 1650 with six like-minded women who simply

wanted to serve the poor intheir community. They hadgrown to thousands ofmembers throughout Franceuntil religious communitieswere forbidden by the stateduring theFrench revolution.Some of the original sixsisters had become martyrsfor their beliefs—guillotinedfortheirfaith.

Vianne went to theabbey’s front door and liftedthe heavy iron knocker,letting it fall against the oakdoor,clatteringhard.

“Whyarewehere?” JeanGeorges whined. “Is mymamanhere?”

“Shhh.”A nun answered, her

sweet, plump face bracketed

by the white wimple andblackhoodofherhabit.“Ah,Vianne,”shesaid,smiling.

“Sister Agatha, I wouldlike to speak to MotherSuperior,ifthat’spossible.”

Thenunsteppedback,herhabit swishing on the stonefloor. “I will see. You twotakeaseatinthegarden?”

Vianne nodded. “Merci.”

She and Jean Georges madetheir way through the coldcloisters. At the end of onearched corridor, they turnedleftandwentintothegarden.Itwasgoodsized,andsquare,with frostedbrowngrassandamarblelion’sheadfountainand several stone benchesplacedhereandthere.Viannetookaseatononeofthecold

benches out of the rain, andpulledtheboyupbesideher.

She didn’t have long towait.

“Vianne,” Mother said,coming forward, her habitdragging on the grass, herfingers closed around thelarge crucifix that hung froma chain around her neck.“How good it is to see you.

It’s been too long. And whoisthisyoungman?”

The boy looked up. “Ismymamanhere?”

Vianne met MotherSuperior’s even gaze withoneofherown.“HisnameisJeanGeorgesRuelle,Mother.Iwouldspeaktoyoualoneifwecould.”

Motherclappedherhands

andayoungnunappeared totake the boy away. Whenthey were alone, MotherSuperior sat down besideVianne.

Viannecouldn’tcorralherthoughtsandsoasilencefellbetweenthem.

“I am sorry about yourfriend,Rachel.”

“And so many others,”

Viannesaid.Mothernodded.“Wehave

heard terrible rumors comingfrom Radio London aboutwhat is happening in thecamps.”

“Perhaps ourHolyFather—”

“He is silent on thismatter,” Mother said, hervoice heavy with

disappointment.Vianne took a deep

breath. “Hélène Ruelle andher elder son were deportedtoday.JeanGeorges isalone.His mother… left him withme.”

“Left him with you?”Mother paused. “It isdangerous to have a Jewishchildinyourhome,Vianne.”

“I want to protect him,”shesaidquietly.

Motherlookedather.Shewas silent so long thatVianne’s fear began to putdownroots,grow.“Andhowwould you accomplish this?”sheaskedatlast.

“Hidehim.”“Where?”Vianne lookedatMother,

sayingnothing.Mother’s face drained of

color.“Here?”“An orphanage. What

betterplace?”Mother Superior stood

and then sat. Then she stoodagain,herhandsmovedtothecross,heldit.Slowly,shesatdown again. Her shoulderssagged and then straightened

whenherdecisionwasmade.“A child in our care needspapers. Baptismal certificates—I can … get those, ofcourse,butidentitypapers…”

“Iwill get them,”Viannesaid,althoughshehadnoideaifitwaspossible.

“You know that it isillegaltohideJewsnow.Thepunishment is deportation if

you’re lucky, and lately, Ibelieve no one is lucky inFrance.”

Viannenodded.Then Mother Superior

said,“Iwilltaketheboy.AndI … could make room formorethanoneJewishchild.”

“More?”“Ofcoursetherearemore,

Vianne.Iwillspeaktoaman

IknowinGirot.Heworksforthe Œuvre de Secours auxEnfants—the Help theChildren Fund. I expect hewillknowmanyfamiliesandchildren in hiding. I will tellhimtoexpectyou.”

“M-me?”“Youaretheleaderofthis

now,andifweareriskingourlivesforonechild,wemayas

well try to save more.”Mother got abruptly to herfeet. She hooked her armthrough Vianne’s, and thetwo women strolled theperimeterofthesmallgarden.“No one here can know thetruth. The children will haveto be coached and havepaperwork that passesinspection. And you would

need a position here—perhapsasateacher,oui,asapart-timeteacher.Thatwouldallow us to pay you a smallstipend and would answerquestions about why you areherewiththechildren.”

“Oui,” Vianne said,feelingshaky.

“Don’t look so afraid,Vianne. You are doing the

rightthing.”Shehadnodoubtthatthis

was true, and still she wasterrified. “This is what theyhave done to us. We areafraid of our own shadows.”She looked atMother. “Howwill I do it? Go to scared,hungrywomen and ask themtogivemetheirchildren?”

“You will ask them if

they’ve seen their friendsbeing herded onto trains andtaken away. You will askthemwhattheywouldrisktokeep their child off of thattrain. Then youwill let eachmotherdecide.”

“It is an unimaginablechoice. I’m not sure I coulddo it, just hand Sophie andDanielovertoastranger.”

Mother leaned close. “Ihearoneof theirawfulstormtroopers is billeted at yourhouse. You realize this putsyou—andSophie—at terriblerisk.”

“Ofcourse.ButhowcanIletherbelieveit’sallrighttodo nothing in times such asthese?”

Mother stopped.

Releasing Vianne, she laid asoft palm against her cheekand smiled tenderly. “Becareful, Vianne. I havealreadybeentoyourmother’sfuneral. I do not want toattendyours.”

THIRTY

On an ice-cold mid-

November day, Isabelle andGaëtan left Brantôme andboarded a train to Bayonne.Thecarriagewasoverflowingwith solemnGerman soldiers—more so than usual—andwhen theydisembarked, theyfoundmoresoldierscrowdingtheplatform.

Isabelle held Gaëtan’shand as theymade theirway

through the gray-greenuniforms. Two young loverson their way to the beachtown. “My maman used tolovegoingtothebeach.DidIever tell you that?” IsabelleaskedastheypassedneartwoSSofficers.

“Yourichkidsseeall thegoodstuff.”

She smiled. “We were

hardlyrich,Gaëtan,”shesaidwhen they were outside thetrainstation.

“Well youweren’t poor,”he said. “I know poor.” Hepaused,letthatsettlebetweenthem, and then he said, “Icouldberichsomeday.

“Someday,”hesaidagainwith a sigh, and she knewwhat hewas thinking. Itwas

what they were alwaysthinking: Will there be aFrance in our future?Gaëtanslowed.

Isabelle saw what hadcapturedhisattention.

“Keepmoving,”hesaid.A roadblockhadbeen set

up ahead of them. Troopswere everywhere, carryingrifles.

“What’s going on?”Isabelleasked.

“They’ve seen us,”Gaëtansaid.Hetightenedhishold on her hand. Theystrolled toward the swarm ofGermansoldiers.

A burly, square-headedsentry blocked theirway anddemanded to see their passesandpapers.

Isabelle offered herJuliette papers. Gaëtanoffered his own falsedocuments, but the soldierwas more interested in thegoings-on behind him. Hebarely glanced at thedocuments and handed themback.

Isabelle gave him hermostinnocentsmile.“What’s

happeningtoday?”“NomoreFreeZone,”the

soldier said, waving themthrough.

“NomoreFreeZone?But—”

“WearetakingoverallofFrance,”hesaidroughly.“Nomore pretense that yourridiculous Vichy governmentisinchargeanywhere.Go.”

Gaëtan pulled herforward, through theamassingtroops.

Forhours,astheywalked,they were honked at byGerman lorries andautomobiles inahurry togetpastthem.

It wasn’t until theyreached the quaint seasidetown of Saint-Jean-de-Luz

that theywereable toescapethe gathering Nazis. Theywalked along the emptyseawall, perched high abovethe pounding surf of theAtlanticOcean. Below them,acurlofyellowsandheldthemighty, angry ocean at bay.In the distance, a lush greenpeninsula was dotted withhouses built in the Basque

tradition,withwhitesidesandred doors and bright red tileroofs. The sky overheadwasa faded, washed-out blue,with clouds stretched as tautasclotheslines.Therewerenoother people out today,neither on the beach norwalking along the ancientseawall.

Forthefirsttimeinhours,

Isabellecouldbreathe.“Whatdoesitmean,noFreeZone?”

“It is not good, that’s forsure. Itwillmake yourworkmoredangerous.”

“I’ve been movingthrough Occupied territoryalready.”

Shetightenedherholdonhis hand and led him off theseawall. They stepped down

the uneven steps and madetheirwaytotheroad.

“Weused to vacationouthere when I was little,” shesaid. “Before my mamandied.Atleastthat’swhatI’veheard.Ibarelyremember.”

She wanted it to be thestart of a conversation, buther words fell into the newsilence between them and

went unanswered. In thequiet, Isabelle felt thesuffocatingweightofmissinghim, even though he washoldingherhand.Whyhadn’tsheaskedhimmorequestionsin their days together, gottento know everything abouthim?Now therewasno timeleft and they both knew it.They walked in a heavy

silence.In the haze of early

evening, Gaëtan got his firstglimpseofthePyrenees.

The jagged, snow-dustedmountains rose into theleadensky, theirsnow-tippedpeaks ringed in clouds.“Merde. You crossed thosemountainshowmanytimes?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“You’re a wonder,” hesaid.

“I am,” she said with asmile.

They continued up,through the dark, emptystreets of Urrugne, climbingwith every step,moving pastthe closed-up shops andbistros full of old men.Beyondtownlaythedirtpath

that led into the foothills. Atlast they came to the cottagetuckedintothedarkfoothills,itschimneypuffingsmoke.

“Are you okay?” heasked, noticing that she hadslowedherstep.

“Iwillmissyou,”shesaidquietly. “How long can youstay?”

“I have to leave in the

morning.”Shewanted to release the

hold on his hand, but it wasdifficult.Shehadthisterrible,irrational fear that if she letgo of him she would nevertouch him again and thethought of that wasparalyzing. Still, she had ajob to do. She let go of himand knocked three times

sharplyinrapidsuccession.Madameopenedthedoor.

Dressed in man’s clothing,smoking a Gauloises, shesaid,“Juliette!Come,come.”Shesteppedback,welcomingIsabelle and Gaëtan into themain room, where fourairmen stood around thediningtable.Afireburnedinthe hearth, and above the

flames a black cast-iron potbubbled and hissed andpopped. Isabelle could smellthe stew’s ingredients—goatmeat;wine;bacon;thick,richstock; mushrooms and sage.Thearomawasheavenlyandreminded her that she hadn’teatenallday.

Madamegatheredthementogether and introduced them

—there were three RAFpilots and anAmerican flier.ThethreeBritshadbeentherefor days, waiting for theAmerican, who had arrivedyesterday.Eduardowould beleading them over themountainsinthemorning.

“It’s good to meet you,”one of them said, shakingIsabelle’shandasifshewere

awaterpump.“You’rejustasbeautifulaswe’vebeentold.”

The men started talkingall at once. Gaëtan movedeasilyintotheirmidst,asifhebelonged with them. Isabellestood beside MadameBabineauandhandedher theenvelope of money thatshould have been deliveredalmost two weeks earlier.

“I’msorryaboutthedelay.”“You had a good excuse.

Howareyoufeeling?”Isabelle moved her

shoulder, testing it. “Better.Inanotherweek,I’llbereadytomakethecrossingagain.”

Madame handed IsabelletheGauloises.Isabelletookalong drag and exhaled,studying the men who were

now inhercharge.“Howarethey?”

“See the tall, thin one—noselikeaRomanemperor?”

Isabelle couldn’t helpsmiling.“Iseehim.”

“Heclaimstobealordorduke or something. Sarah inPau said he was trouble.Wouldn’t follow a girl’sorders.”

Isabelle made a note ofthat. It wasn’t a rarity, ofcourse,flierswhodidn’twanttotakeordersfromwomen—orgirlsordamesorbroads—butitwasalwaysatrial.

She handed Isabelle acrumpled, dirt-stained letter.“Oneofthemgavemethistogivetoyou.”

She opened it quickly,

scanned the contents. Sherecognized Henri’s sloppyhandwriting:

J—yourfriendsurvivedherGermanholiday,butshehasguests.

Donotstopby.Will

watchoutforher.

Viannewasfine—shehadbeen released afterquestioning—but anothersoldier, or soldiers, wasbilleted there. She crumpledthepaperand tossed it in thefire.Shedidn’tknowwhetherto be relieved or more

worried. Instinctively, hergaze sought outGaëtan,whowaswatchingherashespoketoanairman.

“I see the way you’rewatchinghim,youknow.”

“Lordbignose?”MadameBabineaubarked

outalaugh.“Iamoldbutnotblind. The young handsomeonewiththehungryeyes.He

keepslookingatyou,too.”“He’ll be leaving

tomorrowmorning.”“Ah.”Isabelle turned to the

womanwho had become herfriend in the past two years.“I’m afraid to let him go,which is crazy with all thedangerousthingsIdo.”

The look in Madame’s

dark eyes was both knowingand compassionate. “Iwouldtellyou tobecareful if thesewereordinary times. Iwouldpointoutthatheisyoungandengaged in a dangerousbusiness and young men indanger can be fickle.” Shesighed. “Butwe are cautiousabout too much these days,andwhyaddlovetothelist?”

“Love,” Isabelle saidquietly.

“I will add this, though,since I am a mother and wecan’t help ourselves: Abrokenhearthurtsasbadlyinwartime as in peace. Saygood-bye toyouryoungmanwell.”

***

Isabellewaited for the houseto go quiet—or as quiet as aroom could be with mensleepingonthefloor,snoring,rolling over. Movingcautiously, she eased out ofher blankets and picked herway through the main roomandwentoutside.

Stars flickered overhead,the sky immense in thisdark

landscape. Moonlightilluminated the goats, turnedthemintosilver-whitedotsonthehillside.

She stood at the woodenfence, staring out. She didn’thavelongtowait.

Gaëtan came up behindher, puthis armsaroundher.She leaned back into him. “Ifeel safe in your arms,” she

said.When he didn’t respond,

she knew something waswrong. Her heart sank. Sheturned slowly, looked up athim.“Whatisit?”

“Isabelle.” The way hesaid it frightened her. Shethought, No, don’t tell me.Whatever it is, don’t tellme.In the silence,noisesbecame

noticeable—the bleating ofgoats, the beating of herheart, the tumbling of a rockdownadistanthillside.

“That meeting. The onewe were going to inCarriveau when you foundtheairman?”

“Oui?” she said. She hadstudied him so carefully inthe past few days, watched

every nuance of emotioncross his face, and she knewwhateverhewasgoingtosay,itwouldn’tbegood.

“I’m leaving Paul’sgroup.Fighting…adifferentway.”

“Differenthow?”“With guns,” he said

quietly. “And bombs.Anything we can find. I’m

joining a group of guerrillapartisans who live in thewoods. My job isexplosives.”Hesmiled.“Andstealingbombparts.”

“Your past should helpyou there.” Her teasing fellflat.

His smile faded. “I can’tjust deliver papers anymore,Iz.Ineedtodomore.And…

Iwon’tseeyouforawhile,Ithink.”

She nodded, but even asshe moved her head inagreement, she thought:How?Howwill Iwalk awayand leave him now? and sheunderstoodwhathehadbeenafraidoffromthestart.

Thelookhegaveherwasasintimateasakiss.Init,she

saw her own fear reflected.They might never see eachother again. “Make love tome,Gaëtan,”shesaid.

Likeit’sthelasttime.

***

Vianne stood outside theHôtelBellevueinthepouringrain. The windows of thehotel were fogged; through

the haze she could see acrowd of gray-green fielduniforms.

Come on, Vianne, you’reinitnow.

Shesquaredhershouldersand opened the door. A belltinkled gaily overhead, andthemen in the room stoppedwhat they were doing andturned to look at her.

Wehrmacht,SS,Gestapo.Shefelt like a lamb going toslaughter.

Atthedesk,Henri lookedup. Seeing her, he came outfrom behind the front deskand moved swiftly throughthecrowdtowardher.

He took her by the arm,hissing,“Smile.”She tried tocomply. She wasn’t sure

whethershesucceeded.He led her to the front

desk, where he let go of herarm. He was sayingsomething—laughing as if atsome joke—as he took hisplace by the heavy blackphone and cash register.“Your father, correct?” hesaidloudly.“Aroomfor twonights?”

Shenoddednumbly.“Here, let me show you

theroomwehaveavailable,”hesaidatlast.

She followed him out ofthelobbyandintothenarrowhallway. They went past asmalltablesetwithfreshfruit(only the Germans couldafford such an extravagance)and a water closet that was

empty. At the end of thecorridor, he led her up anarrowsetofstairsandintoaroomsosmalltherewasonlya single bed and a blacked-outwindow.

Heclosedthedoorbehindthem. “You shouldn’t behere. I sent you word thatIsabellewasfine.”

“Oui,merci.” She took a

deep breath. “I need identitypapers. You were the onlyperson I could think of whomightbeabletohelpme.”

He frowned. “That’s adangerous request, Madame.Forwhom?”

“A Jewish child inhiding.”

“Hidingwhere?”“Idon’tthinkyouwantto

knowthat,doyou?”“No. No. Is it a safe

place?”She shrugged,her answer

obvious in the silence. Whoknew what was safeanymore?

“I hear SturmbannführerVon Richter is billeted withyou.Hewasherefirst.He’sadangerous man. Vindictive

and cruel. If he caught you—”

“What can we do, Henri,juststandbyandwatch?”

“You remind me of yoursister,”hesaid.

“Believe me, I am not abravewoman.”

Henriwasquietforalongwhile. Then he said, “I’llworkongettingyoutheblank

papers. You’ll have to learnto forge them yourself. I amtoobusytoaddtomyduties.Practice by studying yourown.”

“Thankyou.”Shepaused,looking at him, rememberingthe note he had delivered toher all those months ago—and the assumptions Viannehad made about her sister at

the time. She knew now thatIsabelle had been doingdangerous work from thebeginning. Important work.Isabelle had shielded Viannefrom this knowledge toprotect her, even though itmeantlookinglikeafool.Shehad traded on the fact thatVianne would easily believetheworstofher.

Vianne was ashamed ofherselfforbelievingtheliesoeasily. “Don’t tell Isabelle Iam doing this. I want toprotecther.”

Henrinodded.“Aurevoir,”Viannesaid.Onherwayout,sheheard

him say, “Your sister wouldbe proud of you.” Vianneneitherslowednorresponded.

IgnoringtheGermansoldiers’catcalling, shemadeherwayout of the hotel and headedforhome.

***

Now all of France wasoccupiedbytheGermans,butit made little difference inVianne’s daily life. She stillspentallday inonequeueor

another.Herbiggestproblemwas Daniel. It still seemedsmart to hide him from thevillagers, even thoughher lieabout an adoption seemedunquestionedwhenshe’dtoldit (and she’d told it toeveryone she could find, butpeople were too busysurviving to care, or maybethey guessed the truth and

applaudedit,whoknew).She left the children at

home now, hidden awaybehindlockeddoors.Itmeantthatshewasalways jittery intown, nervous. Today, whenshe had gotten all that therewastobehadforherrations,she rewrapped the woolenscarf around her throat andleftthebutcher’sshop.

AsshebravedthecoldonrueVictorHugo, shewas somiserable and distracted byworry, it took her a momentto realize that Henri waswalkingbesideher.

He glanced around thestreet, up and down, but inthe wind and cold, no onewas about. Shutters clatteredand awnings shook. The

bistrotableswereempty.Hehandedherabaguette.

“The filling is unusual. Mymaman’srecipe.”

She understood. Therewere papers inside. Shenodded.

“Breadwithspecialfillingis difficult to obtain thesedays.Eatitwisely.”

“And what if I need

more…bread?”“More?”“So many hungry

children.”Hestopped,turnedtoher,

gaveheraperfunctorykissoneach cheek. “Come see meagain,Madame.”

Shewhispered in his ear.“Tellmysister I askedabouther.Wepartedbadly.”

He smiled. “I amconstantly arguing with mybrother, even in war. In theend,we’rebrothers.”

Vianne nodded, hoping itwas true. She placed thebaguette in her basket,covering it with the scrap oflinen,tuckingitalongsidetheblancmange powder andoatmeal that had been

available today. As shewatched himwalk away, thebasket seemed to growheavier. Tightening her grip,sheheadeddownthestreet.

Shewasalmostoutofthetown square when she heardit.

“Madame Mauriac. Whatasurprise.”

His voice was like oil

pooling at her feet, slipperyandclinging.Shewetherlipsand held her shoulders back,trying to look both confidentand unconcerned. He hadreturned last evening,triumphant, crowing abouthoweasy it hadbeen to takeover all of France. She hadfed dinner to him and hismen, pouring them endless

glassesofwine—attheendofthe meal, he had tossed theleftovers to the chickens.Vianne and the children hadgonetobedhungry.

He was in his uniform,heavily decorated withswastikas and iron crosses,smoking a cigarette, blowingthe smoke slightly to the leftof her face. “You are done

with your shopping for theday?”

“Such as it is, HerrSturmbannführer. There wasvery little to be had today,evenwithourrationcards.”

“Perhaps if your menhadn’t been such cowards,you women wouldn’t be sohungry.”

She gritted her teeth in

what she hoped passed for asmile.

He studied her face,which she knew was chalkypale. “Are you all right,Madame?”

“Fine, HerrSturmbannführer.”

“Allow me to carry yourbasket. I will escort youhome.”

She gripped the basket.“No,really,it’snotnecessary—”

He reached a black-gloved hand toward her. Shehadnochoicebuttoplacethetwisted willow handle in hishand.

He took the basket fromher and began walking. Shefell into step beside him,

feeling conspicuous walkingwithanSSofficerthroughthestreetsofCarriveau.

As they walked, VonRichter made conversation.He talked about the Allies’certaindefeatinNorthAfrica,hetalkedaboutthecowardiceof the French and thegreediness of the Jews, hetalked about the Final

Solutionasifitwerearecipeto be exchanged amongfriends.

She could hardly makeouthiswordsovertheroarinher head.When she dared toglance at thebasket, she sawthebaguettepeekingoutfrombeneath the red-and-whitelinenthatcoveredit.

“You are breathing like a

racehorse,Madame. Are youunwell?”

Yes.Thatwasit.She forced a cough,

clamped a hand over hermouth. “I am sorry, HerrSturmbannführer. I washopingnottobotheryouwithit, but sadly, I fear I caughttheflufromthatboytheotherday.”

He stopped. “Have I notaskedyoutokeepyourgermsaway from me?” He shovedthebasketathersohardithither in thechest.Shegrabbedhold of it desperately, afraiditwouldfallandthebaguettewould break open and spillfalsepapersathisfeet.

“I-I am so sorry. It wasthoughtlessofme.”

“I will not be home forsupper,” he said, turning onhisheel.

Vianne stood there a fewmoments—just long enoughtobepolite,incaseheturnedaround—andthenshehurriedforhome.

***

Wellpastmidnightthatnight,

when Von Richter had beenabed for hours, Vianne creptfrom her bedroom and wentto the empty kitchen. Shecarried a chair back to herbedroom,quietlyshutting thedoorbehindher.Shebroughtthe chair to the nightstand,tucked it in close, and satdown.Bythelightofasinglecandle, she withdrew the

blank identity papers fromhergirdle.

She took out her ownidentity papers and studiedthem in minute detail. Thenshetookout thefamilyBibleandopenedit.Oneveryblankspace she could find, shepracticed forging signatures.At first she was so nervousthat her penmanship was

unsteady, but the more shepracticed,thecalmershefelt.When her hands andbreathing had steadied, sheforged a newbirth certificateforJeanGeorges,naminghimEmileDuvall.

But new papers weren’tenough. What would happenwhen the war was over andHélène Ruelle returned? If

Vianneweren’there(withtherisk she was taking, she hadto consider this terriblepossibility), Hélène wouldhave no idea where to lookforhersonorwhatnamehe’dbeengiven.

Shewould need to createafiche,afilecardthathadalloftheinformationshehadonhim—whohereallywas,who

his parents were, any knownrelatives. Everything shecouldthinkof.

Sherippedoutthreepagesfrom the Bible and made alistoneachpage.

On the first, in dark inkovertheprayers,shewrote:

ArideChamplain1JeanGeorgesRuelle2

On the second sheet, shewrote:

1.DanielMauriac2.EmileDuvall

And on the third, shewrote:

1.Carriveau.Mauriac2.AbbayedelaTrinité

She carefully rolled eachpage into a small cylinder.Tomorrow she would hidetheminthreedifferentplaces.Oneinadirtyjarintheshed,which she would fill withnails;one inanoldpaintcanin the barn; and one shewould bury in a box in thechickencoop.Thefichecardsshewould leavewithMother

attheAbbey.The cards and lists,when

put together, would identifythechildrenafterthewarandmake it possible to get themback to their families. Itwasdangerous, of course,writingdown any of this, but if shedidn’tkeeparecord—andtheworst happened to her—howwould the hidden children

ever be reunited with theirparents?

For a long time, Viannestared down at her work, solong that the childrensleeping in her bed began tomove around and mumbleandthecandleflamebegantosputter. She leaned over andlaidahandonDaniel’swarmback to comfort him. Then

sheclimbedintobedwithherchildren. It was a long timebeforeshefellasleep.

THIRTY-ONE

May6,1995Portland,Oregon

“I am running away from

home,” I say to the youngwoman sitting next to me.She has hair the color ofcottoncandyandmoretattoosthanaHell’sAngelbiker,butshe is alone like me, in thisairport full of busy people.Her name, I have learned, isFelicia.Inthepast twohours—since the announcementthatourflightisdelayed—we

have become travelingcompanions. It was a naturalthing, our coming together.She saw me picking at thehorrible French friesAmericans love, and I sawher watching me. She washungry, that was obvious.Naturally, I called her overandofferedtobuyherameal.Once a mother, always a

mother.“Or maybe I’m finally

going home after years ofrunning away. It’s hard toknowthetruthsometimes.”

“I’m running away,” shesays, slurping on theshoebox-sized soft drink Iboughther. “IfParis isn’t farenough, my next stop isAntarctica.”

Iseepastthehardwareonher face and the defiance inher tattoos, and I feel astrange connection to her, acompatriotism. We arerunaways together. “I’msick,”Isay,surprisingmyselfwiththeadmission.

“Sick, like the shingles?My aunt had that. It wasgross.”

“No,sicklikecancer.”“Oh.” Slurp. Slurp. “So

why are you going to Paris?Don’t you need, like,chemo?”

I start to answer her (no,no treatments for me, I’mdone with all that) when herquestion settles in. Why areyougoingtoParis?AndIfallsilent.

“I get it. You’re dying.”Sheshakesherbigcupsothatthe slushy ice rattles inside.“Donewithtrying.Losthopeandallthat.”

“Whatthehell?”Iamsodeepinthought—

intheunexpectedstarknessofher statement (you’re dying)that it takesme amoment torealize that it is Julien who

has just spoken. I look up atmy son. He is wearing thenavy blue silk sport coat Igave him for Christmas thisyearandtrendy,dark-washedjeans.Hishair is tousled andhe is holding a black leatherweekender bag slung overone shoulder. He does notlookhappy.“Paris,Mom?”

“Air France flight 605

will begin boarding in fiveminutes.”

“That’sus,”Feliciasays.I know what my son is

thinking.Asaboy,hebeggedme to take him to Paris. Hewanted to see the places Imentioned in bedtime stories—hewanted to know how itfelttowalkalongtheSeineatnightortoshopforartinthe

PlaceDesVosges,ortositinthe Tuilleries Garden, eatinga butterfly macaron fromLadurée. I said no to everyrequest, saying simply, I amanAmericannow,myplaceishere.

“We’d like to beginboarding anyone travelingwithchildrenundertwoyearsofageoranyonewhoneedsa

littleextra timeandour first-classpassengers…”

I stand, lifting theextendable handle on myrollingbag.“That’sme.”

Julien stands directly infrontofmeasif toblockmyaccess to the gate. “You’regoing to Paris, all of asudden,byyourself?”

“It was a last-minute

decision. What the hell, andall that.” I give him the bestsmile I canmuster under thecircumstances.Ihavehurthisfeelings,whichwasnevermyintent.

“It’s that invitation,” hesays. “And the truth younevertoldme.”

WhyhadIsaidthatonthephone? “You make it sound

so dramatic,” I say, wavingmy gnarled hand. “It’s not.And now, I must board. I’llcallyou—”

“No need. I’m comingwithyou.”

I see the surgeon in himsuddenly, the man who isusedtostaringpastbloodandbonetofindwhatisbroken.

Felicia hefts her camo

backpack over one shoulderand tosses her empty cup inthe wastebasket, where itbounces against the openingand thunks inside. “Somuchforrunningaway,dude.”

Idon’tknowwhichIfeelmore—relief ordisappointment. “Are yousittingbyme?”

“On such short notice?

No.”I clutch thehandleofmy

rolling suitcase and walktoward the nice-lookingyoung woman in the blue-and-whiteuniform.She takesmyboardingpass,tellsmetohave a nice flight, and I nodabsentlyandkeepmoving.

The jetway draws meforward. I feel a little

claustrophobic suddenly. Icanhardlycatchmybreath,Ican’t yank my suitcase’sblack wheels into the plane,overthemetallichump.

“I’m here, Mom,” Juliensays quietly, taking mysuitcase, lifting it easily overtheobstruction.Thesoundofhis voice reminds me that Iam a mother and mothers

don’t have the luxury offalling apart in front of theirchildren, evenwhen they areafraid, even when theirchildrenareadults.

A stewardess takes onelook at me and makes thathere’s an old onewhoneedshelp face. Livingwhere I donow, in that shoebox filledwith the Q-tips that old

people become, I’ve come torecognize it. Usually it irksme,makesme straightenmyback and push aside theyoungster who is sure that Icannot cope in the world onmy own, but just now I’mtired and scared and a littlehelp doesn’t seem like a badthing.Iletherhelpmetomywindow seat in the second

row of the plane. I havesplurged on a first-classticket. Why not? I don’t seemuch reason to save mymoneyanymore.

“Thankyou,” Isay to thestewardessas Isitdown.Myson is the next one onto theplane.Whenhe smiles at thestewardess,Ihearalittlesigh,andIthinkofcourse.Women

have swooned over Juliensince before his voicechanged.

“Are you two travelingtogether?” she says, and Iknowsheisgivinghimpointsforbeingagoodson.

Juliengivesheroneofhisice-melting smiles. “Yes, butwe couldn’t get seatstogether. I’m three rows

behindher.”Heoffersherhisboardingpass.

“Oh, I’msure Icansolvethis for you,” she says asJulien stowsmy suitcase andhis weekender in the binabovemyseat.

I stare out the window,expecting to see the tarmacbusywithmenandwomeninorange vests waving their

armsandunloadingsuitcases,but what I see is watersquigglingdownthePlexiglassurface,andwovenwithinthesilvered lines is myreflection;myowneyesstarebackatme.

“Thank you so much,” IhearJuliensay,andthenheissitting down beside me,clamping his seat belt shut,

pulling the strap taut acrosshiswaist.

“So,”hesaysaftera longenough pause that peoplehave shuffled past us in asteady stream and the prettystewardess (who has combedher hair and freshened hermakeup) has offered uschampagne.“Theinvitation.”

I sigh. “The invitation.”

Yes.That’s thestartof it.Orthe end, depending on yourpointofview.“It’sareunion.InParis.”

“I don’t understand,” hesays.

“You were never meantto.”

He reaches for my hand.It is so sure and comforting,thathealer’stouchofhis.

In his face, I see thewholeofmylife.Iseeababywho came to me long afterI’dgivenup…andahintofthe beauty I once had. Isee…mylifeinhiseyes.

“Iknowthere’ssomethingyou want to tell me andwhatever it is, it’s hard foryou. Just start at thebeginning.”

I can’t help smiling atthat.HeissuchanAmerican,this son of mine. He thinksone’slifecanbedistilledtoanarrativethathasabeginningand an end. He knowsnothing about the kind ofsacrificethat,oncemade,canneverbeeitherfullyforgottenor fully borne. And howcould he? I have protected

himfromallofthat.Still.Iamhere,onaplane

headinghome, and I have anopportunity to make adifferentchoicethantheoneImade when my pain wasfresh and a future predicatedon the past seemedimpossible.

“Later,”Isay,andImeanitthistime.Iwilltellhimthe

story of my war, and mysister’s. Not all of it, ofcourse, not the worst parts,butsome.Enoughthathewillknow a truer version of me.“Not here, though. I’mexhausted.” I lean back intothe big first-class chair andclosemyeyes.

How can I start at thebeginning, when all I can

thinkaboutistheend?

THIRTY-TWO

If

you’regoingthroughhell,keepgoing.—WINSTON

CHURCHILL

May1944France

In the eighteenmonths sincetheNazishadoccupiedallofFrance, lifehadbecomeevenmore dangerous, if thatwerepossible. French politicalprisonershadbeeninternedinDrancy and imprisoned inFresnes—and hundreds ofthousandsofFrenchJewshadbeen deported toconcentration camps in

Germany.The orphanages ofNeuilly-sur-Seine andMontreuil had been emptiedand their children sent to thecamps, and the childrenwho’d been held at the Veld’Hiv—more than fourthousand of them—had beenseparated from their parentsand sent to concentrationcamps alone. Allied forces

werebombingdayandnight.Arrests were madeconstantly; people werehauledoutoftheirhomesandtheir shops for the slightestinfraction, for a rumor ofresistance, and imprisonedordeported. Innocent hostageswere shot in retaliation forthings they knew nothingaboutandeverymanbetween

eighteen and fifty wassupposed to go to forced-labor camps inGermany.Noone felt secure. There wereno yellow stars on clothinganymore. No one made eyecontactorspoke tostrangers.Electricityhadbeenshutoff.

Isabelle stood on a busyParis street corner, ready tocross, but before her ratty,

wooden-soled shoe hit thecobblestones, a whistleshrieked.Shebackedintotheshadeofafloweringchestnuttree.

These days, Paris was awoman screaming. Noise,noise,noise.Whistlesblaring,shotguns firing, lorriesrumbling, soldiers shouting.The tide of the war had

shifted.TheAllieshadlandedin Italy, and the Nazis hadfailed to drive them back.Losseshadspurred theNazisto greater and greateraggression. In March theyhad massacred more thanthree hundred Italians inRome as retaliation forpartisan bombing that killedtwenty-eight Germans. At

last, Charles de Gaulle hadtaken control of all FreeFranceforces,andsomethingbigwasbeingplannedforthisweek.

A column of Germansoldiers marched up theboulevard Saint-Germain ontheir way to the ChampsÉlysées; theywere led by anofficer astride a white

stallion.As soon as they passed,

Isabellecrossedthestreetandmerged into the crowd ofGerman soldiers gathered onthe other sidewalk. She kepther gaze downward and hergloved hands coiled aroundher handbag. Her clothingwas as worn and ragged asthatofmostParisians,andthe

clatter of wooden soles rangout. No one had leatheranymore. She bypassed longqueues of housewives andhollow-faced childrenstanding outside ofboulangeries andboucheries.Rations had been cut againand again and again in thepast two years; people inParisweresurvivingoneight

hundredcaloriesaday.Therewasnotadogorcatorrattobe seen on the streets. Thisweek, one could buy tapiocaand string beans. Nothingelse. At the boulevard de laGare, there were piles offurniture and art and jewelry—everything of value takenfrom the people who’d beendeported. Their belongings

were sorted and crated andsenttoGermany.

SheduckedintoLesDeuxMagots in the Saint-Germainand took a seat in the back;on the red moleskin bench,she waited impatiently,watched over by the statuesof Chinese mandarins. AwomanwhomightbeSimonedeBeauvoirsatatatablenear

thefrontofthecafé.Shewasbent over a piece of paper,writing furiously. Isabellesank into the comfortableseat; shewas boneweary. Inthe past month alone, she’dcrossed the Pyrenees threetimes and visited each of thesafe houses, paying herpasseurs. Every step wasdangerousnowthattherewas

noFreeZone.“Juliette.”She looked up and saw

herfather.Hehadagedinthelast few years—they all had.Deprivation and hunger anddespairandfearhadlefttheirmarks on him—in skin thatwas the color and texture ofbeachsandanddeeplylined.

He was so thin that his

headnowseemed toobigforhisbody.

He slid into the boothacross from her, put hiswrinkled hands on the pittedmahoganytable.

She reached forward,clasped her hands around hiswrists. When she drew herhands back, she had palmedthe pencil-sized coil of false

identity papers he’d had uphis sleeve. She tucked themexpertly in her girdle andsmiledat thewaiterwhohadjustappeared.

“Coffee,” Papa said in atiredvoice.

Isabelleshookherhead.The waiter returned,

deposited a cup of barleycoffee, and disappeared

again.“They had a meeting

today,” her father said.“High-rankingNazis.TheSSwas there. I heard the word‘Nightingale.’”

“We’re careful,” she saidquietly. “And you are takingmore risk than I am, stealingtheblankidentitypapers.”

“I am an old man. They

don’t even see me. Youshould take a break, maybe.Let someone else do yourmountaintrips.”

She gave him a pointedlook. Did people say thingslike this to men? Womenwere integral to theResistance. Why couldn’tmenseethat?

He sighed, seeing the

answer in her affronted look.“Do you need a place tostay?”

Isabelle appreciated theoffer.Itremindedherofhowfar they’d come. They stillweren’t close, but they wereworking together, and thatwassomething.Heno longerpushedheraway,andnow—here,aninvitation.Itgaveher

hope that someday,when thewar was over, they couldactually talk. “I can’t. Itwould put you at risk.” Shehadn’t been to the apartmentin more than eighteenmonths.Neitherhadshebeento Carriveau or seen Viannein all that time. Rarely hadIsabelle spent three nights inthesameplace.Herlifewasa

series of hidden rooms anddusty mattresses andsuspiciousstrangers.

“Haveyouheardanythingaboutyoursister?”

“I have friends lookingout for her. I hear she istaking no chances, keepingher head down and herdaughter safe. She will befine,” she said, hearing how

hope softened that lastsentence.

“Youmissher,”hesaid.Isabelle found herself

thinkingofthepastsuddenly,wishing she could just let itgo.Yes,shemissedhersister,but she had missed Vianneforyears,forallofherlife.

“Well.” He stood upabruptly.

She noticed his hands.“Yourhandsareshaking.”

“Iquitdrinking.Itseemedlike a bad time to be adrunk.”

“Idon’tknowaboutthat,”she said, smiling up at him.“Drunk seems like a goodideathesedays.”

“Becareful,Juliette.”Her smile faded. Every

time she saw anyone thesedays,itwashardtosaygood-bye.Youneverknewifyou’dseethemagain.“You,too.”

***

Midnight.Isabelle crouched in the

darkness behind a crumblingstone wall. She was deep inthe woods and dressed in

peasant clothes—denimoveralls that had seen betterdays, wooden-soled boots,and a lightweight blousemade from an old showercurtain.Downwind,shecouldsmell the smoke of nearbybonfires but she couldn’t seeevenaglimmeroffirelight.

Behind her, a twigsnapped.

She crouched lower,barelybreathed.

Awhistlesounded.Itwasthe lilting song of thenightingale. Or close to it.Shewhistledback.

She heard footsteps;breathing.Andthen,“Iz?”

She rose and turnedaround.A thin beam of lightswept past her and then

snappedoff.ShesteppedoverafallenlogandintoGaëtan’sarms.

“I missed you,” he saidafter a kiss, drawing backwith a reluctance she couldfeel. They had not seen eachother for more than eightmonths.Everytimesheheardof a train derailing or aGerman-occupiedhotelbeing

blown up or a skirmish withpartisans,sheworried.

He tookherhandand ledher through a forest so darkshe couldn’t see the manbesideherorthetrailbeneaththeir feet. Gaëtan neverturned on his torchlight. Heknewthesewoodsintimately,having lived here for welloverayear.

At the end of the woods,they came to a huge, grassyfield where people stood inrows. They held torchlights,which they swept forwardand back like beacons,illuminating the flat areabetweenthetrees.

She heard an aeroplaneengine overhead, felt thewhooshof air onher cheeks,

and smelled exhaust. Itswooped in above them,flying low enough to makethetreesshudder.Sheheardaloud mechanical scree andthebangingofmetalonmetaland then a parachuteappeared, falling, ahugeboxswingingbeneathit.

“Weapons drop,” Gaëtansaid. Tugging her hand, he

led her into the trees againand up a hill, to theencampment deep in theforest. In itscenter,abonfireglowedbrightorange,itslighthidden by the thick fringe oftrees. Several men stoodaround the fire, smokingcigarettes and talking. Mosthad come here to avoid theSTO—compulsory

deportation to forced-laborcamps in Germany. Oncehere, theyhad takenup armsand become partisans whofought a guerrilla war withGermany; in secret, undercover of night. The Maquis.Theybombedtrainsandblewup munitions dumps andflooded canals and didwhatever else they could to

disrupttheflowofgoodsandmen from France toGermany. They got theirsupplies—and theirinformation—fromtheAllies.Their lives were always atrisk; when found by theenemy, reprisals were swiftand often brutal. Burning,cattle prods, blinding. EachMaquis fighter carried a

cyanidepillinhispocket.The men looked

unwashed, starving, haggard.Most wore brown corduroypants and black berets, all ofwhich were frayed andpatchedandfaded.

For all that Isabellebelieved in their cause, shewouldn’twanttobealoneuphere.

“Come,” Gaëtan said. Heled her past the bonfire to asmall, dirty-looking tentwithacanvasflapthatwasopentoreveal a single sleeping bagand a pile of clothes and apair of muddy boots. Asusual, it smelled of dirtysocksandsweat.

Isabelle ducked her headand crouched low as she

madeherwayinside.Gaëtan sat down beside

her and closed the flap. Hedidn’t light a lamp (the menwould see their silhouetteswithin and start catcalling).“Isabelle,” he said. “I’vemissedyou.”

She leaned forward, letherself be taken in his armsand kissed.When it ended—

too soon—she took a deepbreath.“Ihaveamessageforyour group from London.Paul received it at five P.M.

tonight. ‘Long sobs ofautumnviolins.’”

She heard him draw in abreath. Obviously the words,which they’d received overtheradiofromtheBBC,wereacode.

“Is it important?” sheasked.

His hands moved to herface, held her gently, anddrew her in for another kiss.Thisonewas fullof sadness.Anothergood-bye.

“Important enough that Ihavetoleaverightnow.”

Allshecoulddowasnod.“There’sneveranytime,”she

whispered. Every momentthey’d ever had together hadbeen stolen somehow, orwrested. They met, theyducked into shadowy cornersor dirty tents or back rooms,and they made love in thedark,buttheydidn’tgettolietogetherafterward like loversand talk. He was alwaysleaving her, or she was

leaving him. Each time heheld her, she thought—thiswill be it, the last time I seehim.And shewaited forhimtosayhelovedher.

Shetoldherselfthatitwaswar.Thathedidloveher,buthe was afraid of that love,afraidhewouldloseher,anditwould hurtmore somehowif he’d declared himself. On

gooddays,sheevenbelievedit.

“Howdangerousisit,thisthingyou’regoingofftodo?”

Again,thesilence.“I’ll find you,” he said

quietly. “Maybe I’ll come toParis for a night and we’llsneak into the cinema andbooatthenewsreelsandwalkthroughtheRodinGardens.”

“Like lovers,” she said,trying to smile. It was whatthey always said to eachother, this dream shared of alifethatseemedimpossibletoremember and unlikely toreoccur.

He touched her facewitha gentleness that broughttears to her eyes. “Likelovers.”

***

In the past eighteen months,as thewar had escalated andNazi aggression mounted,Viannehadfoundandhiddenthirteen children at theorphanage. At first she hadcanvassed the nearbycountryside, following leadsgiven to her by the OSE. Intime, Mother had connected

with the American JewishJoint Distribution Committee—an umbrella group forJewishcharitiesintheUnitedStates that funded thestruggle to save Jewishchildren—and they hadbrought Vianne into contactwith more children in need.Mothers sometimes showedup on her doorstep, crying,

desperate, begging her forhelp. Vianne never turnedanyone away, but she wasalwaysterrified.

Now,onawarmJunedayin 1944, a week after theAllies had landed more thanone hundred and fiftythousand troops inNormandy, Vianne stood inher classroom at the

orphanage, staring out at thechildrenwhosatslumpedandtiredattheirdesks.Ofcoursetheyweretired.

In the past year, thebombing had rarely stopped.Air raids were so constantthat Vianne no longerbothered to take her childreninto the cellar pantry whenthe alarm sounded at night.

Shejustlayinbedwiththem,holding them tightly untileitherallclearsoundedorthebombingstopped.

Itneverstoppedforlong.Vianneclappedherhands

together and called forattention. Perhaps a gamewouldlifttheirspirits.

“Is it another air raid,Madame?” asked Emile. He

was six years old now andnever mentioned his mamananymore. When asked, hesaid that she “died becauseshegotsick,”andthatwasallthere was to it. He had nomemory at all of being JeanGeorgesRuelle.

Just as Daniel had nomemory of who he used tobe.

“No. No air raid,” shesaid. “Actually, I wasthinking that it’s awfully hotin here.” She tugged at herloosecollar.

“That’s because of theblackoutwindows,Madame,”said Claudine (formerlyBernadette). “Mother saysshe feels like a smoked haminherwoolenhabit.”

The children laughed atthat.

“It’sbetterthanthewintercold,”Sophiesaid,andtothistherewasaroundofnoddingagreement.

“I was thinking,” Viannesaid, “that today would be agooddayto—”

Before she could finishher thought, she heard the

clatter of a motorcycleoutside; moments later,footsteps—jackboots—thundered down the stonecorridor.

Everyonewentstill.Thedoortoherclassroom

opened.Von Richter walked into

the room. As he approachedVianne, he removed his hat

and tucked it beneath hisarmpit. “Madame,” he said.“Will you step into thecorridorwithme?”

Vianne nodded. “Onemoment, children,” she said.“Read quietly while I amgone.”

Von Richter took her bythearm—apainful,punishinggrip—and led her into the

stone courtyard outside herclassroom. The sound offallingwater from themossyfountaingurglednearby.

“Iamheretoaskaboutanacquaintance of yours. HenriNavarre.”

Vianne prayed she didn’tflinch. “Who, HerrSturmbannführer?”

“HenriNavarre.”

“Ah. Oui. The hotelier.”She fisted her hands to stillthem.

“Youarehisfriend?”Vianne shook her head.

“No,HerrSturmbannführer.Iknow of him,merely. It is asmalltown.”

Von Richter gave her anassessing look. “If you arelying tome about something

so simple, I will perhapswonder what else you arelyingtomeabout.”

“Herr Sturmbannführer,no—”

“Youhavebeenseenwithhim.” His breath smelled ofbeer and bacon, and his eyeswerenarrowed.

He’ll killme, she thoughtfor the first time.She’dbeen

careful for so long, neverantagonizing him or defyinghim, never making eyecontact if she could help it.But in the last fewweeks hehad become volatile,impossibletopredict.

“Itisasmalltown,but—”“Hehasbeenarrested for

aidingtheenemy,Madame.”“Oh,”shesaid.

“Iwillspeaktoyoumoreabout this, Madame. In asmallroomwithnowindows.Andbelieveme,Iwillgetthetruth out of you. I will findout if you are working withhim.”

“Me?”He tightened his hold so

much she thought her bonesmight crack. “If I find that

youknewanythingaboutthis,I will question yourchildren… intensely… andthen I will send you all toFresnesPrison.”

“Don’t hurt them, I begyou.”

Itwasthefirst timeshe’deverbeggedhimforanything,and at the desperation in hervoice,hewentperfectly still.

His breathing accelerated.And there itwas, as plain asthe blue of his eyes: arousal.For more than a year and ahalf, she had conductedherself with scrupulous carein his presence, dressing andactinglikealittlewren,neverdrawing his attention, neversaying anything beyond yesorno,HerrSturmbannführer.

Now,inaninstant,allofthatwasundone.Shehadrevealedher weakness, and he hadseenit.Heknewhowtohurthernow.

***

Hours later,Viannewas in awindowless room in thebowels of the town hall. Shesatstifflyuprightinherchair,

herhandsclampedaroundthearmrests so tightly that herknuckleswerewhite.

She had been here for along time, alone, trying todecidewhat thebest answerswould be. How much didtheyknow?Whatwouldtheybelieve? Had Henri namedher?

No. If theyknewthatshe

had forged documents andhidden Jewish children, shewould already have beenarrested.

Behind her, the doorcreaked open and thenclickedshut.

“MadameMauriac.”Shegottoherfeet.Von Richter circled her

slowly, his gaze intimate on

herbody.Shewaswearing afaded, often-repaired dressand no stockings, andOxfords with wooden soles.Her hair, unwashed for twodays, was covered by agingham turban with a knotabove her forehead. Herlipstickhad runout longagoandsoherlipswerepale.

Hecametoastopinfront

of her, too close, his handsclaspedbehindhisback.

It took courage to tilt herchin upward, and when shedid—when she looked in hisice-blue eyes—she knew shewasintrouble.

“You were seen withHenriNavarre,walkinginthesquare. He is suspected ofworking with the Maquis du

Limousin,thosecowardswholivelikeanimalsinthewoodsand aided the enemy inNormandy.”Atthesametimeas the Allied landing atNormandy, the Maquis hadwreaked havoc across thecountry, cutting train lines,setting bombs, floodingcanals. The Nazis weredesperate to find and punish

thepartisans.“I am barely acquainted

with him, HerrSturmbannführer; I knownothing of men who aid theenemy.”

“Areyoumakingafoolofme,Madame?”

Sheshookherhead.Hewantedtohither.She

could see it in his blue eyes:

an ugly, sick desire. It hadbeen planted when she’dbegged him for somethingandnowshehadnoideahowtoeradicateit.

He reached out andgrazedafingeralongherjaw.She flinched. “Are you trulysoinnocent?”

“Herr Sturmbannführer,you have lived in my home

foreighteenmonths.Youseeme every day. I feed mychildren and work in mygarden and teach at theorphanage.IamhardlyaidingtheAllies.”

Hisfingertipscaressedhermouth,forcingherlipstopartslightly.“IfIfindoutthatyouare lying to me, I will hurtyou, Madame. And I will

enjoyit.”Helethishandfallaway. “But if you tell thetruth—now—I will spareyou.Andyourchildren.”

She shivered at thethoughtofhisfindingoutthathe had been living all thistime with a Jewish child. Itwouldmakeafoolofhim.

“Iwouldneverlietoyou,Herr Sturmbannführer. You

mustknowthat.”“Here’swhat Iknow,”he

said, leaning closer,whisperinginherear,“Ihopeyou are lying to me,Madame.”

Hedrewback.“Youarescared,”hesaid,

smiling.“I have nothing to be

afraidof,”shesaid,unableto

get much volume in hervoice.

“We shall see if that istrue. For now, Madame, gohome. And pray I do notdiscoverthatyouhaveliedtome.”

***

That same day, Isabellewalked up the cobblestoned

street in the hilltop town ofUrrugne. She could hear theechoof footsteps behindher.On the journey here fromParis, her two latest“songs”—Major Foley andSergeant Smythe—hadfollowed her instructionsperfectlyandhadmadeitpastthe various checkpoints. Shehadn’t looked back in quite

some time, but she had nodoubt that they were therewalking as instructed—withat least one hundred yardsbetweenthem.

At the topof thehill, shesawamanseatedonabenchin front of the closed poste.Heheldasignthatread:DEAFAND DUMB. WAITING FOR MY

MAMAN TO PICK ME UP.

Amazingly, the simple rusestillworkedtofooltheNazis.

Isabelle went to him. “Ihaveanumbrella,”shesaidinherheavilyaccentedEnglish.

“It looks like rain,” hesaid.

She nodded. “Walk atleastfiftyyardsbehindme.”

She kept walking up thehill,alone.

By the time she reachedMadameBabineau’spropertyit was nearing nightfall. Atthe bend in the road, shepaused, waiting for herairmentocatchup.

The man who’d beenseated on the bench was thefirst to arrive. “Hello,ma’am,” he said, pulling offhis borrowed beret. “Major

TomDowd,ma’am.AndI’mtosaybestwishesfromSarahin Pau, ma’am. She was afirst-ratehostess.”

Isabelle smiled tiredly.They were so… larger thanlife, these Yanks, with theirready smiles and boomingvoices. And their gratitude.Not at all like theBrits,whothanked her with clipped

words and cool voices andfirm handshakes. She’d losttrack of the times anAmerican had hugged her sotightly she’d come off herfeet. “I’m Juliette,” she saidtothemajor.

Major Jack Foley wasnext to arrive.Hegaveher abig smile and said, “Thosearesomemountains.”

“You said a mouthfulthere,” Dowd said, thrustinghis hand out. “Dowd.Chicago.”

“Foley. Boston. Nice tomeetyou.”

Sergeant Smythe broughtup therear.Hearriveda fewminutes later. “Hello,gentlemen,” he said stiffly.“Thatwasahike.”

“Just wait,” Isabelle saidwithalaugh.

She led them to thecottage and knocked threetimesonthefrontdoor.

Madame Babineauopened the door a little, sawIsabelle through the crack,andgrinned,steppingbacktoallow them entrance. Asalways, a cast-iron cauldron

hungabove the flames in thesoot-blackenedfireplace.Thetablewassetfortheirarrival,with glasses of warm milkandemptysoupbowls.

Isabelle glanced around.“Eduardo?”

“In the barn, with twomore airmen.We are havingtrouble getting supplies. It’sall this damned bombing.

Half of town is rubble.” Sheplaced a hand on Isabelle’scheek. “You look tired,Isabelle.Areyouwell?”

The touch was socomforting that Isabellecouldn’t help leaning into itfor just a moment. Shewanted to tell her friend hertroubles,unburdenherselffora moment, but that was

another luxury lost in thiswar. Troubles were carriedalone. Isabelle didn’t tellMadame Babineau that theGestapo had broadened theirsearch for theNightingale orthatsheworriedforherfatherand sister and niece. Whatwas the point? They all hadfamily to worry about. Suchwereordinaryanxieties,fixed

pointsonthemapofthiswar.Isabelle reached out for

theoldwoman’shands.Thereweresomanyterribleaspectstowhat their livesnowwere,but there was this, too:friendshipsforgedinfirethathadproventobeasstrongasiron. After so many solitaryyears, spent tucked away inconvents and forgotten in

boarding schools, Isabellenever took for granted thefactthatnowshehadfriends,peoplewhomshecaredaboutandwhocaredabouther.

“Iamfine,myfriend.”“And that handsomeman

ofyours?”“Stillbombingdepotsand

derailing trains. I saw himjust before the invasion at

Normandy. I could tellsomethingbigwasup.Iknowhe’s in the thick of it. I’mworried—”

Isabelle heard the distantpurrofanengine.Sheturnedto Madame. “Are youexpectinganyone?”

“No one ever drives uphere.”

The airmen heard it, too.

They paused in theirconversation. Smythe lookedup.Foleydrewaknifeoutofhiswaistband.

Outside, the goats startedbleating. A shadow movedacrossthewindow.

Before Isabelle couldyellout a warning the doorsmacked open and lightpoured into the room, along

with several SS agents. “Putyourhandsoveryourheads!”

Isabelle was hit hard inthebackoftheheadbyariflebutt. She gasped andstumbledforward.

Herlegsgaveoutbeneathher and she fell hard,cracking her head on thestonefloor.

The last thing she heard

before she lost consciousnesswas “You are all underarrest.”

THIRTY-THREE

Isabelle woke tied to a

wooden chair at her wristsandankles; the ropesbit intoher flesh and were so tightshe couldn’t move. Herfingers were numb. A singlelightbulb hung from theceiling above her, a cone oflight in the darkness. Theroom smelled of mold andpiss and water seepingthroughcracksinthestone.

Somewhere in front ofher,amatchflared.

She heard the scratch ofsound,smelledthesulfur,andtried to lift her head, but themovement hurt so much shemadeaninvoluntarysound.

“Gut,” someone said. “Ithurts.”

Gestapo.Hepulledachairfromthe

darknessandsatdown,facingher. “Pain,” he said simply.“Or no pain. The choice isyours.”

“Inthatcase,nopain.”He hit her hard. Blood

filled her mouth, sharp andmetallic tasting. She felt itdribbledownherchin.

Two days, she thought.Onlytwodays.

She had to last underquestioning for forty-eighthourswithoutnamingnames.If she could do that, just notcrack, her father and Gaëtanand Henri and Didier andPaul and Anouk would havetime to protect themselves.They would know soon thatshehadbeenarrested,iftheydidn’talreadyknow.Eduardo

would get the word out andthenhewouldgointohiding.Thatwastheirplan.

“Name?” he said,withdrawing a smallnotebook and a pencil fromhisbreastpocket.

She felt blood drippingdown her chin, onto her lap.“Juliette Gervaise. But youknow that. You have my

papers.”“We have papers that

name you as JulietteGervaise,true.”

“Sowhyaskme?”“Whoareyou,really?”“I’mreallyJuliette.”“Born where?” he asked

lazily, studying his well-tendedfingernails.

“Nice.”

“And what were youdoinginUrrugne?”

“I was in Urrugne?” shesaid.

He straightened at that,hisgazereturnedtoherswithinterest.“Howoldareyou?”

“Twenty-two, or nearly, Ithink. Birthdays don’t meanmuchanymore.”

“Youlookyounger.”

“Ifeelolder.”He slowlygot tohis feet,

toweredoverher.“YouworkfortheNightingale.Iwanthisname.”

They didn’t know whoshewas.

“I know nothing aboutbirds.”

Theblowcameoutoftheblue, stunning in its impact.

Her head whipped sideways,crackedhardagainstthechairback.

“Tell me about theNightingale.”

“Itoldyou—”This time he hit herwith

anironruleracrossthecheek,sohardshefeltherskinbreakopenandbloodspill.

Hesmiledandsaidagain,

“TheNightingale.”She spat as hard as she

could, but it came out as adribbling blob of blood thatlanded in her lap. She shookher head to clear her visionand wished immediately thatshehadn’t.

He was coming towardher again, methodicallyslapping the red-dripping

rulerintohisopenpalm.“I’mRittmeister Schmidt,Kommandant of the GestapoinAmboise.Andyouare?”

He is going to kill me,Isabelle thought. Shestruggled against herrestraints,breathinghard.Shetasted her own blood.“Juliette,” she whispered,desperatenowthathebelieve

her.She couldn’t last two

days.This was the risk

everyone had warned herabout, the terrible truth ofwhat she’d been doing.Howhad it seemed like anadventure? She would getherself—and everyone shecaredabout—killed.

“We have most of yourcompatriots. There is nosense inyoudying toprotectdeadmen.”

Wasittrue?No. If it were true, she

wouldbedead,too.“Juliette Gervaise,” she

saidagain.He backhanded her with

the ruler so hard the chair

toppledsidewaysandcrashedtothefloor.Herheadcrackedonthestoneatthesametimehekickedher in the stomachwith the toe of his boot.Thepain was like nothing she’dever known. She heard himsay, “Now, Madamoiselle,name the Nightingale,” andshecouldn’thaveansweredifshewantedto.

Hekickedheragain,withall his weight behind theblow.

***

Consciousnessbroughtpain.Everything hurt. Her

head, her face, her body. Ittookeffort—andcourage—tolift her head. She was stillbound at the ankles and

wrists. The ropes chafedagainst her torn, bloodiedskin, cut into her bruisedflesh.

WhereamI?Darkness surrounded her,

andnotanordinarydarkness,not an unlit room. This wassomething else; animpenetrable, inky blacknessthat pressed against her

battered face. She sensed awall was mere inches fromher face. She tried to makethesmallestmoveofherfootto reach forward, and painroared to life again, bitingdeepintotheropecutsonherankles.

Shewasinabox.And she was cold. She

could feel her breath and

knewitwouldbevisible.Hernostrilhairswerefrozen.Sheshiveredhard,uncontrollably.

She screamed in terror;the sound of her screamechoed back at her and waslost.

***

Freezing.Isabelle shuddered with

cold, whimpering. She couldfeel her breathnow,pluminginfrontofherface,turningtofrost on her lips. Hereyelasheswerefrozen.

Think, Isabelle. Don’tgiveup.

She moved her body alittle, fighting through thecoldandpain.

She was seated, still

bound at the ankles andwrists.

Naked.She closed her eyes,

sickenedbytheimageofhimundressing her, touching herwhenshewasunconscious.

In the fetid darkness, shebecame aware of athrummingnoise.Atfirst,shethought it was her blood,

pulsing in pain, or her heart,pounding a desperate beat tostayalive,butitwasn’tthat.

It was a motor, andnearby, humming. Sherecognized the sound, butwhatwasit?

She shuddered again,trying to wiggle her fingersand toes to combat the deadfeelingthathadovertakenher

extremities.Before therewaspain in her feet, and then atingling,andnow…nothing.Shemovedtheonlythingshecould—her head—and itthunked against somethinghard.Shewasnaked,tiedtoachairinsidea…

Frozen. Dark. Humming.Small…

Arefrigerator.

She panicked, triedfrantically to wrest free, totopple her prison, but all hereffort did was wind her.Defeat her. She couldn’tmove. Not anything excepther fingers and toes, whichwere toofrozen tocooperate.Notlikethis,please.

Shewouldfreezetodeath.Orbeasphyxiated.

Herownbreathingechoedbackather,surroundedher,ashudder of breath all aroundit. She started to cry and hertears froze, turning to iciclesonhercheeks.Shethoughtofall the people she loved—Vianne, Sophie, Gaëtan, herfather. Why hadn’t she toldthem she loved them everydaywhenshehadthechance?

And now she would diewithouteversayingawordtoVianne.

Vianne,shethought.Onlythat. The name. Part prayer,partregret,partgood-bye.

***

Adeadbodyhungfromeverystreetlampinthetownsquare.

Vianne came to a stop,

unable to believe what shewas seeing. Across the way,an old woman stood beneathoneofthebodies.Theairwasfull of the whining creak ofropes pulled taut. Viannemovedcautiouslythroughthesquare, taking care to keepawayfromthestreetlamps—

Blue-faced,swollen,slackbodies.

There had to be ten deadmen here—Frenchmen, shecould tell.Maquisardsby thelook of them—the roughguerrilla partisans of thewoods. They wore brownpants and black berets andtricolorarmbands.

Vianne went to the oldwoman, took her by theshoulders. “You should not

behere,”shesaid.“My son,” the woman

croaked. “He can’t stay here—”

“Come,”Viannesaid,lessgently this time. Shemaneuvered the old womanout of the square.On rueLaGrande, the woman pulledfree and walked away,mumblingtoherself,crying.

Viannepassedthreemoredeadbodiesonherwaytotheboucherie. Carriveau seemedto be holding its breath. TheAllies had bombed the arearepeatedly in the last fewmonths, and several of thetown’s buildings had beenreducedtorubble.Somethingalways seemed to be fallingdownorcrumbling.

The air smelled of deathand the town was silent;danger lurked in everyshadow,aroundeverycorner.

Inthequeueatthebutchershop, Vianne heard womentalking,theirvoiceslowered.

“Retaliation…”“WorseinTulle…”“Did you hear about

Oradour-sur-Glane?”

Evenwithallofthat,withall of the arrests anddeportations and executions,Vianne couldn’t believe thenewest rumors. Yesterdaymorning the Nazis hadmarched into the smallvillage of Oradour-sur-Glane—not far from Carriveau—and herded everyone atgunpoint into the town’s

church, supposedly to checktheirpapers.

“Everyone in town,”whispered the woman towhom Vianne had spoken.“Men.Women.Children.TheNazisshotthemall,thentheyslammed the doors shut,locked them all in, andburned the church to theground.” Her eyes welled

withtears.“It’strue.”“Itcan’tbe,”Viannesaid.“My Dedee saw them

shoot a pregnant woman inthebelly.”

“She saw this?” Vianneasked.

The old woman nodded.“Dedee hid out for hoursbehindarabbithutchandsawthe town in flames. She said

she’ll never forget thescreaming.Noteveryonewasdeadwhentheysetthefire.”

It was supposedly inretaliation for aSturmbannführerwho’d beencapturedbytheMaquis.

Would the same thinghappen here? The next timethe war went badly, wouldthe Gestapo or SS round up

thevillagersofCarriveauandtraptheminthetownhallandopenfire?

She took the small tin ofoil that this week’s rationcard had allowed her andwalked out of the shop,flippingupherhoodtoshieldherface.

Someone grabbed her bythearmandpulledherhardto

the left. She stumbledsideways, lost her footing,andalmostfell.

He pulled her into a darkalleyandrevealedhimself.

“Papa!” Vianne said, toostunned by his appearance tosaymore.

Shesawwhatthewarhaddone to him, how it hadetched lines in his forehead

andplacedpuffybagsoffleshbeneath his tired-lookingeyes, how it had leached thecolorfromhisskinandturnedhis hair white. He wasterriblythin;agespotsdottedhis sagging cheeks. She wasreminded of his return fromthe Great War, when he’dlookedthisbad.

“Istheresomewherequiet

we can talk?” he said. “I’drather not meet yourGerman.”

“He’snotmyGerman,butoui.”

She could hardly blamehim for not wanting to meetVonRichter.“Thehousenexttomineisvacant.Totheeast.The Germans thought it toosmall tobotherwith.Wecan

meetthere.”“In twenty minutes,” he

said.Vianne pulled her hood

back up over her scarf-covered hair and stepped outof the alleyway. As she lefttown and walked along themuddy road toward home,she tried to imaginewhyherfatherwas here. She knew—

or supposed—that Isabellewas livingwithhim inParis,although even that wasconjecture. For all she knew,hersisterandherfatherlivedseparate lives in the samecity. She hadn’t heard fromIsabelle since that terriblenight in the barn, althoughHenri had reported that shewaswell.

She hurried past theairfield, barely noticing theaeroplanes that werecrumpled and still smokingfromarecentbombingraid.

At Rachel’s gate, shepaused and glanced up anddown the road. No one hadfollowed or seemed to bewatching her. She slippedinsidetheyardandhurriedto

the abandoned cottage. Thefront door had been brokenlong ago and now hungaskew.Sheletherselfinside.

Theinteriorwasshadowyand limned in dust. Almostall of the furniture had beenrequisitioned or stolen bylooters, and missing picturesleft black squares on thewalls; only an old loveseat

with dirty cushions and abroken leg remained in theliving room. Vianne satdown,perchednervously,herfoot tapping on the rush-coveredfloor.

She chewed on herthumbnail, unable to be still,and then sheheard footsteps.She went to the window,liftingtheblackoutshade.

Her father was at thedoor. Only he wasn’t herfather, not this stooped oldman.

She let him into thehouse. When he looked ather, the lines in his facedeepened; the folds of hisskin looked like pockets ofmelting wax. He ran a handthroughhisthinninghair.The

longwhitestrandsrearrangedthemselvesintospikes,givinghim a strangely electrifiedlook.

He moved toward herslowly,limpingjustalittle.Itbroughtherwholelifebackinan instant, that shuffling,awkward way he had ofmoving. Her maman saying,Forgivehim,Vianne,heisn’t

himselfanymoreandhecan’tforgivehimself…it’suptoustodoit.

“Vianne.” He said hername softly, his rough voicelingering over it. Again, shewas reminded subtly ofBefore, when he had beenhimself. It was a long-forgotten thought. In theAfteryears,shehadrelegated

all thoughts of him to thecloset; in time, she’dforgotten. Now sheremembered. It scared her tofeelthisway.Hehadhurthersomanytimes.

“Papa.”He went to the loveseat

and sat down. The cushionssagged tiredly beneath hismeager weight. “I was a

terriblefathertoyougirls.”Itwas so surprising—and

true—thatViannehadnoideawhattosay.

He sighed. “It’s too latenowtofixallthat.”

She joined him at theloveseat, sat down besidehim.“It’snevertoolate,”shesaid cautiously. Was it true?Couldsheforgivehim?

Yes. The answer cameinstantly,asunexpectedashisappearancehere.

He turned to her. “I havesomuchtosayandnotimetosayit.”

“Stayhere,”shesaid.“I’llcareforyouand—”

“Isabelle has beenarrested and charged withaiding the enemy. She’s

imprisonedinGirot.”Vianne drew in a sharp

breath. The regret she feltwas immense, as was theguilt.Whathadherlastwordsto her sister been? Don’tcome back. “What can wedo?”

“We?” he said. “It is alovely question, but not oneto be asked. You must do

nothing. You stay here inCarriveau and stay out oftrouble, as you have been.Keepmygranddaughtersafe.Awaityourhusband.”

ItwasallViannecoulddonot tosay, I’mdifferentnow,Papa. I am helping to hideJewish children. She wantedto seeherself reflected inhisgaze, wanted just once to

makehimproudofher.Doit.Tellhim.How could she? He

looked so old sitting there,old and broken and lost.Therewasonlythebaresthintof the man he’d been. Hedidn’t need to know thatVianne was risking her life,too, couldn’t worry that hewould lose both his

daughters. Let him think shewas as safe as one could be.Acoward.

“Isabellewillneedyoutocome home to when this isover. You will tell her thatshe did the right thing. Shewillworryaboutthatoneday.She will think she shouldhave stayed with you,protected you. She will

remember leaving you withthe Nazi, risking your lives,andshewillagonizeoverherchoice.”

Vianne heard theconfession that lay beneath.He was telling her his ownstory in the only way hecould, cloaked in Isabelle’s.He was saying that he hadworried about his choice to

join the army in the GreatWar, that he had agonizedover what his fighting haddone to his family.He knewhow changed he’d been onhisreturn,andinsteadofpaindrawing him closer to hischildren and wife, it hadseparated them. He regrettedpushing them away, leavingthem with Madame Dumas

allthoseyearsago.What a burden such a

choice must be. For the firsttime, she saw her ownchildhood as an adult, fromfar away, with the wisdomthiswarhadgivenher.Battlehad broken her father; shehad always known that. Hermamanhadsaiditrepeatedly,butnowVianneunderstood.

Ithadbrokenhim.“Yougirlswillbepartof

the generation that goes on,that remembers,” he said.“The memories of whathappened will be… hard toforget.Youwill need to staytogether. Show Isabelle thatshe is loved. Sadly, this is athing I never did. Now it istoolate.”

“You sound like you’resayinggood-bye.”

She saw the sad, forlornlook in his eyes, and sheunderstoodwhyhewashere,what he’d come to say. Hewasgoingtosacrificehimselffor Isabelle.Shedidn’tknowhow, but she knew it to betrue just the same. Itwashiswayofmakingup for all the

timeshe’ddisappointedthem.“Papa,” she said. “What areyougoingtodo?”

He laid a hand to hercheek and it was warm andsolid and comforting, thatfather’s touch. She hadn’trealized—or admitted toherself—how much she’dmissed him. And now, justwhensheglimpsedadifferent

future, a redemption, itdissolved around her. “Whatwould you do to saveSophie?”

“Anything.”Vianne staredat thisman

who before the war changedhim had taught her to lovebooks and writing and tonotice a sunset. She hadn’tremembered that man in a

longtime.“I must go,” he said,

handing her an envelope.Onit was written Isabelle andVianne in his shakyhandwriting. “Read ittogether.”

Hestoodupandturnedtoleave.

She wasn’t ready to losehim.Shegrabbed forhim.A

pieceofhiscuffrippedawayinhergrasp.Shestareddownat it: a strip of brown-and-white-checked cotton lay inher palm. A strip of fabricliketheotherstiedtohertreebranches. Remembrances forlostandmissinglovedones.

“I love you, Papa,” shesaid quietly, realizing howtrue it was, how true it had

alwaysbeen.Lovehadturnedinto loss and she’d pushed itaway, but somehow,impossibly, a bit of that lovehad remained. A girl’s lovefor her father. Immutable.Unbearablebutunbreakable.

“Howcanyou?”She swallowed hard, saw

that he had tears in his eyes.“HowcanInot?”

He gave her a last,lingering look—andakiss toeach cheek—and then hedrew back. So softly shealmostdidn’thear,hesaid,“Ilovedyou,too,”andthenlefther.

Viannewatchedhimwalkaway. When at last hedisappeared, she returnedhome. There, she paused

beneath the apple tree full ofscraps of fabric. In the yearsthatshehadbeentyingscrapsto the branches, the tree haddied and the fruit had turnedbitter. The other apple treeswere hale and healthy, butthis one, the tree of herremembrances, was as blackand twisted as the bombed-outtownbehindit.

She tied the brown-checked scrap next toRachel’s.

Then she went into thehouse.

Afirewaslitinthelivingroom; the whole house waswarm and smoky. Wasteful.She closed the door behindher, frowning. “Children,”shecalledout.

“They are upstairs in myroom. I gave them somechocolates and a game toplay.”

VonRichter.Whatwashedoing here in the middle oftheday?

Hadhe seen herwith herfather?

Did he know aboutIsabelle?

“Your daughter thankedme for the chocolates.She issuchaprettyyoungthing.”

Vianne knew better thanto show her fear at that. Sheremained still and silent,trying to calm her racingheart.

“But your son.” He putthe slightest emphasis on theword. “He looksnothing like

you.”“Myh-husband,An—”He struck so fast she

didn’tevenseehimmove.Hegrabbed her by the arm,squeezing hard, twisting thesoft flesh. She let out a littlecry as he shoved her backagainst the wall. “Are yougoingtolietomeagain?”

Hetookbothofherhands

and wrenched them over herhead, pinning them to thewall with one gloved hand.“Please,”shesaid,“don’t…”

Sheknew instantly that itwasamistaketobeg.

“I checked the records.There is only one child bornto you and Antoine. A girl,Sophie. You buried others.Whoistheboy?”

Viannewastoofrightenedtothinkclearly.Allsheknewforsurewasthatshecouldn’ttell thetruthorDanielwouldbe deported. And God knewwhat they’d do toVianne…to Sophie. “Antoine’s cousindied giving birth to Daniel.We adopted the baby justbefore the war started. Youknow how difficult official

paperworkisthesedays,butIhave his birth certificate andbaptismal papers. He’s oursonnow.”

“Your nephew, then.Blood but not blood.Who isto say his father isn’t acommunist?OrJewish?”

Vianne swallowedconvulsively. He didn’tsuspect the truth. “We’re

Catholic.Youknowthat.”“What would you do to

keephimherewithyou?”“Anything,”shesaid.Heunbuttonedherblouse,

slowly,lettingeachbuttonbeteased through its frayinghole.When thebodicegapedopen,heslidhishand inside,sliding it over her breast,twisting her nipple hard

enough that she cried out inpain.“Anything?”heasked.

Sheswalloweddryly.“The bedroom, please,”

shesaid.“Mychildren.”He stepped back. “After

you,Madame.”“You will let me keep

Danielhere?”“Areyounegotiatingwith

me?”

“Iam.”He grabbed her by the

hairandyankedhard,pullingher into the bedroom. Hekicked thedoorshutwithhisbooted foot and then shovedher up against the wall. Shemade anooph as she hit. Hepinned her in place andshoved her skirt up andrippedherknittedunderpants

away.She turned her head and

closed her eyes, hearing hisbelt unbuckle with a clatterandhisbuttonsrelease.

“Lookatme,”hesaid.Shedidn’tmove,didn’tso

much as breathe.Neither didsheopenhereyes.

Hehitheragain.Stillshestayed where she was, her

eyesclosedtightly.“Ifyoulookatme,Daniel

stays.”She turned her head and

slowlyopenedhereyes.“That’sbetter.”Shegrittedherteethashe

yanked down his pants andshoved her legs farther apartand violated both her bodyand her soul. She did not

makeasinglesound.Nordidshelookaway.

THIRTY-FOUR

Isabelle tried to crawl away

from… what? Had she justbeen kicked or burned? Orlocked in the refrigerator?She couldn’t remember. Shedragged her aching, bloodyfeet backward across thefloor,onepain-filledinchatatime. Everything hurt. Herhead,her cheek,her jaw,herwristsandankles.

Someone grabbed her by

the hair, yanked her headback. Blunt, dirty fingersforced her mouth open;brandysplashedintoheropenmouth, gagging her. She spititbackup.

Herhairwasthawing.Icewater streamed down herface.

She opened her eyesslowly.

A man stood in front ofher,smokingacigarette.Thesmell made her sick to herstomach.

How long had she beenhere?

Think,Isabelle.She had been moved to

this dank, airless cell. Twomornings had dawned withherabletoseethesun,right?

Two?Orjustone?Had she given the

network enough time to getpeople hidden? She couldn’tthink.

The man was talking,asking her questions. Hismouth opened, closed,spewedsmoke.

Sheflinchedinstinctively,curledintoacrouch,squatted

back. The man behind herkickedher inherspine,hard,andshestilled.

So. Two men. One infront of her and one behind.Payattention to theonewhoisspeaking.

Whatwashesaying?“Sit.”She wanted to defy him

but didn’t have the strength.

She climbed up onto thechair. The skin around herwrists was torn and bloody,oozing pus. She used herhandstocoverhernakedness,but itwasuseless, sheknew.Hewould pull her legs aparttobindheranklestothechairlegs.

When she was seated,something soft hit her in the

face and fell into her lap.Dully,shelookeddown.

Adress.Nothers.Sheclutchedittoherbare

breastsandlookedup.“Putiton,”hesaid.Her hands were shaking

as she stood and steppedawkwardly into thewrinkled,shapelessbluelinendressthatwas at least three sizes too

large. It took forever tobuttonthesaggingbodice.

“The Nightingale,” hesaid,takingalongdragonhiscigarette.Thetipglowedred-orange and Isabelleinstinctively shrank into thechair.

Schmidt. That was hisname.“Idon’tknowanythingaboutbirds,”shesaid.

“You are JulietteGervaise,”hesaid.

“I have told you that ahundredtimes.”

“And you know nothingabouttheNightingale.”

“This is what I’ve toldyou.”

He nodded sharply andIsabelle immediately heardfootsteps, and then the door

behindhercreakedopen.She thought: It doesn’t

hurt, it’s just my body. Theycan’t touch my soul. It hadbecomehermantra.

“Wearedonewithyou.”Hewassmilingatherina

waythatmadeherskincrawl.“Bringhimin.”A man stumbled forward

inshackles.

Papa.Shesawhorrorinhiseyes

and knew how she looked:split lip and blackened eyesand torn cheek … cigaretteburnsonher forearms, bloodmattedinherhair.Sheshouldstay still, stand where shewas, but she couldn’t. Shelimped forward, gritting herteethatthepain.

Therewerenobruises onhisface,nocutsonhislip,noarmheldclosetohisbodyinpain.

They hadn’t beaten ortortured him, which meantthey hadn’t interrogated him.“I am the Nightingale,” herfather said to themanwho’dtorturedher.“Isthatwhatyouneedtohear?”

She shook her head, saidno in a voice so soft no oneheard.

“I am the Nightingale,”she said, standingonburned,bloodyfeet.SheturnedtotheGermanwhohadtorturedher.

Schmidtlaughed.“You,agirl? The infamousNightingale?”

Herfathersaidsomething

in English to the German,who clearly didn’tunderstand.

Isabelle understood:TheycouldspeakinEnglish.

Isabellewascloseenoughtoherfathertotouchhim,butshe didn’t. “Don’t do this,”shebegged.

“It’s done,” he said. Thesmilehegaveherwasslowin

forming, and when it came,she felt pain constrict herchest.Memories came at herin waves, surging over thebreakwater she’d built in theisolatedyears.Himsweepingherintohisarms,twirlingheraround;pickingherupfromafall, dusting her off,whispering,Not so loud, mylittle terror,you’llwakeyour

maman…Shedrewinshort,shallow

breaths and wiped her eyes.Hewas trying tomake it uptoher,askingfor forgivenessandseekingredemptionallatonce, sacrificing himself forher. Itwasaglimpseofwhohe’d once been, the poet hermaman had fallen in lovewith. That man, the one

before the war, might haveknown another way, mighthavefound theperfectwordsto heal their fractured past.But he wasn’t that mananymore. He had lost toomuch, and in his loss, he’dthrownmore away.Thiswastheonlywayheknew to tellher he loved her. “Not thisway,”shewhispered.

“There is no other.Forgiveme,”hesaidsoftly.

The Gestapo steppedbetween them. He grabbedher father by the arm andpulledhimtowardthedoor.

Isabelle limped afterthem.“IamtheNightingale!”shecalledout.

The door slammed in herface.Shehobbledtothecell’s

window,clutching the rough,rusty bars. “I am theNightingale!”shescreamed.

Outside,beneathayellowmorning sun, her father wasdragged into the square,wherea firingsquadstoodattheready,riflesraised.

Her father stumbledforward, lurched across thecobblestoned square, past a

fountain. Morning sunlightgave everything a golden,beautifulglow.

“We were supposed tohave time,” she whispered,feeling tears start.Howoftenhad she imagined a newbeginning for her and Papa,for all of them? They wouldcome together after the war,IsabelleandVianneandPapa,

learntolaughandtalkandbeafamilyagain.

Now it would neverhappen; she would never gettoknowherfather,neverfeelthe warmth of his hand inhers, never fall asleep on thedivan beside him, never beable to sayall thatneeded tobe saidbetween them.Thosewords were lost, turned into

ghosts thatwoulddrift away,unsaid.Theywouldnever bethe family maman hadpromised.“Papa,”shesaid;itwas such a big wordsuddenly, a dream in itsentirety.

He turned and faced thefiring squad. She watchedhim stand taller and squarehis shoulders.He pushed the

whitestrandsofhairfromhisdry eyes. Across the square,theirgazesmet.Sheclutchedthe bars harder, clinging tothemforsupport.

“Iloveyou,”hemouthed.Shotsrangout.

***

Viannehurtallover.She lay in bed, bracketed

by her sleeping children,trying not to remember lastnight’s rape in excruciatingdetail.

Moving slowly, she wenttothepumpandwashedupincold water, wincing everytimeshetouchedanareathatwasbruised.

She dressed in what waseasy—a wrinkled linen

button-up dress with a fittedbodiceandflaredskirt.

All night, she’d lainawake in bed, holding herchildren close, alternatelyweeping for what he’d donetoher—whathe’dtakenfromher—and fuming that shecouldn’tstopit.

Shewantedtokillhim.Shewantedtokillherself.

What would Antoinethinkofhernow?

Truthfully, the biggestpartofherwanted to curlupinaball in somedarkcornerand never show her faceagain.

But even that—shame—wasaluxurythesedays.Howcouldsheworryaboutherselfwhen Isabelle was in prison

and their fatherwasgoing totrytosaveher?

“Sophie,” she said whenthey’dfinishedtheirbreakfastof dry toast and a poachedegg.“Ihaveanerrand to runtoday. You will stay homewithDaniel.Lockthedoor.”

“VonRichter—”“Isgoneuntil tomorrow.”

She felt her face grow hot.

Thiswasthekindofintimacysheshouldn’tknow.“Hetoldme so last … night.” Hervoicebrokeonthelastword.

Sophierose.“Maman?”Vianne dashed tears

away. “I’m fine. But I mustgo.Begood.”Shekissedbothofthemgood-byeandrushedout before she could startthinkingofreasonstostay.

LikeSophieandDaniel.AndVonRichter.Hesaid

hewas leaving for the night,but who knew? He couldalways have her followed.But if she worried too muchabout “what ifs” she wouldnever get anything done. Inthe time she’d been hidingJewish children, she hadlearned to go on despite her

fear.ShehadtohelpIsabelle—(Don’tcomeback.)(I’llturnyouinmyself.)—andPapaifshecould.Sheboarded the trainand

satonawoodenbenchinthethird-class carriage. Severalof the other passengers—mostly women—sat withtheir heads down, hands

clasped in their laps. A tallHauptsturmführer stoodguardby thedoor,hisgunattheready.Asquadofnarrow-eyed Milice—the brutalVichy police—sat in anotherpartofthecarriage.

Vianne didn’t look ateither of the women in thecompartmentwithher.Oneofthem stank of garlic and

onions. The smell madeViannefaintlysickinthehot,airless compartment.Fortunately, her destinationwas not far away, and justafter ten o’clock in themorning, she disembarked atthe small train station on theoutskirtsofGirot.

Nowwhat?The sun rode high

overhead, baking the smalltown into a stupor. Vianneclutched her handbag close,felt perspiration crawl downher back and drip from hertemples. Many of the sand-colored buildings had beenbombed;pilesofrubblewereeverywhere.A blueCross ofLorraine had been paintedonto the stone sides of an

abandonedschool.She encountered few

people on the crooked,cobblestoned streets. Nowandthenagirlonabicycleora boy with a wheelbarrowwould thump and rattle pasther, but for the most part,what she noticed was thesilence,anairofdesertion.

Thenawomanscreamed.

Vianne came around thelast crooked corner and sawthetownsquare.Adeadbodywas lashed to the fountain inthe square. Blood reddenedthe water that lapped aroundhisankles.Hisheadhadbeenstrapped back with an armybeltsothatheseemedalmostrelaxed there,withhismouthslack, his eyes open,

sightless.Bulletholeschewedup his chest, left his sweaterin tatters;blooddarkenedhischestandpantlegs.

Herfather.

***

Isabelle had spent last nighthuddled in the damp, blackcornerofhercell.Thehorrorofherfather’sdeathreplayed

itselfoverandover.Shewouldbekilledsoon.

Ofthatshehadnodoubt.As the hours passed—

time measured in breathstaken and released, inheartbeats—she wroteimaginarylettersofgood-byeto her father, to Gaëtan, toVianne. She strung hermemories into sentences that

she memorized, or tried to,but they all endedwith “I’msorry.” When the soldierscame for her, iron keysrattling in ancient locks,worm-eaten doors scrapingopenacrosstheunevenfloor,she wanted to scream andprotest, yellNO, but she hadnovoiceleft.

She was yanked to her

feet. A woman built like apanzer tank thrust shoes andsocks at her and saidsomething in German.Obviously she didn’t speakFrench.

She gave Isabelle backher Juliette identity papers.They were stained now, andcrumpled.

The shoeswere too small

and pinched her toes butIsabelle was grateful forthem.Thewomanhauledherout of the cell and up theuneven stone steps and outinto the blinding sunlight ofthe square. Several soldiersstood by the oppositebuildings,theirriflesstrappedto their backs, going abouttheir business. She saw her

father’s bullet-ridden deadbody lashed to the fountainandscreamed.

Everyone in the squarelooked up. The soldierslaughedather,pointed.

“Quiet,” theGerman tankwomanhissed.

Isabelle was about to saysomething when she sawViannemovingtowardher.

Her sistermoved forwardawkwardly, as if she wasn’tquite in control of her body.SheworeatattereddressthatIsabelle remembered as oncebeing pretty. Her red-goldhairwasdullandlank,tuckedbehindherears.Herfacewasas thin andhollowas a bonechina teacup. “I’ve come tohelp you,” Vianne said

quietly.Isabelle could have cried.

More than anything in theworld, she wanted to run toher big sister, to drop to herkneesandbegforforgivenessand then to hold her ingratitude.Tosay“I’msorry”and “I love you” and all thewords in between. But shecouldn’t do any of that. She

hadtoprotectVianne.“So did he,” she said,

cocking her head toward herfather. “Go away. Please.Forgetme.”

The German womanyanked Isabelle forward. Shestumbled along, her feetscreaming in pain, notallowingherselftolookback.She thought she was being

led to a firing squad,but shewent past her father’sslumpedbody and out of thesquareandontoa side street,wherealorrywaswaiting.

The woman shovedIsabelle into the back of thelorry. She scrambled back tothecornerandsquatteddown,alone. The canvas flapsunfurled, bringing darkness.

As the engine roared to life,sherestedherchininthehardandemptyvalleybetweenherbony knees and closed hereyes.

Whenshewoke,itwastostillness. The truck hadstoppedmoving.Somewhere,awhistleblared.

The flaps of the truckwere whisked sideways and

lightfloodedintothebackofthe truck, so bright Isabellecouldn’t see anything butshadow men coming towardher, yelling, “Schnell,schnell!”

Shewaspulledoutof thetruck and tossed to thecobblestoned street like asackoftrash.Therewerefourempty cattle cars lined up

along the platform. The firstthree were shut tightly. Thefourth was open—andcrammed with women andchildren. The noise wasoverwhelming—screaming,crying,dogsbarking,soldiersshouting,whistlesblaring,thechugging humof thewaitingtrain.

The Nazi shoved Isabelle

into the crowd, pushing herforward every time shestopped,untilthelastcarriageappearedinfrontofher.

He picked her up andthrew her inside; shestumbled into the crowd,almost fell. Only the otherbodies kept her on her feet.They were still coming in,stumbling forward, crying,

clutching their children’shands, trying to find a six-inch opening between bodiesinwhichtostand.

Iron bars covered thewindows. In the corner,Isabellesawasinglebarrel.

Theirtoilet.Suitcases were piled in

the corner on a stack of haybales.

Limping on feet thatached with every step,Isabelle pushed through thecrowdofwhimpering, cryingwomen, past their screamingchildren, to the back of thetrain carriage. In the corner,she saw a woman standingalone, her arms crosseddefiantlyacrossherchest,hercoarsegrayhaircoveredbya

blackscarf.Madame Babineau’s

bruised face broke into abrown-toothedsmile.Isabellewas so relieved by the sightof her friend that she almostcried.

“Madame Babineau,”Isabelle whispered, huggingherfriendtightly.

“I think it’s time you

called me Micheline,” herfriend said. She was dressedinmen’s pants that were toolong for her and a flannelwork shirt. She touchedIsabelle’s cracked, bruised,bloodied face. “What havetheydonetoyou?”

“Their worst,” she said,tryingtosoundlikeherself.

“I think not.” Micheline

letthatsinkinamomentandthen cocked her head towardabucketnearherbootedfeet.This one was filled with agray water that sloshed overtheedgesasthewoodenfloorrattled beneath so manymoving bodies. A splitwoodenladlelaytooneside.“Drink.Whileit’sthere,”shesaid.

Isabelle filled the ladlewiththefetid-smellingwater.Gagging at the taste, sheforced herself to swallow.She stood, offered a ladlefultoMicheline,whodrankitalland wiped her wet lips withthebackofhersleeve.

“Thisisgoingtobebad,”Michelinesaid.

“I’m sorry I got you into

this,”Isabellesaid.“Youdid not getme into

anything,Juliette,”Michelinesaid.“Iwantedtobeapartofit.”

The whistle soundedagain and the car doorsbanged shut, plunging themall into darkness. Boltsclanged into place, lockingthem in. The train lurched

forward. People fell into oneanother, fell down. Babiesscreamed and childrenwhined.Someonewaspeeingin the bucket and the smelloverlaid the stench of thesweatandfear.

Micheline put an armaround Isabelle and the twowomenclimbed to the topofthehaybalesandsattogether.

“IamIsabelleRossignol,”she said quietly, hearing hername swallowed by thedarkness.Ifshewasgoingtodie on this train, she wantedsomeone to know who shewas.

Micheline sighed. “Youare Julien and Madeleine’sdaughter.”

“Did you know from the

start?”“Oui. You have your

mother’s eyes and yourfather’stemperament.”

“He was executed,” shesaid. “He admitted to beingtheNightingale.”

Micheline held her hand.“Of course he did. Someday,when you are a mother, youwill understand. I remember

thinking your parents wereunmatched—quiet,intellectual Julien and yourvivacious, steel-spinedmaman. I thought they hadnothing in common, but nowIknowhowoftenloveislikethat. It was the war, youknow; it broke him like acigarette. Irreparable. Shetriedtosavehim.Sohard.”

“Whenshedied…”“Oui. Instead of fixing

himself, he drank and madehimselfworse,butthemanhebecame was not the man hewas,”Micheline said. “Somestories don’t have happyendings. Even love stories.Maybe especially lovestories.”

The hours rolled by

slowly. Often, the trainstopped to take on morewomen and children or toavoid bombing. The womentook turns sitting down andstandingup,eachhelping theothers when they could. Thewater disappeared and theurine barrel overfilled,sloshing over. Whenever thetrain slowed, Isabelle pushed

to the sides of the carriage,peering through the slats,tryingtoseewheretheywere,but all she saw were moresoldiers and dogs andwhips…morewomenbeingherded like cattle into moretraincars.Womenwrotetheirnames on scraps of paper orcloth and shoved themthroughcracksinthecarriage

walls,hopingagainsthope toberemembered.

By the second day, theywere all exhausted andhungry and so thirsty theyremained quiet, saving theirsaliva.Theheatandstenchinthecarriagewasunbearable.

Beafraid.Wasn’t that what Gaëtan

had said to her? He said the

warning had come fromViannethatnightinthebarn.

Isabelle hadn’t fullyunderstood it then. Sheunderstood it now. She hadthoughtherselfindestructible.

Butwhatwould shehavedonedifferently?

“Nothing,” shewhisperedintothedarkness.

Shewoulddoitallagain.

And this wasn’t the end.She had to remember that.Eachdayshe lived therewasa chance for salvation. Shecouldn’t give up. She couldnevergiveup.

***

Thetrainstopped.Isabellesatup, bleary-eyed, her bodyaching and in pain from the

beatings of her interrogation.Sheheardharshvoices, dogsbarking.Awhistleblared.

“Wake up, Micheline,”Isabelle said, gently jostlingthewomanbesideher.

Michelineedgedupright.The seventy other people

in the car—women andchildren—slowly rousedthemselvesfromthestuporof

the journey.Thosewhowereseatedrose.Thewomencametogether instinctively, packedincloser.

Isabellewincedinpainasshe stood on torn feet inshoes too small. She heldMicheline’scoldhand.

The giant carriage doorsrumbled open. Sunlightpoured in, blinding them all.

Isabelle saw SS officersdressed in black, with theirsnarling, barking dogs. Theywere shouting orders at thewomen and children,incomprehensiblewordswithobvious meaning. Climbdown,moveon,getintoline.

The women helped oneanother down. Isabelle heldon to Micheline’s hand and

stepped down onto theplatform.

Atruncheonhitherinthehead so hard she stumbledsideways and dropped to herknees.

“Get up,” a woman said.“Youmust.”

Isabelle let herself behelpedtoherfeet.Dizzy,sheleaned into the woman.

Micheline came up on herotherside,putanarmaroundherwaisttosteadyher.

To Isabelle’s left, a whipsnaked through the air,hissing, and cracked into thefleshy pink of a woman’scheek. Thewoman screamedand held the torn skin of hercheektogether.Bloodpouredbetween her fingers, but she

keptmoving.The women formed

ragged lines and marchedacrossunevengroundthroughan open gate that wassurroundedbybarbedwire.Awatchtower loomed abovethem.

Inside the gates, Isabellesaw hundreds—thousands—of women who looked like

ghosts moving through asurreal landscape of gray,their bodies emaciated, theireyessunkenanddeadlookingingrayfaces,theirhairshorn.They wore baggy, dirtystriped dresses; some werebarefooted.Onlywomen andchildren.Nomen.

Behind the gates andbeneath the watchtower, she

sawbarracksstretchingoutinlines.

Acorpseof awoman layin themud in front of them.Isabellesteppedoverthedeadwoman, too numb to thinkanything but keep moving.The last woman who’dstoppedhad been hit so hardshedidn’tgetupagain.

Soldiers yanked the

suitcases from their hands,snatched necklaces, pulledearrings and wedding ringsoff. When their valuableswere all gone, theywere ledintoaroom,wheretheystoodcrowded together, sweatingfrom the heat, dizzy fromthirst. A woman grabbedIsabelle’s arms, pulled heraside. Before she could even

think, shewasbeing strippednaked—theyallwere.Roughhandsscratchedherskinwithdirty fingernails. She wasshaved everywhere—underher arms, her head, and herpubic hair—with aviciousness that left herbleeding.

“Schnell!”Isabelle stood with the

other shaved, freezing,nakedwomen, her feet aching, herhead still ringing from theblows. And then they werebeing moved again, herdedforward toward anotherbuilding.

Sherememberedsuddenlythestoriesshe’dheardatMI9andontheBBC,newsstoriesabout Jewish people being

gassed to death at theconcentrationcamps.

She felt a feeble sense ofpanicassheshuffledforwardwith the herd, into a giantroomfullofshowerheads.

Isabellestoodbeneathoneof the showerheads, nakedandtrembling.Overthenoiseof the guards and theprisoners and the dogs, she

heard the rattling of an oldventilation system.Something was coming on,clatteringthroughthepipes.

Thisisit.Thedoorsof thebuilding

bangedshut.Ice-cold water gushed

from the showerheads,shockingIsabelle,chillinghertothebone.Innotimeitwas

over and they were beingherded again. Shivering,trying futilely to cover hernakednesswithher tremblinghands, she moved into thecrowd and stumbled forwardwith the other women. Oneby one they were deloused.Then Isabelle was handed ashapeless striped dress and adirtypairofmen’sunderwear

and two left shoes withoutlaces.

Clutching her newpossessions to her clammybreasts,shewasshovedintoabarn-likebuildingwithstacksof wooden bunks. Sheclimbedintooneofthebunksand lay therewithnineotherwomen. Moving slowly, shedressed and then lay back,

staringupatthegraywoodenunderside of the bunk aboveher. “Micheline?” shewhispered.

“I’m here, Isabelle,” herfriend said from the bunkabove.

Isabelle was too tired tosaymore.Outside, she heardthesmackingofleatherbelts,the hissing ofwhips, and the

screams of women whomovedtooslowly.

“Welcome toRavensbrück,” said thewomanbesideher.

Isabelle felt the woman’sskeletalhipagainstherleg.

She closed her eyes,trying to block out thesounds, the smell, the fear,thepain.

Stayalive,shethought.Stay.Alive.

THIRTY-FIVE

August.

Vianne breathed asquietly as she could. In thehot, muggy darkness of thisupstairs bedroom—herbedroom, the one she’dshared with Antoine—everysound was amplified. Sheheard the bedsprings ping inprotest asVonRichter rolledontohisside.Shewatchedhisexhalations, gauging each

one. When he started tosnore, she inched sidewaysand peeled the damp sheetawayfromhernakedbody.

In the last few months,Vianne had learned aboutpain and shame anddegradation. She knew aboutsurvival, too—how to gaugeVon Richter’s moods andwhen to stay out of his way

and when to be silent.Sometimes, if she dideverything just right, hebarely saw her. It was onlywhen he’d had a bad day,when he came home alreadyangry,thatshewasintrouble.Likelastnight.

He’d come home in aterrible temper, mutteringabout the fighting in Paris.

The Maquis had startedfightinginthestreets.Viannehad known instantly whathe’dwantthatnight.

Toinflictpain.She’dherdedherchildren

out of the room quickly, putthemtobedinthedownstairsbedroom. Then she’d goneupstairs.

That was the worst of it,

maybe; that he made hercometohimandshedid.Shetook off her clothes so hewouldn’tripthemaway.

Now, as she dressed shenoticed how much it hurt toraiseherarms.Shepausedatthe blacked-out window.Beyonditlayfieldsdestroyedby incendiary bombs; treesbrokeninhalf,manyofthem

still smoldering, gates andchimneys broken. Anapocalyptic landscape. Theairfieldwasacrushedpileofstone and wood surroundedby broken aeroplanes andbombed-out lorries. SinceGénéral de Gaulle had takenover the Free French Armyand the Allies had landed inNormandy, the bombing of

Europehadbecomeconstant.Was Antoine out there

still? Was he somewhere inhis prison camp, looking outaslitinthebarrackswalloraboarded-up window, lookingat this moon that had onceshone on a house filled withlove? And Isabelle. She’dbeen gone only two months,but it felt like a lifetime.

Vianne worried about herconstantly, but there wasnothing to be done aboutworry;ithadtobeborne.

Downstairs, she lit acandle. The electricity hadbeenoffforalongtimenow.Inthewatercloset,shesetthecandle downby the sink andstared at herself in the ovalmirror. Even in candlelight,

she looked pasty and gaunt.Her dull, reddish gold hairhung limp on either side ofher face. In the years ofdeprivation, her nose seemedto have lengthened and hercheekboneshadbecomemoreprominent. A bruisediscolored her temple. Soon,she knew, it would darken.She knew without looking

that there would behandprintsonherupperarmsandanuglybruiseonherleftbreast.

He was getting meaner.Angrier. The Allied forceshadlandedinsouthernFranceand begun liberating towns.TheGermanswerelosingthewar,andVonRichterseemedhell-bent on making Vianne

payforit.She stripped and washed

in tepid water. She scrubbeduntilherskinwasmottledandred, and still she didn’t feelclean.Sheneverfeltclean.

When she could stand nomore, she dried off andredressed in her nightgown,addingarobeoverit.Tyingitat the waist, she left the

bathroom, carrying hercandle.

Sophie was in the livingroom,waitingforher.Shesaton the last good piece offurniture in the room—thedivan—withherkneesdrawntogether and her handsclasped. The rest of thefurniture had beenrequisitionedorburned.

“What are you doing upsolate?”

“Icouldaskyouthesamequestion, but I don’t reallyneedto,doI?”

Vianne tightened the beltonherrobe.Itwasanervoushabit, something to do withherhands.“Let’sgotobed.”

Sophie looked up at her.At almost fourteen, Sophie’s

face had begun to mature.Her eyes were black againstherpale skin, her lashes lushand long. A poor diet hadthinned Sophie’s hair, but itstill hung in ringlets. Shepursed her full lips. “Really,Maman? How long must wepretend?” The sadness—andthe anger—in those beautifuleyes was heartbreaking.

Vianneapparentlyhadhiddennothingfromthischildwho’dlostherchildhoodtowar.

What was the right thingfor a mother to say to hernearly grown daughter aboutthe ugliness in the world?How could she be honest?HowcouldVianneexpectherdaughter to judge her lessharshly than she judged

herself?Vianne sat down beside

Sophie. She thought abouttheir old life—laughter,kisses, family suppers,Christmas mornings, lostbabyteeth,firstwords.

“I’m not stupid,” Sophiesaid.

“Ihaveneverthoughtyouwere.Notforamoment.”She

drewinabreathandletitout.“I only wanted to protectyou.”

“Fromthetruth?”“Fromeverything.”“There’s no such thing,”

Sophie said bitterly. “Don’tyou know that by now?Rachelisgone.Sarahisdead.Grandpère is dead. TanteIsabelleis…”Tearsfilledher

eyes.“AndPapa…whendidwe last hear from him? Ayear? Eight months? He’sprobablydead,too.”

“Your father is alive. Soisyouraunt.I’dfeelitiftheywere gone.” She put a handover her heart. “I’d know ithere.”

“Yourheart?You’dfeelitinyourheart?”

Vianne knew that Sophiewasbeingshapedbythiswar,roughened by fear anddesperation into a sharper,more cynical version ofherself,butstillitwashardtoseeinsuchsharpdetail.

“Howcan you just…gotohim?Iseethebruises.”

“That’smy war,” Viannesaid quietly, ashamed almost

morethanshecouldstand.“Tante Isabelle would

have strangled him in hissleep.”

“Oui,” she agreed.“Isabelleisastrongwoman.Iamnot.Iamjust…amothertrying to keep her childrensafe.”

“You think we want youtosaveusthisway?”

“You’reyoung,”shesaid,her shoulders slumping indefeat. “When you are amotheryourself…”

“Iwon’tbeamother,”shesaid.

“I’m sorry to havedisappointedyou,Sophie.”

“I want to kill him,”Sophiesaidafteramoment.

“Me,too.”

“We could hold a pillowover his head while hesleeps.”

“You think I have notdreamedofdoingit?Butitistoo dangerous. Beck alreadydisappeared while living inthishouse.Tohave a secondofficer do the same? Theywould turn their attention onus,whichwedon’twant.”

Sophienoddedglumly.“I can stand what Von

Richterdoestome,Sophie.Icouldn’t stand losing you orDaniel or being sent awayfrom you. Or seeing youhurt.”

Sophie didn’t look away.“Ihatehim.”

“So do I,” Vianne saidquietly.“SodoI.”

***

“It is hot out today. I wasthinking it would be a goodday for swimming,” Viannesaidwithasmile.

The uproar wasimmediateandunanimous.

Vianne guided thechildrenoutoftheorphanageclassroom, keeping themtucked in close as they

walked down the cloisters.They were passing MotherSuperior’s office when thedooropened.

“Madame Mauriac,”Mother said, smiling. “Yourlittle gaggle looks happyenoughtoburstintosong.”

“Not on a day this hot,Mother.” She linked her armthrough Mother’s. “Come to

thepondwithus.”“Athoroughlylovelyidea

onaSeptemberday.”“Single file,”Vianne said

to the children as theyreached the main road. Thechildrenimmediatelyfellintoline.Vianne started them offon a song and they picked itupinstantly,singingloudlyasthey clapped and bounced

andskipped.Did they even notice the

bombed-out buildings theypassed?Thesmokingpilesofrubble that had once beenhomes? Or was destructionthe ordinary view of theirchildhoods, unremarkable,unnoticeable?

Daniel—as always—stayed with Vianne, clinging

toherhand.Hewas like thatlately,afraidtobeapartfromher for long. Sometimes itbothered her, even broke herheart. She wondered if therewasapartofhim,deepdown,that remembered all that hehad lost—the mother, thefather,thesister.Sheworriedthatwhenhe slept, curledupagainst her side, he wasAri,

theboyleftbehind.Vianneclappedherhands.

“Children, you are to crossthe street in an orderlyfashion. Sophie, you are myleader.”

The children crossed thestreetcarefullyandthenracedup the hill to the wide,seasonalpondthatwasoneofVianne’s favorite places.

Antoinehadfirstkissedheratthisveryspot.

At the water’s edge, thestudents started strippingdown. In no time, they wereinthewater.

She looked down atDaniel. “Do you want to goplay in the water with yoursister?”

Daniel chewed his lower

lip, watching the childrensplashinthestill,bluewater.“Idon’tknow…”

“Youdon’t have to swimif you don’t want to. Youcouldjustgetyourfeetwet.”

He frowned, his roundcheeks bunched inconsideration.Thenhe letgoof her hand and walkedcautiouslytowardSophie.

“He still clings to you,”Mothersaid.

“Hehasnightmares,too.”Vianne was about to say,Lord knows I do, whennausea hit. She mumbled,“Excuseme,”andranthroughthe tall grass to a copse oftrees, where she bent overand vomited. There wasalmost nothing in her

stomach, but the dry heaveswent on and on, leaving herfeelingweakandexhausted.

ShefeltMother’shandonher back, rubbing her,soothingher.

Vianne straightened. Shetried to smile. “I’m sorry. Idon’t—” She stopped. Thetruth washed over her. SheturnedtoMother.“Ithrewup

yesterdaymorning.”“Oh, no, Vianne. A

baby?”Vianne didn’t know

whether to laugh or cry orscream at God. She hadprayedandprayedforanotherchildtogrowinherwomb.

Butnotnow.Nothis.

***

Vianne hadn’t slept in aweek. She felt rickety andtired and terrified. And hermorning sickness had gottenevenworse.

Nowshesatattheedgeofthe bed, looking down atDaniel. At five, he wasoutgrowing his pajamasagain; skinny wrists and

ankles stuck out from thefrayed sleeves and pant legs.Unlike Sophie, he nevercomplained about beinghungry or reading bycandlelight or the terriblegray bread their rationsprovided. He rememberednothingelse.

“Hey, Captain Dan,” shesaid,pushing thedampblack

curls out of his eyes. Herolled onto his back andgrinned up at her, showingoffhismissingfrontteeth.

“Maman, Idreamed therewascandy.”

The door to the bedroombanged open. Sophieappeared, breathing hard.“Comequick,Maman.”

“Oh,Sophie,Iam—”

“Now.”“Come on, Daniel. She

looksserious.”He surged at her

exuberantly. He was too bigfor her to carry, so shehugged him tightly and thenwithdrew. She retrieved theonly clothes that fit him—apair of canvas pants that hadbeen made from painter’s

cloth she’d found in thebarnand a sweater she’d knittedwith precious blue wool.When he was dressed, shetook his hand and led himinto the living room. Thefrontdoorwasstandingopen.

Bells were ringing.Churchbells.Itsoundedasifmusic were playingsomewhere. “La

Marseillaise”? On a Tuesdayatnineinthemorning?

Outside, Sophie stoodbeneaththeappletree.Alineof Nazis marched past thehouse. Moments later camethe vehicles. Tanks andlorries and automobilesrumbled past Le Jardin, oneafter another, churning updust.

A black Citroën pulledover to the side of the roadand parked. Von Richter gotoutandcametoher,hisbootsdirty, his eyes hidden behindblack sunglasses, his mouthdrawnintoathin,angryline.

“MadameMauriac.”“HerrSturmbannführer.”“We are leaving your

sorry,sicklylittletown.”

She didn’t speak. If shehad, she would have saidsomething that could get herkilled.

“This war isn’t over,” hesaid,butwhetherthiswasforher benefit or his own, shewasn’tsure.

His gaze flicked pastSophieandlandedonDaniel.

Vianne stood utterly still,

herfaceimpassive.He turned to her. The

newest bruise on her cheekmadehimsmile.

“Von Richter!” someonein the entourage yelled.“Leave your French whorebehind.”

“That’s what you were,youknow,”hesaid.

She pressed her lips

together to keep fromspeaking.

“I’ll forget you.” Heleaned forward. “I wonder ifyoucansaythesame.”

He marched into thehouse and came out again,carrying his leather valise.Without a glance at her, hereturned to his automobile.The door slammed shut

behindhim.Vianne reached for the

gatetosteadyherself.“They’releaving,”Sophie

said.Vianne’s legs gave out.

She crumpled to her knees.“He’sgone.”

Sophie knelt besideVianneandheldhertightly.

Daniel ran barefooted

through the patch of dirtbetween them.“Me, too!”heyelled. “I want a hug!” Hethrew himself into them sohard they toppled over, fellintothedrygrass.

***

In the month since theGermans had left Carriveau,there was good news

everywhere about the Alliedvictories, but the war hadn’tended. Germany hadn’tsurrendered. The blackouthad been softened to a “dimout,” so the windows let inlightagain—asurprisinggift.But still Vianne couldn’trelax. Without Von Richteronhermind(shewouldneversay his name out loud again,

not as long as she lived, butshe couldn’t stop thinkingabouthim),shewasobsessedwith worry for Isabelle andRachel and Antoine. ShewroteAntoinea letteralmosteverydayandstoodinlinetomail them, even though theRed Cross reported that nomail was getting through.They hadn’t heard from him

inmorethanayear.“You’re pacing again,

Maman,” Sophie said. Shewas seated at the divan,snuggled up with Daniel, abookopenbetweenthem.Onthe fireplace mantel were afew of the photographsVianne had brought in fromthe cellar in the barn. It wasone of the few things she

couldthinktodotomakeLeJardinahomeagain.

“Maman?”Sophie’s voice brought

Viannebacktoherself.“He’s coming home,”

Sophiesaid.“AndsoisTanteIsabelle.”

“Maisoui.”“WhatwillwetellPapa?”

Sophie asked, and Vianne

knewbythelookinSophie’seyesthatshe’dwantedtoaskthisforawhile.

Vianne placed a hand onher still flat abdomen. Therewas no sign of the baby yet,but Vianne knew her bodywell; a life was growingwithinher.Sheleftthelivingroom and went to the frontdoor, pushing it open.

Barefooted,shesteppeddownon the cracked stone steps,feeling the soft moss on thebottoms of her feet. Takingcare not to step on a sharprock, she walked out to theroadandturnedtowardtown.Keptwalking.

Thecemeteryappearedonher right. It had been ruinedby a bomb blast twomonths

ago. Aged stonemarkers layon theirsides,split inpieces.The groundwas cracked andbroken, with gaping holeshere and there; skeletonshung from the tree branches,bonesclatteringinthebreeze.

Inthedistance,shesawamancomingaround thebendintheroad.

In years to come, she

would ask herself what haddrawnherouthereonthishotautumn day at exactly thishour,butsheknew.

Antoine.She started to run,

heedless of her bare feet. Itwasn’tuntilshewasalmostinhis arms, close enough toreach out, that she stoppedsuddenly, drew herself up

short.Hewouldtakeonelookatherandknow that shehadbeenruinedbyanotherman.

“Vianne,” he said in avoice she barely recognized.“Iescaped.”

He was so changed; hisface had sharpened and hishair had gone gray. Whitestubble covered his hollowcheeks and jawline, and he

was so terribly thin. His leftarmhungatanoddangle,asif it had been broken andbadlyreset.

Hewasthinkingthesameofher.Shecouldseeitinhiseyes.

His name came out in awhisperofbreath.“Antoine.”Shefeltthestingoftearsandsaw that he was crying, too.

Shewent tohim,kissedhim,but when he drew back, helookedlikeamanshe’dneverseenbefore.

“Icandobetter,”hesaid.She took his hand. More

than anything she wanted tofeel close to him, connected,but the shame of what she’dendured created a wallbetweenthem.

“I thought of you everynight,”hesaidastheywalkedtoward home. “I imaginedyou in our bed, thought ofhowyoulookedinthatwhitenightgown … I knew youwereasaloneasIwas.”

Vianne couldn’t find hervoice.

“Your letters andpackages keptme going,” he

said.Atthebrokengateinfront

ofLeJardin,hepaused.She saw the house

through his eyes. The tiltedgate,thefallenwall,thedeadapple tree that grew dirtyscraps of cloth instead ofbrightredfruit.

Hepushedthegateoutofthe way. It clattered

sideways, still connected tothecrumblingpostbyasingleunsteady screw and bolt. Itcreaked in protest at beingtouched.

“Wait,”shesaid.She had to tell him now,

before it was too late. Thewhole town knew Nazis hadbilleted with Vianne. Hewouldheargossip,forsure.If

a baby was born in eightmonths,theywouldsuspect.

“Itwashardwithoutyou,”she began, trying to find herway.“LeJardinissoclosetothe airfield. The Germansnoticed the house on theirway into town. Two officersbilletedhere—”

Thefrontdoorburstopenand Sophie screamed,

“Papa!” and came runningacrosstheyard.

Antoine droppedawkwardly to one knee andopened his arms and Sophieranintohim.

Vianne felt pain open upand expand. He was home,just as she’d prayed for, butshe knew now that it wasn’tthe same; it couldn’t be. He

was changed. She waschanged. She placed a handonherflatbelly.

“You are so grown up,”Antoine said to his daughter.“I left a little girl and camehome to a young woman.You’llhaveto tellmewhatImissed.”

SophielookedpasthimtoVianne. “I don’t think we

should talk about the war.Anyofit.Ever.It’sover.”

Sophie wanted Vianne tolie.

Daniel appeared in thedoorway, dressed in shortpantsandaredknitturtleneckthat had lost its shape andsocksthatsaggedoverhisill-fitting secondhand shoes.Clutching a picture book to

his narrow chest, he jumpeddownfromthestepandcametowardthem,frowning.

“And who is this good-looking young man?”Antoineasked.

“I’m Daniel,” he said.“Whoareyou?”

“I’mSophie’sfather.”Daniel’s eyes widened.

He dropped the book and

threw himself at Antoine,yelling, “Papa! You’rehome!”

Antoine scooped the boyinto his arms and lifted himup.

“I’ll tell you,” Viannesaid.“Butlet’sgoinsidenowandcelebrate.”

***

Vianne had fantasized abouther husband’s return fromwar a thousand times. In thebeginning, she’d imaginedhim dropping his suitcase atthesightofherandsweepingherintohisbig,strongarms.

And then Beck hadmovedintoherhome,makingherfeelthingsforaman—anenemy—that even now she

refused to name. When he’dtold her of Antoine’simprisonment, she’d pareddownherexpectations.She’dimagined her husbandthinner,moreraggedlooking,but still Antoine when hereturned.

The man at her dinnertable was a stranger. Hehunched over his food and

wrapped his arms around hisplate, spooningmarrowbonebrothintohismouthas if themeal were a timed event.When he realized what hewasdoing,heflushedguiltilyand gave them a mumbledapology.

Daniel talked constantly,while Sophie and Viannestudiedtheshadowversionof

Antoine.He jumped at everysound and flinched when hewas touched, and the pain inhis eyes was impossible tomiss.

After supper, he put thechildren tobedwhileViannedidthedishesalone.Shewashappy to let him go, whichonly increased her guilt. Hewas her husband, the love of

her life, and yet, when hetouched her, it was all shecould do not to turn away.Now,standingat thewindowin her bedroom, she feltnervousassheawaitedhim.

He came up behind her.Shefelthisstrongsurehandson her shoulders, heard himbreathing behind her. Shelonged to lean back, rest her

body against his with thefamiliarity that came fromyears together, but shecouldn’t. His hands caressedher shoulders, ran down herarms, and then settledonherhips.He gently turned her tofacehim.

Heeasedthecollarofherrobesidewaysandkissedhershoulder.“You’resothin,”he

said, his voice hoarse withpassion and something else,somethingnewbetweenthem—loss, maybe, anacknowledgment that changehadoccurredintheirabsence.

“I’ve gainedweight sincethewinter,”shesaid.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me,too.”

“Howdidyouescape?”

“Whentheystartedlosingthe war, it got… bad. TheybeatmesobadlyIlosttheuseofmyleftarm.IdecidedthenI’d ratherget shot running toyouthanbetorturedtodeath.Onceyou’rereadytodie,theplangetseasy.”

Nowwas the time to tellhim the truth. He mightunderstand that rape was

torture and that she’d been aprisoner, too. It wasn’t herfault, what had happened toher.Shebelievedthat,butshedidn’t think faultmattered inathinglikethis.

He took her face in hishands and forced her to liftherchin.

Their kiss was sad, anapologyalmost,areminderof

whatthey’donceshared.Shetrembledasheundressedher.She saw the red marks thatcrisscrossed his back andtorso, and the jagged, angry,puckering scars that ran thelengthofhisleftarm.

She knew Antoinewouldn’t hit her or hurt her.Andstillshewasafraid.

“What is it, Vianne?” he

said,drawingback.She glanced at the bed,

their bed, and all she couldthink about was him. VonRichter. “W-while you weregone…”

“Doweneedtotalkaboutit?”

She wanted to confess itall, tocry inhisarmsandbecomforted and told that it

would be all right. But whatabout Antoine? He’d beenthrough hell, too. She couldseeitinhim.Therewerered,slashing scars on his chestthatlookedlikewhipmarks.

He loved her. She sawthat,too,feltit.

But hewas aman. If shetold him she’d been raped—and that another man’s baby

grew in her belly—it wouldeatathim. In time,hewouldwonder if she could havestopped Von Richter. Maybesomeday he’d wonder ifshe’denjoyedit.

And there it was. Shecould tell him about Beck,even that she’d killed him,but she could never tellAntoine she’d been raped.

Thischild inherbellywouldbe born early. Childrenwereborn a month early all thetime.

She couldn’t helpwondering if this secretwould destroy them eitherway.

“Icouldtellyouallofit,”she said quietly. Her tearswere tearsof shameand loss

andlove.Lovemostofall.“Icould tell you about theGermanofficerswhobilletedhere and how hard life wasand how we barely survivedand how Sarah died in frontofmeandhowstrongRachelwaswhentheyputheronthecattlecarandhowIpromisedto keepAri safe. I could tellyou howmy father died and

Isabelle was arrested anddeported … but I think youknowitall.”Godforgiveme.“Andmaybe there’snopointtalking about any of it.Maybe…” She traced a redwelt that ran like a lightningbolt down his left bicep.“Maybeit’sbesttojustforgetthepastandgoon.”

He kissed her. When he

drew back, his lips remainedagainst hers. “I love you,Vianne.”

She closed her eyes andreturned his kiss,waiting forherbodytocomealiveathistouch, but when she slidbeneath him and felt theirbodies come together asthey’d done so many timesbefore,shefeltnothingatall.

“I love you, too,Antoine.”Shetriednottocryasshesaidit.

***

A cold November night.Antoine had been home foralmost two months. Therehad been no word fromIsabelle.

Vianne couldn’t sleep.

She lay in bed beside herhusband,listeningtohisquietsnore. It had never botheredher before, never kept herawake,butnowitdid.

No.Thatwasn’ttrue.She turned, lay on her

side,andstaredathim.Inthedarkness, with the light of afullmooncomingthroughthe

window, he was unfamiliar:thin, sharp, gray-haired atthirty-five.She inchedout ofbedandcoveredhimwiththeheavy eiderdown that hadbeenhergrandmère’s.

She put on her robe.Downstairs, she wanderedfrom room to room, lookingfor—what? Her old lifeperhaps,ortheloveforaman

she’dlost.Nothing felt right

anymore. They were likestrangers.He felt it, too. Sheknew he did. The war laybetweenthematnight.

She got a quilt from thelivingroomtrunk,wrappeditaround herself, and wentoutside.

Afullmoonhungoverthe

ruined fields. Light fell incrackled patches on thegroundbelowtheappletrees.She went to the middle tree,stood beneath it. The deadblack branch arched aboveher, leafless and gnarled. Onitwereallherscrapsoftwineandyarnandribbon.

When she’d tied theremembrances onto this

branch, Vianne had naïvelythoughtthatstayingalivewasall that mattered. The doorbehindheropenedandclosedquietly. She felt herhusband’s presence as shealwayshad.

“Vianne,”hesaid,comingup behind her. He put hisarmsaroundher.Shewantedtoleanbackintohimbutshe

couldn’t do it. She stared atthe first ribbon she’d tied tothistree.Antoine’s.Thecolorof it was as changed, asweathered,astheywere.

Itwas time. She couldn’twait any longer. Her bellywasgrowing.

She turned, looked up athim. “Antoine” was all shecouldsay.

“Iloveyou,Vianne.”Shedrewinadeepbreath

andsaid,“I’mgoingtohaveababy.”

He went still. It was alongmoment before he said,“What?When?”

She stared up at him,remembering their otherpregnancies, how they’dcome together in loss and in

joy. “I’m almost twomonthsalong, I think. It must havehappened … that first nightyouwerehome.”

She saw every nuance ofemotion inhiseyes:surprise,worry, concern,wonder, and,finally, joy. He grazed herchin, tilted her face up. “Iknowwhyyoulooksoafraid,butdon’tworry,V.Wewon’t

lose this one,” he said. “Notafter all of this. It’s amiracle.”

Tears stunghereyes.Shetried to smile, but her guiltwassuffocating.

“You’ve been through somuch.”

“Weallhave.”“So we choose to see

miracles.”

Was that his way ofsaying he knew the truth?Had suspicion planted itself?Whatwouldhesaywhen thebaby was born early? “Wh-whatdoyoumean?”

She saw tears glaze hiseyes.“Imeanforgetthepast,V.Now iswhatmatters.Wewill always love each other.That’s the promise we made

when we were fourteen. Bythe pond when I first kissedyou,remember?”

“Iremember.”Shewassoluckytohavefoundthisman.Nowonder she had fallen inlove with him. And shewould find her way back tohim, just as he’d found hiswaybacktoher.

“This baby will be our

newbeginning.”“Kissme,”shewhispered.

“Makemeforget.”“It’s not forgetting we

need, Vianne,” he said,leaningdowntokissher.“It’sremembering.”

THIRTY-SIX

In February 1945, snow

covered the naked bodiespiled outside the camp’snewly built crematorium.Putrid black smoke roiled upfromthechimneys.

Isabelle stood, shivering,in her place at the morningAppell—roll call. It was thekindofcoldthatachedinthelungsandfrozeeyelashesandburnedfingertipsandtoes.

Shewaitedfortherollcalltoend,butnowhistleblared.

Snowwas still falling. Inthe prisoners’ ranks, somewomen started to cough.Anotheronepitchedface-firstinto themushy,muddy snowand couldn’t be raised. Abitter wind blew across thecamp.

Finally, an SS officer on

horseback rode past thewomen, eyeing them one byone. He seemed to noticeeverything—the shorn hair,thefleabites,thebluetipsoffrostbitten fingers, and thepatches that identified themas Jews, or homosexuals, orpolitical prisoners. In thedistance, bombs fell,explodedlikedistantthunder.

When the officer pointedout a woman, she wasimmediately pulled from theline.

He pointed at Isabelle,and she was yanked nearlyoff her feet, dragged out ofline.

TheSSsquadssurroundedthe women who’d beenchosen, forced them to form

two lines. A whistle blared.“Schnell!Eins!Zwei!Drei!”

Isabellemarchedforward,herfeetachingwithcold,herlungs burning.Micheline fellintostepbesideher.

They had made it a mileor so outside of the gateswhen a lorry rumbled pastthem, its back heaped highwithnakedcorpses.

Micheline stumbled.Isabelle reached out, holdingherfriendupright.

Andstilltheymarched.At last they came to a

snowyfieldblanketedinfog.The Germans separated

the women again. Isabellewas yanked away fromMicheline and pushed into agroup of other Nacht und

Nebelpoliticalprisoners.The Germans shoved

them together and shouted atthem and pointed untilIsabelleunderstood.

The woman beside herscreamedwhenshesawwhatthey’dbeenchosenfor.Roadcrew.

“Don’t,”Isabellesaidjustasatruncheonhitthewoman

hard enough to send hersprawling.

Isabellestoodasnumbasa plow mule as the Nazisslipped rough leather harnessstrapsoverhershouldersandtightened them at her waist.She was harnessed to elevenother young women, elbow-to-elbow. Behind them,attachedtotheharness,wasa

steel wheel the size of anautomobile.

Isabelle tried to take astep,couldn’t.

Awhipcrackedacrossherback,settingherfleshonfire.She clutched the harnessstraps and tried again, takinga step forward. They wereexhausted. They had nostrength and their feet were

freezing on the snowyground,buttheyhadtomoveor they’d be whipped.Isabelle angled forward,straining to move, to get thestone wheel turning. Thestraps bit into her chest.Oneof thewomen stumbled, fell;the others kept pulling. Theleather harness creaked andthewheelturned.

They pulled and pulledand pulled, creating a roadfrom the snow-coveredground behind them. Otherwomen used shovels andwheelbarrows to clear theway.

All the while, the guardssat in pods, gathered aroundopen fires, talking andlaughingamongthemselves.

Step.Step.Step.Isabelle couldn’t think of

anything else. Not the cold,not her hunger or thirst, notthe flea and lice bites thatcovered her body. And notreal life. That was the worstof all. The thing that wouldgethertomissastep,todraw

attention to herself, to be hitorwhippedorworse.

Step.Justthinkaboutmoving.Her leg gave out. She

crumpled to the snow. Thewoman beside her reachedout. Isabelle grabbed theshaking, blue-white hand,gripped it in her numbfingers, and crawled back to

stand. Gritting her teeth, shetook another pain-filled step.Andthenanother.

***

The siren went off at 3:30A.M., as it did everymorningfor roll call. Like her ninebunkmates, Isabelle slept inevery bit of clothing she had—ill-fitting shoes and

underwear;thebaggy,stripeddress with her prisoneridentification number sewnon the sleeve.But none of itprovidedwarmth.Shetriedtoencourage thewomenaroundher to hold strong, but sheherselfwasweakening.Ithadbeen a terrible winter; all ofthem were dying, somequickly, of typhus and

cruelty, and some slowly ofstarvation and cold, but allweredying.

Isabelle had had a feverfor weeks, but not highenough to send her to thehospital block, and lastweekshe’d been beaten so badlyshe’d lost consciousness atwork—and then she’d beenbeaten for falling down. Her

body, which couldn’t haveweighed more than eightypounds, was crawling withlice and covered in opensores.

Ravensbrück had beendangerous from thebeginning,butnow,inMarch1945, it was even more so.Hundredsofwomenhadbeenkilled or gassed or beaten in

the last month. The onlywomenwho’dbeen leftalivewere the Verfügbaren—thedisposables,whoweresickorfrail or elderly—and thewomen ofNacht und Nebel,“Night and Fog.” Politicalprisoners, like Isabelle andMicheline. Women of theResistance. The rumor wasthat the Nazis were afraid to

gasthemnowthatthetideofwarhadturned.

“You’re going to makeit.”

Isabelle realized she’dbeen weaving in place,beginningtofall.

Micheline Babineau gaveher a tired, encouragingsmile.“Don’tcry.”

“I’mnot crying,” Isabelle

said.Theybothknewthatthewomen who cried at nightwere thewomenwhodied inthemorning.Sadnessandlosswere drawn in with eachbreath but never expelled.Youcouldn’tgivein.Notforasecond.

Isabelle knew this. In thecamp, she fought back theonlywaysheknewhow—by

caring for her fellowprisonersandhelpingthemtostay strong. All they had inthis hell was each other. Inthe evenings, they crouchedin their dark bunks,whispering amongthemselves, singing softly,trying to keep alive somememoryofwho they’dbeen.OvertheninemonthsIsabelle

hadbeenhere,shehadfound—andlost—toomanyfriendstocount.

But Isabelle was tirednow,andsick.

Pneumonia, she waspretty sure. And typhus,maybe. She coughed quietlyand did her job and tried todraw no attention. The lastthing she wantedwas to end

up in the “tent”—a smallbrickbuildingwithtarpwalls,intowhich theNazisput anywoman with an incurabledisease. Itwaswherewomenwenttodie.

“Stayalive,” Isabellesaidsoftly.

Micheline noddedencouragingly.

They had to stay alive.

Now more than ever. Lastweek, new prisoners hadcomewithnews:theRussianswere advancing acrossGermany, smashing anddefeating the Nazi army.Auschwitz had beenliberated. The Allies weresaid to be winning onevictory after another in thewest.

Araceforsurvivalwasonand everyone knew it. Thewarwas ending. Isabelle hadto stay alive long enough tosee an Allied victory and afreeFrance.

A whistle blared at thefrontoftheline.

A hush fell over thecrowd of prisoners—women,mostly,andafewchildren.In

front of them, a trio of SSofficers paced with theirdogs.

The camp Kommandantappearedinfrontofthem.Hestoppedandclaspedhishandsbehind his back. He calledoutsomethinginGermanandthe SS officers advanced.Isabelle heard the words“NachtundNebel.”

An SS officer pointed ather, and another one pushedthrough the crowd, knockingwomen to the ground,steppingonoroverthem.HegrabbedIsabelle’sskinnyarmand pulled hard. Shestumbled along beside him,praying her shoes wouldn’tfall off—it was a whippingoffense to losea shoe,and if

she did, she’d spend the restof this winter with a bare,frostbittenfoot.

Not far away, she sawMicheline being dragged offbyanotherofficer.

All Isabelle could thinkwas that she needed to keephershoeson.

AnSSofficercalledoutawordIsabellerecognized.

They were being sent toanothercamp.

She felt a wave ofimpotent rage. She wouldneversurvivea forcedmarchthrough the snow to anothercamp.

“No,” she muttered.Talking to herself hadbecome a way of life. Formonths,asshestoodinlineat

work, doing something thatrepelledandhorrifiedher,shewhispered to herself. As shesat on a hole in a row of pittoilets, surrounded by otherwoman with dysentery,staring at the women sittingacrossfromher,tryingnottogag on the stench of theirbowel movements, shewhispered to herself. In the

beginning, ithadbeenstoriesshe told herself about thefuture, memories she sharedwithherselfaboutthepast.

Now it was just words.Gibberish sometimes,anything to remind herselfthatshewashumanandalive.

Her toe caught onsomethingandshepitched tothe ground, falling face-first

inthedirtysnow.“To your feet,” someone

yelled.“March.”Isabelle couldn’t move,

butifshestayedthere,they’dwhipheragain.Orworse.

“Onyourfeet,”Michelinesaid.

“Ican’t.”“You can. Now. Before

they see you’ve fallen.”

Micheline helped her to herfeet.

Isabelle and Michelinefell into the ragged line ofprisoners, walking wearilyforward,pastthebrick-walledperimeter of the camp,beneath the watchful eye ofthesoldierinthewatchtower.

They walked for twodays, traveled thirty-five

miles, collapsing on the coldground at night, huddlingtogether for warmth, prayingto see the dawn, only to bewakenedbywhistlesandtoldtomarchagain.

Howmanydiedalongtheway? She wanted toremember their names, butshe was so cold and hungryand exhausted her brain

barelyworked.Finally, they arrived at

their destination, a trainstation, where they wereshoved onto cattle cars thatsmelled of death andexcrement.Blacksmokeroseinto the snow-whitened sky.The trees were bare. Therewerenobirdsanymoreinthesky,nochirpingorscreeching

or chatter of living thingsfilledthisforest.

Isabelle clambered uponto the bales of hay thatwere stacked along the walland tried to make herself assmall as possible. She pulledher bleeding knees into herchest and wrapped her armsaroundheranklestoconservewhatlittlewarmthshehad.

Thepaininherchestwasexcruciating.Shecoveredhermouthjustasacoughrackedher,bentherforward.

“There you are,”Micheline said in the dark,climbing onto the hay balebesideher.

Isabelle let out a sigh ofrelief, and immediately shewas coughing again. She put

a hand over her mouth andfelt blood spray into herpalm. She’d been coughingupbloodforweeksnow.

Isabellefeltadryhandonherforeheadandshecoughedagain.

“You’reburningup.”The cattle car doors

clanged shut. The carriageshuddered and the giant iron

wheelsbegantoturn.Thecarswayed and clattered. Inside,the women banded togetherandsatdown.Atleastinthisweather their urine wouldfreeze in the barrel and notsloshallover.

Isabelle sagged next toher friend and closed hereyes.

From somewhere far

away, she heard a high-pitched whistling sound. Abomb falling. The trainscreeched to a halt and thebomb exploded, near enoughthat the carriage rattled. Thesmellofsmokeandfirefilledthe air. The next one couldfallonthistrainandkillthemall.

***

Four days later, when thetrain finally came to acomplete stop (it had sloweddozens of times to avoidbeing bombed) the doorsclattered open to reveal awhite landscape broken onlybytheblackgreatcoatsoftheSSofficerswaitingoutside.

Isabelle sat up, surprised

to find that she wasn’t cold.She felt hot; so hot she wasperspiring.

Shesawhowmanyofherfriends had died overnight,but there was no time togrieve for them, no time tosay a prayer or whisper agood-bye. The Nazis on theplatform were coming forthem, blowing theirwhistles,

yelling.“Schnell!Schnell!”IsabellenudgedMicheline

awake. “Take my hand,”Isabellesaid.

The two women heldhands and climbed gingerlydown from the hay bales.Isabelle stepped over a deadbody, from which someonehadalreadytakentheshoes.

On the other side of theplatform, a line of prisonerswasforming.

Isabelle limped forward.The woman in front ofIsabelle stumbled and fell toherknees.

AnSSofficer yanked thewoman to her feet and shotherintheface.

Isabelledidn’tslowdown.

Alternately freezing cold andburning hot, unsteady on herfeet, she plodded forwardthroughthesnowyforestuntilanothercampcameintoview.

“Schnell!”Isabelle followed the

women in front of her. Theypassed through open gates,pasta throngof skeletalmenand women in gray-striped

pajamas who looked at themthroughachain-linkfence.

“Juliette!”She heard the name. At

first it meant nothing to her,just another sound. Then sheremembered.

She’d been Juliette. AndIsabelle before that. And theNightingale.NotjustF-5491.

Sheglancedattheskeletal

prisoners linedupbehind thechainlink.

Someone was waving ather.Awoman:grayskinanda hooked, pointed nose andsunkeneyes.

Eyes.Isabelle recognized the

tired, knowing gaze fixed onher.

Anouk.

Isabelle stumbled to thechain-linkfence.

Anouk met her. Theirfingers clasped through theice-coldmetal. “Anouk,” shesaid,hearingthebreakinhervoice. She coughed a little,coveredhermouth.

The sadness in Anouk’sdark eyes was unbearable.Her friend’s gaze cut to a

building whose chimneypuffed out putrid blacksmoke.“They’rekillingustocoverwhatthey’vedone.”

“Henri?Paul?…Gaëtan?”“They were all arrested,

Juliette.Henriwashanged inthe town square. The rest…”Sheshrugged.

Isabelle heard an SSsoldieryellather.Shebacked

away from the fence. Shewantedtosaysomethingrealto Anouk, something thatwould last, but she couldn’tdo anything but cough. Shecovered her mouth andstumbled sideways, got backintoline.

Shesawherfriendmouth“Good-bye,” and Isabellecouldn’t even respond. She

wasso,sotiredofgood-byes.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Even on this blue-skied

March day, the apartment onthe Avenue de LaBourdonnais felt like amausoleum. Dust coveredeverysurfaceandlayeredthefloor. Vianne went to thewindows and tore theblackoutshadesdown,lettinglight into this room for thefirsttimeinyears.

It looked like no one had

been in this apartment forsometime.ProbablynotsincethatdayPapahadlefttosaveIsabelle.

Most of the paintingswerestillonthewallsandthefurniturewas inplace—someof it had been hacked up forfirewood and piled in thecorner. An empty soup bowland spoon sat on the dining

room table. His volumes ofself-published poetry linedthe mantel. “It doesn’t looklikeshe’sbeenhere.WemusttrytheHôtelLutetia.”

Vianne knew she shouldpack up her family’s things,claim these remnants of adifferentlife,butshecouldn’tdoitnow.Shedidn’twantto.Later.

She and Antoine andSophielefttheapartment.Onthe street outside, all aroundthemwere signsof recovery.Parisians were like moles,comingout into the sunshineafter years in the dark. Butstill there were food lineseverywhereandrationinganddeprivation. The war mighthave been winding down—

the Germans were retreatingeverywhere—but it wasn’toveryet.

They went to the HôtelLutetia,whichhadbeenhometo the Abwehr under theoccupation and was now areception center for peoplereturningfromthecamps.

Vianne stood in theelegant, crowded lobby. As

she looked around, she feltsick to her stomach andgratefulthatshe’dleftDanielwith Mother Marie-Therese.The reception areawas filledwith rail-thin, bald, vacant-eyed people dressed in rags.They looked like walkingcadavers. Moving amongthem were doctors and RedCross workers and

journalists.A man approached

Vianne, stuck a faded black-and-white photograph in herface. “Have you seen her?Last we heard she was atAuschwitz.”

Thephotographshowedalovely girl standing beside abicycle,smilingbrightly.Shecouldn’thavebeenmorethan

fifteenyearsold.“No,” Vianne said. “I’m

sorry.”The man was already

walking away, looking asdazedasViannefelt.

Everywhere Viannelooked she saw anxiousfamilies, photographs held intheir shaking hands, beggingfor newsof their loved ones.

The wall to her right wascoveredwithphotographsandnotes and names andaddresses.The living lookingfor the lost. Antoine movedclose to Vianne, put a handon her shoulder. “We willfindher,V.”

“Maman?” Sophie said.“Areyouallright?”

She looked down at her

daughter.“Perhapsweshouldhaveleftyouathome.”

“It’s too late to protectme,”Sophiesaid.“Youmustknowthat.”

Viannehatedthat truthasmuch as any. She held on toher daughter’s hand andmoved resolutely through thecrowd, with Antoine besideher.Inanareatotheleft,she

saw a gathering of men indirty striped pajamas wholooked like skeletons. Howweretheystillalive?

She didn’t even realizethat she had stopped againuntil a woman appeared infrontofher.

“Madame?”thewoman—a Red Cross worker—saidgently.

Viannetorehergazefromthe ragged survivors. “I havepeopleI’mlookingfor…mysister,IsabelleRossignol.Shewas arrested for aiding theenemyanddeported.Andmybest friend, Rachel deChamplain, was deported.Her husband, Marc, was aprisoner of war. I … don’tknow what happened to any

of them or how to look forthem.And…Ihavea listofJewishchildren inCarriveau.I need to reunite them withtheirparents.”

The Red Cross worker, athin, gray-haired woman,tookoutapieceofpaperandwrote down the namesViannehadgivenher.“Iwillgo to the records desk and

check thesenames.As to thechildren,comewithme.”Sheled the three of them to aroomdownthehall,whereanancient-looking man with along beard sat behind a deskpiledwithpapers.

“M’sieur Montand,” theRedCrossworker said, “thiswoman has information onsomeJewishchildren.”

Theoldmanlookedupather through bloodshot eyesand made a flicking motionwith his long, hair-tuftedfingers.“Comein.”

TheRedCrossworkerleftthe room. The sudden quietwas disconcerting after somuchnoiseandcommotion.

Vianne approached thedesk. Her hands were damp

withperspiration.Sherubbedthem along the sides of herskirt. “I amVianneMauriac.FromCarriveau.”Sheopenedher handbag and withdrewthe listshehadcompiled lastnight from the three listsshe’d kept throughout thewar. She set it on his desk.“These are some hiddenJewish children, M’sieur.

Theyare in theAbbayedelaTrinité orphanage under thecare of Mother SuperiorMarie-Therese. I don’t knowhow to reunite them withtheir parents. Except for thefirst name on the list.Ari deChamplain is with me. I amsearchingforhisparents.”

“Nineteen children,” hesaidquietly.

“It is not many, I know,but…”

He looked up at her as ifshewereaheroineinsteadofa scared survivor. “It isnineteen who would havedied in thecampsalongwiththeirparents,Madame.”

“Can you reunite themwith their families?” sheaskedsoftly.

“I will try, Madame. Butsadly,most of these childrenare indeedorphansnow.Thelists coming from the campsareallthesame:motherdead,fatherdead,norelativesalivein France. And so fewchildren survived.” He ran ahand through the thinninggrayhaironhishead.“Iwillforward your list to theOSE

in Nice. They are trying toreunite families. Merci,Madame.”

Viannewaitedamoment,but the man said no more.Sherejoinedherhusbandanddaughter and they left theoffice and stepped back intothe crowd of refugees andfamiliesandcampsurvivors.

“What do we do now?”

Sophieasked.“Wewaittohearfromthe

Red Cross worker,” Viannesaid.

Antoine pointed to thewall of photographs andnames of the missing. “Weshouldlookforherthere.”

A look passed betweenthem, an acknowledgment ofhow much it would hurt to

stand there, looking throughthe photographs of themissing. Still, theymoved tothe sea of pictures and notesand began to look throughthem,onebyone.

They were there fornearly two hours before theRedCrossworkerreturned.

“Madame?”Vianneturned.

“I am sorry, Madame.Rachel and Marc deChamplain are listed amongthedeceased.Andthereisnorecord of an IsabelleRossignolanywhere.”

Vianne heard deceasedandfeltanalmostunbearablegrief.Shepushedtheemotionaside resolutely. She wouldthink of Rachel later, when

she was alone. She wouldhave a glass of champagneoutside,beneaththeyewtree,and talk toher friend. “Whatdoesthatmean?NorecordofIsabelle?Isawthemtakeheraway.”

“Go home and wait foryour sister’s return,” theRedCross worker said. ShetouchedVianne’sarm.“Have

hope. Not all of the campshavebeenliberated.”

Sophie looked up at her.“Maybe she made herselfinvisible.”

Vianne touched herdaughter’s face, managed asmall,sadsmile.“Youaresogrown-up.Itmakesmeproudand breaks my heart at thesametime.”

“Come on,” Sophie said,tugging on her hand. Vianneallowed her daughter to leadher away. She felt more likethe child than the parent astheymade theirway throughthe crowded lobby and outontothebrightlylitstreet.

Hours later, when theywere on the train bound forhome, seated on a wooden

banquette in the third-classcarriage, Vianne stared outthe window at the bombed-out countryside. Antoine satsleeping beside her, his headresting against the dirtywindow.

“How are you feeling?”Sophieasked.

Vianne placed a hand onher swollen abdomen.A tiny

flutter—a kick—tappedagainstherpalm.ShereachedforSophie’shand.

Sophietriedtopullaway;Vianne gently insisted. Sheplacedherdaughter’shandonherbelly.

Sophie felt the flutter ofmovement and her eyeswidened. She looked up atVianne.“Howcanyou…”

“We are all changed bythiswar,Soph.DanielisyourbrothernowthatRachelis…gone. Truly your brother.And this baby; he or she isinnocent of … his or hercreation.”

“It’s hard to forget,” shesaid quietly. “And I’ll neverforgive.”

“But love has to be

strongerthanhate,orthereisnofutureforus.”

Sophie sighed. “Isuppose,” she said, soundingtooadultforagirlofherage.

Vianne placed a hand ontop of her daughter’s. “Wewill remind each other, oui?Onthedarkdays.Wewillbestrongforeachother.”

***

Roll call had been going onforhours.Isabelledroppedtoherknees.Theminuteshehitthe ground, she thought stayaliveandclamberedbackup.

Guards patrolled theperimeter with their dogs,selecting women for the gaschamber. Word was thatanother march was coming.

This one to Mauthausen,where thousands had alreadybeenworked todeath:Sovietprisonersofwar,Jews,Alliedairmen, political prisoners. Itwas said that none whowalked through its gateswouldeverwalkout.

Isabelle coughed. Bloodsprayedacrossherpalm.Shewiped it on her dirty dress

quickly, before the guardscouldsee.

Her throat burned, herhead pulsed and ached. Shewasso focusedonheragonythat it took her amoment tonoticethesoundofengines.

“Do you hear that?”Michelinesaid.

Isabelle felt a commotionmovingthroughtheprisoners.

It was hard to concentratewhen she hurt so badly. Herlungs ached with everybreath.

“They’re leaving,” sheheard.

“Isabelle,look!”At first all she saw was

brightblue skyand treesandprisoners.Thenshenoticed.

“The guards are gone,”

she said in a hoarse, raggedvoice.

The gates clattered openand a stream of Americantrucks drove through thegates; soldiers sat on thebonnets and hung out theback, their rifles held acrosstheirchests.

Americans.Isabelle’skneesgaveout.

“Mich … e … line,” shewhispered, her voice asbroken as her spirit. “We…made…it.”

***

Thatspring,thewarbegantoend. General Eisenhowerbroadcast a demand for theGermansurrender.Americanscrossed the Rhine and went

intoGermany;theAllieswonone battle after another andbegan to liberate the camps.Hitlerwaslivinginabunker.

And still, Isabelle didn’tcomehome.

Vianne let the letter boxclang shut. “It’s as if shedisappeared.”

Antoine saidnothing.Forweeks they had been

searchingforIsabelle.Viannestood in queues for hours tomaketelephonecallsandsentcountless letters to agenciesandhospitals.Lastweektheyvisitedmoredisplaced-personcamps,but tonoavail.Therewas no record of IsabelleRossignol anywhere. It wasas if she had disappearedfrom the face of the earth—

along with hundreds ofthousandsofothers.

Maybe Isabelle hadsurvived the camps, only tobe shot a day before theAllies arrived. Supposedly inone of the camps, a placecalled Bergen-Belsen, theAllies had found heaps ofstill-warm bodies atliberation.

Why?Sotheywouldn’ttalk.“Comewithme,”Antoine

said, taking her by the hand.Shenolongerstiffenedathistouch, or flinched, but shecouldn’tseemtorelaxintoit,either. In the months sinceAntoine’s return, they wereplayactingatloveandbothofthem knew it. He said he

didn’t make love to herbecause of the baby, and sheagreedthatitwasforthebest,buttheyknew.

“I have a surprise foryou,”hesaid,leadingherintothebackyard.

The sky was a brightcerulean beneath which theyew tree provided a patch ofcool brown shade. In the

pergola,thefewchickensthatwere left pecked at the dirt,cluckingandflapping.

Anoldbedsheethadbeenstretchedbetweenabranchofthe yew tree and an iron hatrack that Antoine must havefoundin thebarn.Heledhertooneofthechairssetonthestonepatio.Intheyearsofhisabsence, the moss and grass

had begun to overtake thispart of the yard, so her chairsat unsteadily on the unevensurface. She sat downcarefully; she was unwieldythese days. The smile herhusband gave her was bothdazzling in its joy andstartlinginits intimacy.“ThekidsandIhavebeenworkingonthisallday.It’sforyou.”

ThekidsandI.Antoine took his place in

frontofthesaggingsheetandlifted his good arm in asweeping gesture. “Ladiesand gentlemen, children andscrawny rabbits andchickenswhosmelllikeshit—”

Behindthecurtain,Danielgiggled and Sophie shushedhim.

“In the rich tradition ofMadelaine in Paris, whichwasMademoiselleMauriac’sfirst starring role, I give youtheLeJardinsingers.”Withaflourish, he unsnapped oneside of the sheet-curtain andswept it aside to reveal awoodenplatformsetuponthegrass at a not-quite-levelslant. On it, Sophie stood

beside Daniel. Both woreblankets as capes, with asprigofappleblossomsatthethroat and crowns made ofsomeshinymetal,ontowhichthey had glued pretty rocksandbitsofcoloredglass.

“Hi, Maman!” Danielsaid,wavingfuriously.

“Shhh,” Sophie said tohim.“Remember?”

Danielnoddedseriously.They turned carefully—

the plank floor teeteredbeneath them—and heldhands,facingVianne.

Antoine brought a silverharmonica to his mouth andlet out a mournful note. Ithung in the air for a longtime, vibrating in invitation,andthenhestartedtoplay.

Sophiebegan to sing inahigh, pure voice. “FrèreJacques,FrèreJacques…”

She squatted down andDaniel popped up, singing,“Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?”

Vianne clamped her handoverhermouthbutnotbeforealittlelaughterslippedout.

Onstage, the song went

on.ShecouldseehowhappySophie was to do this once-ordinary thing, this littleperformance for her parents,and how hard Daniel wasconcentrating to do his partwell.

It felt both profoundlymagical and beautifullyordinary.Amomentfromthelifethey’dhadbefore.

Vianne felt joy open upinsideofher.

We’re going to be allright, she thought, lookingatAntoine.Intheshadecastbythe tree her great-grandfatherhad planted, with theirchildren’s voices in the air,she saw her other half,thoughtagain:We’regoingtobeallright.

“… ding … dang …dong…”

When the song ended,Vianne clapped wildly. Thechildren bowed majestically.Daniel tripped on hisbedspread cape and tumbledto the grass and came uplaughing. Vianne waddled tothe stage and smothered herchildren with kisses and

compliments.“Whata lovely idea,”she

said to Sophie, her eyesshiningwithloveandpride.

“I was concentrating,Maman,” Daniel saidproudly.

Vianne couldn’t let themgo. This future she’dglimpsed filled her soulwithjoy.

“I planned with Papa,”Sophiesaid.“Justlikebefore,Maman.”

“Iplannedit,too,”Danielsaid, puffing out his littlechest.

Shelaughed.“Howgrandyou both were at singing.And—”

“Vianne?” Antoine saidfrombehindher.

She couldn’t look awayfrom Daniel’s smile. “Howlong did it take you to learnyourpart?”

“Maman,” Sophie saidquietly.“Someoneishere.”

Vianne turned to lookbehindher.

Antoinewasstandingnearthebackdoorwith twomen;both wore threadbare black

suits and black berets. Onecarriedatatteredbriefcase.

“Sophie,takecareofyourbrother for a minute,”Antoine said to the children.“We have something todiscuss with these men.” Hemoved in beside Vianne,placingahandatthesmallofher back, helping her to herfeet, urging her forward.

Theyfiledintothehouseinasilentline.

When the door closedbehind them, themen turnedtofaceVianne.

“I am Nathaniel Lerner,”saidtheolderofthetwomen.Hehadgrayhairandskinthecolor of tea-stained linen.Age spots discolored largepatchesofhischeeks.

“And I am PhillipeHorowitz,” said the otherman.“WearefromtheOSE.”

“Why are you here?”Vianneasked.

“We are here for Ari deChamplain,”Phillipesaidinagentle voice. “He hasrelatives in America—Boston, in fact—and theyhavecontactedus.”

Vianne might havecollapsed if Antoine had notheldhersteady.

“We understand yourescued nineteen Jewishchildren all by yourself.AndwithGermanofficersbilletedin your home. That’simpressive,Madame.”

“Heroic,” Nathanieladded.

Antoine placed his handon her shoulder and at that,his touch, she realized howlong she’d been silent.“Rachelwasmybestfriend,”she said quietly. “I tried tohelp her sneak into the FreeZone before the deportation,but…”

“Her daughter waskilled,”Lernersaid.

“Howdoyouknowthat?”“It is our job to collect

stories and to reunitefamilies,” he answered. “Wehave spoken to severalwomen who were inAuschwitz with Rachel.Sadly, she lived less than amonth there. Her husband,Marc, was killed in Stalag13A.Hewasnot as luckyas

yourhusband.”Vianne said nothing. She

knew the men were givingher time and she bothappreciated and hated it. Shedidn’t want to accept any ofthis.“Daniel—Ari—wasborna week before Marc left forthe war. He has no memoryofeitherofhisparents.Itwasthe safest way—to let him

believehewasmyson.”“But he is not your son,

Madame.”Lerner’svoicewasgentlebutthewordswerelikethelashofawhip.

“I promised Rachel Iwould keep him safe,” shesaid.

“And you have. But nowit is time forAri to return tohisfamily.Tohispeople.”

“He won’t understand,”shesaid.

“Perhaps not,” Lernersaid.“Still.”

Vianne lookedatAntoineforhelp.“Welovehim.He’spartofourfamily.Heshouldstaywithus.Youwanthimtostay,don’tyou,Antoine?”

Her husband noddedsolemnly.

She turned to the men.“We could adopt him, raisehim as our own.But Jewish,of course. We will tell himwho he is and take him tosynagogueand—”

“Madame,” Lerner saidwithasigh.

Phillipe approachedVianne,tookherhandsinhis.“Weknowyou lovehimand

he loves you.We know thatAri is too young tounderstand and that he willcry and miss you—perhapsforyears.”

“Butyouwanttotakehimanyway.”

“You look at theheartbreak of one boy. I amhere because of theheartbreakofmypeople.You

understand?” His facesagged,hismouthcurvedintoa small frown. “Millions ofJewswere killed in thiswar,Madame. Millions.” He letthat sink in. “An entiregeneration is gone.We needto band together now, thosefew of us who are left; weneedtorebuild.Oneboywithno memory of who he was

may seem a small thing tolose, but to us, he is thefuture. We cannot let youraisehim ina religion that isnot yours and take him tosynagogue when youremember. Ari needs to bewhoheis,andtobewithhispeople. Surely his motherwouldwantthat.”

Vianne thought of the

peopleshe’dseenattheHôtelLutetia, those walkingskeletons with their hauntedeyes, and the endlesswall ofphotographs.

Millionshadbeenkilled.Agenerationlost.How could she keep Ari

from his people, his family?Shewould fight to the deathforeitherofherchildren,but

therewasnoopponentforherto fight, just loss on bothsides.

“Whoistakinghim?”shesaid,notcaringthathervoicecrackedonthequestion.

“Hismother’sfirstcousin.She has an eleven-year-oldgirl and a six-year-old son.They will love Ari as theirown.”

Vianne couldn’t find thestrengtheventonod,orwipethe tears from her eyes.“Maybe they will send mepictures?”

Phillipegazedather.“Hewill need to forget you,Madame,tostartanewlife.”

HowkeenlyVianneknewthe truth of that. “Whenwillyoutakehim?”

“Now,”Lernersaid.Now.“Wecannotchangethis?”

Antoineasked.“No, M’sieur,” Phillipe

said.“It is the right thing forAritoreturntohispeople.Heis one of the lucky ones—hestillhasfamilyliving.”

Vianne felt Antoine takeherhandinhis.Heledherto

the stairs, tuggingmore thanoncetokeephermoving.Sheclimbed thewoodenstepsonlegs that felt leaden andunresponsive.

Inherson’sbedroom(no,notherson’s)shemovedlikea sleepwalker,pickinguphisfewclothesandgatheringhisbelongings. A threadbarestuffed monkey whose eyes

hadbeenlovedoff,apieceofpetrifiedwoodhe’dfoundbytheriverlastsummer,andthequilt Vianne had made fromscraps of clothes he’doutgrown.On its back, she’dembroidered“ToOurDaniel,love Maman, Papa, andSophie.”

She remembered whenhe’dfirstreaditandsaid,“Is

Papa coming back?” andshe’d nodded and told himthat families had a way offindingtheirwayhome.

“Idon’twanttolosehim.Ican’t…”

Antoine held her closeand let her cry. When she’dfinally stilled, he murmured,“You’re strong,” against herear.“Wehavetobe.Welove

him,buthe’snotours.”Shewasso tiredofbeing

strong. How many lossescouldshebear?

“You want me to tellhim?”Antoineasked.

She wanted him to do it,wanteditmorethananything,butthiswasamother’sjob.

With shaking hands, shestuffed Daniel’s—Ari’s—

belongings into a raggedcanvas rucksack, and thenwalked out of the room,realizing a second too latethat she’d left Antoinebehind.Ittookeverythingshehad to keep breathing, keepmoving.Sheopenedthedoortoherbedroomandburrowedthroughherarmoireuntil shefound a small framed

photograph of herself andRachel. It was the onlypicture she had of Rachel. Ithadbeen taken tenor twelveyears ago. She wrote theirnames on the back and thenshoved it into the pocket ofthe rucksack and left theroom. Ignoring the mendownstairs, she went out tothe backyard, where the

children—still in capes andcrowns—wereplayingon themakeshiftstage.

The three men followedher.

Sophie looked at all ofthem.“Maman?”

Daniellaughed.Howlongwould she remember exactlythatsound?Notlongenough.She knew that now.

Memories—even the best ofthem—faded.

“Daniel?” She had toclearherthroatandtryagain.“Daniel? Could you comehere?”

“What’swrong,Maman?”Sophie said. “You look likeyou’vebeencrying.”

She moved forward,clutching the rucksack to her

side.“Daniel?”He grinned up at her.

“Youwantustosingitagain,Maman?” he asked, rightingthecrownasitslippedtoonesideofhishead.

“Can you come here,Daniel?” she asked it twice,justtobesure.Shewasafraidtoo much of this washappeninginherhead.

He padded toward her,yankinghiscapesidewayssohedidn’ttripoverit.

Shekneltinthegrassandtook his hands in hers.“There’snowaytomakeyouunderstand this.” Her voicecaught. “In time, I wouldhave told you everything.When you were older. Wewouldhavegone toyourold

house, even. But time’s up,CaptainDan.”

He frowned. “What doyoumean?”

“Youknowhowmuchweloveyou,”shesaid.

“Oui, Maman,” Danielsaid.

“We love you, Daniel,and we have from themoment you came into our

lives, but you belonged toanother family first.Youhadanother maman and anotherpapa, and they loved you,too.”

Daniel frowned. “I hadanothermaman?”

Behind her, Sophie said,“Oh,no…”

“HernamewasRacheldeChamplain, and she loved

you with all her heart. Andyour papa was a brave mannamed Marc. I wish I couldbe the one to tell you theirstories, but I can’t”—shedashed tears from her eyes—“because your maman’scousinlovesyou,too,andshewants you to come live withthem in America, wherepeoplehaveplentytoeatand

lotsoftoystoplaywith.”Tearsfilledhiseyes.“But

you’re my maman. I don’twanttogo.”

Shewantedtosay“Idon’twant you to go,” but thatwould only frighten himmore, and her last job as hismotherwastomakehimfeelsafe. “I know,” she saidquietly,“butyouaregoingto

loveit,CaptainDan,andyournew family will love andadore you. Maybe they willeven have a puppy, likeyou’vealwayswanted.”

Hestartedtocry,andshepulled him into her arms. Ittook perhaps the greatestcourageofherlifetoletgoofhim.Shestood.Thetwomenimmediately appeared at her

side.“Hello, young man,”

PhillipesaidtoDaniel,givinghimanearnestsmile.

Danielwailed.Vianne took Daniel’s

handandledhimthroughthehouseandintothefrontyard,past the dead apple treelittered with remembranceribbons and through the

broken gate to the bluePeugeotparkedonthesideoftheroad.

Lerner got into thedriver’s seat while Phillipewaited near the back fender.The engine fired up; smokepuffed out from the rearexhaust.

Phillipe opened the backdoor.GivingVianneone last

sadlook,heslidintotheseat,leavingthecardooropen.

SophieandAntoinecameupbesideher,andbentdowntogethertohugDaniel.

“Wewillalwaysloveyou,Daniel,”Sophiesaid.“Ihopeyourememberus.”

Vianne knew that onlyshe couldgetDaniel into theautomobile. He would trust

onlyher.Of all the heartbreaking,

terrible things she’d done inthis war, none hurt as badlyas this: She took Daniel bythehandandledhimintotheautomobile that would takehim away from her. Heclimbedintothebackseat.

He stared at her throughteary, confused eyes.

“Maman?”Sophie said, “Just a

minute!” and ran back to thehouse. She returned amoment later with Bébé andthrust the stuffed rabbit atDaniel.

Viannebentdowntolookhimintheeye.“Youneedtogo now, Daniel. TrustMaman.”

His lower lip trembled.He clutched the toy to hischest.“Oui,Maman.”

“Beagoodboy.”Phillipe leaned over and

shutthedoor.Daniel launched himself

at the window, pressing hispalms to the glass. He wascrying now, yelling,“Maman! Maman!” They

could hear his screams forminutes after the automobilewasgone.

Vianne said quietly,“Have a good life, Ari deChamplain.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Isabelle stood at attention.

She needed to stand upstraight for roll call. If shegave in to her dizziness andtoppled over, they wouldwhipher,orworse.

No.Itwasn’trollcall.Shewas in Paris now, in ahospitalroom.

She was waiting forsomething.Forsomeone.

Micheline had gone to

speak to the Red Crossworkers and journalistsgatheredinthelobby.Isabellewassupposedtowaithere.

Thedooropened.“Isabelle,”Michelinesaid

in a scolding tone. “Youshouldn’tbestanding.”

“I’mafraidI’lldie ifI liedown,” Isabelle said. Ormaybeshethoughtthewords.

Like Isabelle, Michelinewas as thin as a matchstick,with hip bones that showedlike knuckles beneath hershapeless dress. She wasalmost entirely bald—onlytufts of hair grew here andthere—and she had noeyebrows. The skin at herneckandalongherarmswasriddled with oozing, open

sores. “Come,” Michelinesaid. She led her out of theroom, through the strangecrowd of silent, shuffling,rag-dressed returnees and theloud, watery-eyed familymembers in search of lovedones,pastthejournalistswhoasked questions. She steeredher gently to a quieter room,where other camp survivors

satslumpedinchairs.Isabelle sat down in a

chair and dutifully put herhands in her lap. Her lungsached and burnedwith everybreath she drew and aheadache pounded inside herskull.

“It’s time for you to gohome,”Michelinesaid.

Isabelle looked up, blank

andbleary-eyed.“Doyouwantmetotravel

withyou?”Sheblinkedslowly,trying

to think. Her headache wasblinding in its intensity.“WhereamIgoing?”

“Carriveau. You’re goingto see your sister. She’swaitingforyou.”

“Sheis?”

“Yourtrainleavesinfortyminutes. Mine leaves in anhour.”

“How do we go back?”Isabelle dared to ask. Hervoice was barely above awhisper.

“We are the lucky ones,”Micheline said, and Isabellenodded.

Micheline helped Isabelle

stand.Together they limped to

the hospital’s back door,where a row of automobilesandRedCross lorrieswaitedto transport survivors to thetrain station. As they waitedtheir turn, they stoodtogether, tucked close asthey’d done so often in thepastyear—inAppell lines, in

cattlecars,infoodqueues.A bright-faced young

woman in a Red Crossuniform came into the room,carrying a clipboard.“Rossignol?”

Isabelle lifted her hot,sweaty hands and cuppedMicheline’swrinkled, grayedface.“I lovedyou,MichelineBabineau,” she said softly

andkissedtheolderwoman’sdrylips.

“Don’ttalkaboutyourselfinthepasttense.”

“ButIampast tense.ThegirlIwas…”

“She’s not gone, Isabelle.She’s sick and she’s beentreatedbadly,butshecan’tbegone. She had the heart of alion.”

“Now you’re speaking inthe past tense.” Honestly,Isabelle couldn’t rememberthatgirlatall, theonewho’djumped into the Resistancewith barely a thought. Thegirlwho’drecklesslybroughtan airman into her father’sapartment and foolishlybrought another one into hersister’s barn. The girl who

hadhikedacrossthePyreneesand fallen in love during theexodusfromParis.

“We made it,” Michelinesaid.

Isabelle had heard thosewordsofteninthepastweek.We made it. When theAmericans had arrived toliberatethecamp,thosethreewords had been on every

prisoner’s lips. Isabelle hadfeltreliefthen—afterallofit,the beatings, the cold, thedegradation, the disease, theforced march through thesnow,shehadsurvived.

Now, though, shewonderedwhatherlifecouldpossibly be. She couldn’t goback to who she’d been, buthow could she go forward?

She gave Micheline a lastwave good-bye and climbedintotheRedCrossvehicle.

Later, on the train, shepretended not to notice howpeoplestaredather.Shetriedto sit up straight, but shecouldn’t do it. She slumpedsideways, rested her headagainstthewindow.

She closed her eyes and

was asleep in no time,dreaming feverishly of aclattering ride in a cattle car,of babies crying and womentrying desperately to soothethem … and then the doorsopened and the dogs werewaiting—

Isabellejoltedawake.Shewassodisorientedittookhera moment to remember that

she was safe. She dabbed ather foreheadwith the end ofher sleeve. Her fever wasback.

Twohours later, the trainrumbledintoCarriveau.

Imade it. So,why didn’tshefeelanything?

She got to her feet andshuffled painfully from thetrain. As she stepped down

ontotheplatform,acoughingspasm took over. She bent,hacking and coughing upblood into her hand. Whenshe could breathe again, shestraightened, feelinghollowed out and drained.Old.

Her sister stood at theedgeoftheplatform.Shewasbig with pregnancy and

dressed in a faded andpatched summer dress. Herstrawberry blond hair waslonger now, past hershoulders and wavy. As shescanned the crowd leavingthe train, hergazewent rightpastIsabelle.

Isabelle raised her bonyhandingreeting.

Viannesawherwaveand

paled. “Isabelle!” Viannecried,rushingtowardher.Shecupped Isabelle’s hollowcheeksinherhands.

“Don’t get too close.Mybreathisterrible.”

Vianne kissed Isabelle’scracked,swollen,drylipsandwhispered, “Welcome home,sister.”

“Home,”Isabellerepeated

the unexpected word. Shecouldn’tbringupanyimagesto go along with it, herthoughtsweresojumbledandherheadpounded.

Vianne gently put herarms around Isabelle andpulled her close. Isabelle felther sister’s soft skin and thelemonyscentofherhair.Shefelt her sister stroking her

back,justasshe’ddonewhenshe was a little girl, andIsabellethought,Imadeit.

Home.

***

“You’reburningup,”Viannesaid when theywere back atLe Jardin, and Isabelle wasclean and dry and lying in awarmbed.

“Oui. I can’t seem to getridofthisfever.”

“I will get you someaspirin.” Vianne started torise.

“No,” Isabelle said.“Don’t leaveme. Please. Liewithme.”

Vianne climbed into thesmall bed. Afraid that thelightest touch would leave a

bruise, she gathered Isabelleclosewithexquisitecare.

“I’m sorry about Beck.Forgive me…” Isabelle said,coughing. She’d waited solong to say it, imagined thisconversation a thousandtimes. “… for the way I putyouandSophieindanger…”

“No, Isabelle,” Viannesaid softly, “forgive me. I

failed you at every turn.Starting when Papa left uswith Madame Dumas. Andwhen you ran off to Paris,how could I believe yourridiculous story about anaffair?Thathashauntedme.”Vianne leaned toward her.“Can we start over now? Bethe sistersMamanwanted ustobe?”

Isabelle fought to stayawake.“I’dlikethat.”

“Iamso,soproudofwhatyoudidinthiswar,Isabelle.”

Isabelle’s eyes filledwithtears.“Whataboutyou,V?”

Vianne looked away.“After Beck, another Nazibilletedhere.Abadone.”

Did Vianne realize thatshe touched her belly as she

said it? That shame coloredher cheeks? Isabelle knewinstinctively what her sisterhad endured. Isabelle hadheard countless stories ofwomen being raped by thesoldiers billeted with them.“YouknowwhatI learnedinthecamps?”

Vianne looked at her.“What?”

“They couldn’t touch myheart. They couldn’t changewho I was inside. Mybody…theybrokethatinthefirst days, but not my heart,V.Whateverhedid,itwastoyour body, and your bodywillheal.”Shewantedtosaymore, maybe add “I loveyou,” but a hacking coughovertookher.Whenitpassed,

shelayback,spent,breathingshallow,raggedbreaths.

Vianne leaned closer,pressedacool,wetragtoherfeveredforehead.

Isabelle stared at theblood on the quilt,remembering theenddaysofher mother’s life. There hadbeen such blood then, too.ShelookedatVianneandsaw

that her sister wasrememberingit,too.

***

Isabelle woke on a woodenfloor. She was freezing andon fire at the same time,shiveringandsweating.

Sheheardnothing,noratsor cockroaches scurryingacross the floor, no water

bleeding through the wallcracks,turningtofatslugsofice, no coughing or crying.Shesatupslowly,wincingatevery movement, no matterhow fractional. Everythinghurt.Herbones,herskin,herhead, her chest; she had nomuscles left to hurt, but herjointsandligamentsached.

Sheheardaloudra-ta-ta-

tat.Gunfire.Shecoveredherhead and scurried into thecorner,crouchinglow.

No.Shewas atLe Jardin, not

Ravensbrück.That sound was rain

hittingtheroof.Shegotslowlytoherfeet,

feeling dizzy. How long hadshebeenhere?

Fourdays?Five?She limped to the

nightstand,whereaporcelainpitcher sat beside a bowl oftepid water. She washed herhands and splashedwater onher face and then dressed inthe clothes Vianne had laidout for her—adress that hadbelongedtoSophiewhenshewastenyearsoldandbagged

on Isabelle. She began thelong, slow journey down thestairs.

The front doorwas open.Outside, the apple treeswereblurred by a falling rain.Isabellewenttothedoorway,breathinginthesweetair.

“Isabelle?” Vianne said,coming up beside her. “Letme get you some marrow

broth. The doctor says youcandrinkit.”

She nodded absently,letting Vianne pretend thatthe few tablespoons of brothIsabelle’sstomachcouldholdwouldmakeadifference.

She stepped out into therain. The world was alivewith sound—birds cawing,church bells ringing, rain

thumping on the roof,splashing in puddles. Trafficclogged the narrow, muddyroad; automobiles and lorriesand bicyclists, honking andwaving, yelling out to oneanotheraspeoplecamehome.An American lorry rumbledpast, full of smiling, fresh-faced soldiers who waved atpassersby.

At the sight of them,Isabelle remembered Viannetelling her that Hitler hadkilledhimselfandBerlinhadbeen surrounded and wouldfallsoon.

Was that true? Was thewar over? She didn’t know,couldn’tremember.Hermindwassuchamessthesedays.

Isabelle limpedout to the

road, realizing too late thatshe was barefoot (she wouldget beaten for losing hershoes), but she kept going.Shivering, coughing,plasteredby rain, shewalkedpast the bombed-out airfield,taken over by Allied troopsnow.

“Isabelle!”She turned, coughing

hard, spitting blood into herhand.Shewastremblingnowwith cold, shivering. Herdresswassoakingwet.

“What are you doing outhere?” Vianne said. “Andwhere are your shoes? Youhave typhus and pneumoniaand you’re out in the rain.”Vianne tookoffher coat andwrapped it around Isabelle’s

shoulder.“Isthewarover?”“Wetalkedaboutthislast

night,remember?”Rain blurred Isabelle’s

vision, fell in streaks downher back.Shedrew in awet,shuddering breath and felttearsstinghereyes.

Don’t cry. She knew thatwas important but she didn’t

rememberwhy.“Isabelle,you’resick.”“Gaëtan promised to find

me after the war was over,”shewhispered.“IneedtogettoParissohecanfindme.”

“If he came looking foryou,he’dcometothehouse.”

Isabelledidn’tunderstand.Sheshookherhead.

“He’s been here,

remember? After Tours. Hebroughtyouhome.”

Mynightingale, I got youhome.

“Oh.“He won’t think I’m

pretty anymore.” Isabelletriedtosmile,butsheknewitwasafailure.

VianneputanarmaroundIsabelleandgentlyturnedher

around. “We will go andwritehimaletter.”

“I don’t know where tosendit,”Isabellesaid,leaningagainst her sister, shiveringwithcoldandfire.

How did she make ithome? She wasn’t sure. ShevaguelyrememberedAntoinecarrying her up the stairs,kissing her forehead, and

Sophiebringinghersomehotbroth, but she must havefallen asleep at some pointbecause the next thing sheknewnighthadfallen.

Vianne sat sleeping in achairbeneaththewindow.

Isabellecoughed.Viannewasonherfeetin

an instant, fixing the pillowsbehind Isabelle,proppingher

up.Shedunkedaclothinthewater at the bedside, wrungout theexcess,andpresseditto Isabelle’s forehead. “Youwantsomemarrowbroth?”

“God,no.”“You’re not eating

anything.”“Ican’tkeepitdown.”Vianne reached for the

chair and dragged it close to

thebed.Vianne touched Isabelle’s

hot,wetcheekandgazedintoher sunken eyes. “I havesomething for you.” Viannegotupfromherchairandlefttheroom.Momentslater,shewas back with a yellowedenvelope. She handed it toIsabelle.“Thisisforus.FromPapa.Hecamebyhereonhis

waytoseeyouinGirot.”“He did? Did he tell you

that he was going to turnhimselfintosaveme?”

Vianne nodded andhandedIsabelletheletter.

The letters of her nameblurred and elongated on thepage.Malnutritionhadruinedhereyesight.“Canyoureadittome?”

Vianne unsealed theenvelope and withdrew theletterandbegantoread.

IsabelleandVianne,

WhatIdonow,Idowithoutmisgiving.Myregretisnot

formydeath,butformylife.IamsorryIwasnofathertoyou.

Icouldmakeexcuses—Iwasruinedbythewar,Idranktoomuch,I

couldn’tgoonwithoutyourmaman—butnoneofthatmatters.

Isabelle,Irememberthefirsttimeyouranawaytobewithme.Youmadeitallthe

waytoParisonyourown.Everythingaboutyousaid,Loveme.AndwhenIsawyouonthatplatform,needingme,Iturnedaway.

Howcould

InotseethatyouandViannewereagift,hadIonlyreachedout?

Forgiveme,mydaughters,forallofit,andknowthatasIsaygood-bye,

Ilovedyoubothwithallofmydamagedheart.

Isabelle closed her eyesandlaybackintothepillows.All her life she’d waited forthose words—his love—andnow all she felt was loss.Theyhadn’t lovedeachother

enough in the time they had,and then time ran out. “HoldSophieandAntoineandyournew baby close, Vianne.Love is such a slipperything.”

“Don’t do that,” Viannesaid.

“What?”“Saygood-bye.You’llget

strongandhealthyandyou’ll

find Gaëtan and you’ll getmarried and be there whenthisbabyofmineisborn.”

Isabellesighedandclosedher eyes. “What a prettyfuturethatwouldbe.”

***

Aweeklater,Isabellesatinachair in the backyard,wrapped in two blankets and

an eiderdown comforter. Theearly May sun blazed downon her and still she wastrembling with cold. Sophiesat in the grass at her feet,readingherastory.Herniecetried to use a different voicefor each character andsometimes, even as bad asIsabelle felt, as much as herbones felt too heavy for her

skintobear,shefoundherselfsmiling,evenlaughing.

Antoine was somewhere,tryingtobuildacradleoutofwhatever scraps of woodVianne hadn’t burned duringthe war. It was obvious toeveryone that Vianne wouldbegoing into laborsoon;shemoved slowly and seemedalwaystohaveahandpressed

tothesmallofherback.Withclosedeyes,Isabelle

savored the beautifulcommonness of the day. Inthe distance, a church bellpealed. Bells had beenringingconstantly in thepastweektoheraldthewar’send.

Sophie’s voice stoppedabruptly in the middle of asentence.

Isabelle thought she said“keep reading,” but shewasn’tsure.

She heard her sister say,“Isabelle,” in a tone of voicethatmeantsomething.

Isabelle looked up.Vianne stood there, flourstreaking her pale, freckledface and dusting her apron,her reddish hair bound by a

frayed turban. “Someone isheretoseeyou.”

“TellthedoctorI’mfine.”“It’s not the doctor.”

Vianne smiled and said,“Gaëtanishere.”

Isabellefeltasifherheartmightburstthroughthepaperwalls of her chest. She triedto stand and fell back to thechair in a heap. Vianne

helped her to her feet, butonce she was standing, shecouldn’t move. How couldshe look at him? She was abald, eyebrowless skeleton,with some of her teeth goneand most of her fingernailsmissing. She touched herhead, realizing an awkwardmoment too late that shehadnohairtotuckbehindherear.

Vianne kissed her cheek.“You’rebeautiful,”shesaid.

Isabelle turned slowly,andtherehewas,standinginthe open doorway. She sawhow bad he looked—theweightandhairandvibrancyhe’d lost—but none of itmattered.Hewashere.

Helimpedtowardherandtookherinhisarms.

She brought her shakinghands up and put her armsaroundhim.Forthefirsttimein days, weeks, a year, herheart was a reliable thing,pumping with life. When hedrewback,hestareddownather and the love in his eyesburned away everything bad;itwasjustthemagain,GaëtanandIsabelle,somehowfalling

in love in a world at war.“You’re as beautiful as Iremember,” he said, and sheactuallylaughed,andthenshecried. She wiped her eyes,feelingfoolish,but tearskeptstreamingdownherface.Shewascryingforallofitatlast—for the pain and loss andfear and anger, for the warand what it had done to her

and to all of them, for theknowledge of evil she couldnevershake,forthehorrorofwhere she’d been and whatshe’ddonetosurvive.

“Don’tcry.”Howcouldshenot?They

shouldhavehada lifetime tosharetruthsandsecrets,togetto know each other. “I loveyou,” she whispered,

remembering that time solongagowhenshe’dsaidittohim before. She’d been soyoungandshinythen.

“Iloveyou,too,”hesaid,his voice breaking. “I didfrom the first minute I sawyou. I thought I wasprotecting you by not tellingyou.IfI’dknown…”

Howfragilelifewas,how

fragiletheywere.Love.It was the beginning and

end of everything, thefoundation and the ceilingand the air in between. Itdidn’t matter that she wasbrokenanduglyandsick.Helovedherandshe lovedhim.Allher lifeshehadwaited—longed for—people to love

her, but now she saw whatreally mattered. She hadknown love, been blessed byit.

Papa.Maman.Sophie.Antoine. Micheline.

Anouk.Henri.Gaëtan.Vianne.ShelookedpastGaëtanto

her sister, the other half of

her.SherememberedMamantelling them that somedaythey would be best friends,that time would stitch theirlivestogether.

Vianne nodded, cryingnow, too, her hand on herextendedbelly.

Don’t forget me, Isabellethought. She wished she hadthestrengthtosayitoutloud.

THIRTY-NINE

May7,1995Somewhereover

France

The lights in the airplanecabincomeonsuddenly.

I hear the ding! of theannouncementsystem.Ittellsus thatwe are beginning ourdescentintoParis.

Julien leans over andadjusts my seat belt, makingsure that my seat is in thelocked,uprightposition.ThatIamsafe.

“How does it feel to belanding in Paris again,Mom?”

Idon’tknowwhattosay.

***

Hours later, thephonebesidemerings.

I am still more than halfasleep when I answer it.“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom. Did yousleep?”

“Idid.”“It’s three o’clock. What

timedoyouwanttoleaveforthereunion?”

“Let’swalk aroundParis.Icanbereadyinanhour.”

“I’ll come by and pickyouup.”

Ieaseoutofabedthesize

ofNebraskaandheadfor themarble-everywherebathroom.Anicehot showerbringsmebacktomyselfandwakensme,butitisn’tuntilIam seated at the vanity,staring at my facemagnifiedin the light-rimmed ovalmirror,thatithitsme.

Iamhome.Itdoesn’tmatterthatIam

an American citizen, that Ihavespentmoreofmylifeinthe United States than inFrance; the truth is thatnoneofthatmatters.Iamhome.

I applymakeupcarefully.Then I brush the snow-whitehair back from my face,creatingachignonatthenapeof my neck with hands thatwon’t stop trembling. In the

mirror, I see an elegant,ancient woman with velvety,pleatedskin,glossy,palepinklips,andworryinhereyes.

ItisthebestIcando.Pushing back from the

mirror, Igo to theclosetandwithdraw the winter whiteslacks and turtleneck that Ihave brought with me. Itoccurs to me that perhaps

color would have been abetter choice. I wasn’tthinkingwhenIpacked.

I am ready when Julienarrives.

Heguidesmeoutintothehallway, helping me as if Iam blind and disabled, and Ilet him lead me through theelegant hotel lobby and outinto the magic light of Paris

inspringtime.But when he asks the

doorman for a taxi, I insist.“We will walk to thereunion.”

Hefrowns.“Butit’sintheÎledelaCité.”

I wince at hispronunciation, but it is myownfault,really.

Iseethedoormansmile.

“My son loves maps,” Isay. “And he has never beentoParisbefore.”

Themannods.“It’s a long way, Mom,”

Julien says, coming up tostand beside me. “Andyou’re…”

“Old?” I can’t helpsmiling.“IamalsoFrench.”

“You’rewearingheels.”

Again, I say: “I’mFrench.”

Julien turns to thedoorman,wholiftshisglovedhandsandsays,“C’estlavie,M’sieur.”

“All right,” Julien says atlast.“Let’swalk.”

I take his arm and for agloriousmoment, as we stepout onto the bustling

sidewalk, arm in arm, I feellike a girl again. Trafficrushes past us, honking andsquealing;boysskateboardupthe sidewalk, dodging in andout amid the throng oftouristsandlocalsoutonthisbrilliant afternoon.The air isfullofchestnutblossomsandsmells of baking bread,cinnamon, diesel fuel, car

exhaust, and baked stone—smells that will foreverremindmeofParis.

Tomy right, I seeoneofmy mother’s favoritepâtisseries, and suddenly Iremember Maman handingmeabutterflymacaron.

“Mom?”Ismileathim.“Come,”I

say imperiously, leading him

intothesmallshop.ThereisalonglineandItakemyplaceattheendofit.

“I thoughtyoudidn’t likecookies.”

I ignore him and stare atthe glass case full ofbeautifully colored macaronsandpainauchocolat.

When it ismy turn I buytwo macarons—one coconut,

oneraspberry.Ireachintothebag and get the coconutmacaron,handingittoJulien.

We are outside again,walking,whenhetakesabiteand stops dead. “Wow,” hesays after a minute. Then,“Wow,”again.

I smile. Everyoneremembers their first taste ofParis.Thiswillbehis.

When he has licked hisfingers and thrown the bagaway, he links his armthroughmineagain.

At a pretty little bistrooverlooking the Seine, I say,“Let’shaveaglassofwine.”

Itisjustpastfiveo’clock.Thegenteelcocktailhour.

We take a seat outside,beneath a canopy of

flowering chestnut trees.Across the street, along thebanks of the river, vendorsare set up in green kiosks,selling everything from oilpaintingstooldVoguecoverstoEiffelTowerkeychains.

Weshareagreasy,paper-wrappedconeoffritesandsipwine. One glass turns intotwo,andtheafternoonbegins

to give way to the haze ofdusk.

I had forgotten howgently time passes in Paris.Aslivelyasthecityis,there’sa stillness to it, a peace thatlures you in. In Paris,with aglass of wine in your hand,youcanjustbe.

All along the Seine,streetlamps come on,

apartment windows turngolden.

“It’s seven,” Julien says,andIrealizethathehasbeenkeeping time all along,waiting. He is so American.No sitting idle, forgettingoneself, not for this youngman of mine. He has alsobeenlettingmesettlemyself.

I nod andwatch him pay

the check. As we stand, awell-dressed couple, bothsmoking cigarettes, glides intotakeourseats.

Julien and I walk arm inarm to the Pont Neuf, theoldest bridge across theSeine.Beyondit is theÎledela Cité, the island that wasoncetheheartofParis.NotreDame,withitssoaringchalk-

colored walls, looks like agiant bird of prey landing,gorgeous wings outstretched.The Seine captures andreflects dots of lamplightalong its shores, goldencoronas pulled out of shapebythewaves.

“Magic,” Julien says, andthatispreciselytrue.

Wewalkslowly,crossing

over this graceful bridge thatwas built more than fourhundred years ago. On theother side, we see a streetvendor closing up hisportableshop.

Julien stops, picks up anantiquesnowglobe.Hetiltsitand snow flurries and swirlswithin the glass, obscuringthedelicategiltEiffelTower.

Iseethetinywhiteflakes,and I know it’s all fake—nothing—but it makes meremember those terriblewinters, when we had holesin our shoes and our bodieswere wrapped in newsprintand every scrap of clothingwecouldfind.

“Mom?You’reshaking.”“We’relate,”Isay.Julien

puts down the antique snowglobe and we are off again,bypassing the crowd waitingtoenterNotreDame.

The hotel is on a sidestreet behind the cathedral.Next to it is the Hôtel-Dieu,theoldesthospitalinParis.

“I’m afraid,” I say,surprising myself with theadmission. I can’t remember

admitting such a thing inyears, although it has oftenbeen true. Four months ago,whentheytoldmethecancerwas back, fear made me cryin the shower until thewaterrancold.

“Wedon’thavetogoin,”hesays.

“Yes,wedo,”Isay.I put one foot in front of

the other until I am in thelobby,whereasigndirectsusto theballroomon the fourthfloor.

When we exit theelevator, I can hear a manspeaking through amicrophone that amplifiesandgarbleshisvoiceinequalmeasure.There is a tableoutin the hallway, with name

tagsspreadout.Itremindsmeof that old television show:Concentration. Most of thetags are missing, but mineremains.

AndthereisanothernameI recognize; the tag is belowmine. At the sight of it, myheartgivesalittleseize,knotsup.Ireachformyownnametag and pick it up. I peel off

the back and stick the nametag to my sunken chest, butall thewhile,Iamlookingatthe other name. I take thesecond tagandstaredownatit.

“Madame!” says thewoman seated behind thetable. She stands, lookingflustered. “We’ve beenwaiting for you. There’s a

seat—”“I’mfine.I’llstandinthe

backoftheroom.”“Nonsense.”Shetakesmy

arm. I consider resisting, buthaven’t the will for it justnow.She leadsme throughalarge crowd, seated wall towall in the ballroom, onfolding chairs, and toward adais behind which three old

women are seated. A youngman in a rumpled blue sportcoat and khaki pants—American, obviously—isstanding at a podium.Atmyentrance,hestopsspeaking.

The room goes quiet. Ifeeleveryonelookingatme.

I sidle past the other oldwomen on the dais and takemy place at the empty chair

nexttothespeaker.The man at the

microphone looks at me andsays, “Someone very specialiswithustonight.”

IseeJulienatthebackoftheroom,standingagainstthewall, his arms crossed.He isfrowning. No doubt he iswondering why anyonewouldputmeonadais.

“Would you like to saysomething?”

I think the man at thepodium has asked me thisquestion twice before itregisters.

The room is so still I canhear chairs squeaking, feettapping on carpet, womenfanningthemselves.Iwanttosay, “no, no, not me,” but

howcanIbesocowardly?I get slowly to my feet

and walk to the podium.While I’m gathering mythoughts,Iglancetomyright,at the old women seated atthedais and see their names:Almadora, Eliane, andAnouk.

My fingers clutch thewoodenedgesofthepodium.

“My sister, Isabelle, was awoman of great passions,” Isay quietly at first.“Everything she did, she didfull speed ahead, no brakes.When she was little, weworriedabouther constantly.Shewasalwaysrunningawayfrom boarding schools andconvents and finishingschool, sneaking out of

windows and onto trains. Ithought shewas recklessandirresponsible and almost toobeautiful to look at. Andduring thewar, sheused thatagainstme. She toldme thatshe was running off to Paristo have an affair, and Ibelievedher.

“Ibelieved her. All theseyears later, that still breaks

my heart a little. I shouldhave known she wasn’tfollowing a man, but herbeliefs, that she was doingsomethingimportant.”Iclosemy eyes for a moment andremember: Isabelle, standingwithGaëtan,herarmsaroundhim,hereyesonme, shiningwith tears. With love. Andthen closing her eyes, saying

something none of us couldhear,takingherlastbreathinthe arms of the man wholovedher.

Then, I saw tragedy in it;nowIseebeauty.

I remember every nuanceof that moment in mybackyard, with the branchesof the yew tree spread outaboveourheadsandthescent

ofjasmineintheair.Ilookdownatthesecond

nametaginmyhand.SophieMauriac.My beautiful baby girl,

who grew into a solemn,thoughtful woman, whostayednearmefor thewholeof her life, always worrying,fluttering around me like amama hen. Afraid. She was

always just a little afraid oftheworldafterallthatwehadlived through, and I hatedthat. But she knew how tolove, my Sophie, and whencancer came for her, shewasn’t afraid. At the end, Iwas holding her hand, andshe closedher eyes and said,“Tante…thereyouare.”

Now, soon, they will be

waitingforme,mysisterandmydaughter.

Itearmygazeawayfromthename tag and lookout atthe audience again. Theydon’t care that I’m teary-eyed.“Isabelleandmyfather,Julien Rossignol, and theirfriends ran the Nightingaleescape route. Together, theysaved over one hundred and

seventeenmen.”I swallow hard. “Isabelle

andIdidn’ttalkmuchduringthe war. She stayed awayfrom me to protect me fromthe danger of what she wasdoing. So I didn’t knoweverything Isabelle had doneuntil she came back fromRavensbrück.”

I wipe my eyes. Now

therearenosqueakingchairs,notappingfeet.Theaudienceis utterly still, staring up atme. I see Julien in the back,hishandsome facea study inconfusion.Allofthisisnewsto him. For the first time inhis life, he understands thegulf between us, rather thanthe bridge. I am not simplyhismothernow,anextension

of him. I am a woman inwhole and he doesn’t quiteknow what to make of me.“TheIsabellewhocamebackfrom the concentration campwas not the woman who’dsurvived the bombing atTours or crossed thePyrenees. The Isabelle whocame home was broken andsick. She was unsure of so

many things, but not aboutwhat she’d done.” I look outat the people seated in frontofme.“Onthedaybeforeshedied, she sat in the shadebesideme and heldmyhandand said, ‘V, it’s enough forme.’Isaid,‘What’senough?’and she said, ‘My life. It’senough.’

“And it was. I know she

savedsomeofthemeninthisroom, but I know that yousaved her, too. IsabelleRossignol died both a heroand a woman in love. Shecouldn’t have made adifferent choice. And all shewanted was to beremembered.So, I thankyouall, for giving her lifemeaning,forbringingoutthe

very best in her, and forremembering her all theseyearslater.”

Iletgoofthepodiumandstepback.

The audience surges totheir feet, clapping wildly. Isee how many of the olderpeople are crying and itstrikes me suddenly: Theseare the families of the men

she saved. Every man savedcamehometocreateafamily:more people who owed theirlives to a brave girl and herfatherandtheirfriends.

After that, I am suckedinto awhirlwind of gratitudeand memories andphotographs.Everyone in theroom wants to thank mepersonally and tell me how

much Isabelle and my fathermeant to them. At somepoint, Julien settles himselfalongmysideandbecomesabodyguard of sorts. I hearhim say, “It looks like wehavea lot to talkabout,”andI nod and keep moving,clinging to his arm. I domybest to be my sister’sambassador, collecting the

thanksshedeserves.Wearealmostthroughthe

crowd—it is thinning now,people are making their wayto the bar for wine—when Ihear someone say, “Hello,Vianne,”inafamiliarvoice.

Even with all the yearsthat have passed, I recognizehis eyes. Gaëtan. He isshorter than I remember, a

littlestoopedintheshoulders,andhis tanned face isdeeplycreased by both weather andtime.Hishair is long,almosttohisshoulders,andaswhiteasgardenias,butstillIwouldknowhimanywhere.

“Vianne,” he says. “Iwanted you to meet mydaughter.” He reaches backfor a classically beautiful

youngwomanwearingachicblacksheathandvibrantpinkneckscarf.Shecomestowardme, smiling as if we arefriends.

“I’mIsabelle,”shesays.IleanheavilyintoJulien’s

hand. I wonder if Gaëtanknows what this smallremembrancewouldmean toIsabelle.

Ofcoursehedoes.He leans close andkisses

each of my cheeks,whispering,“Ilovedherallofmylife,”ashedrawsback.

We talk for a few moreminutes,aboutnothingreally,andthenheleaves.

Suddenly I am tired.Exhausted. I pull free of myson’s possessive grip and

move past the crowd to thequiet balcony. There, I stepout into the night. NotreDame is lit up, its glowcoloring the black waves oftheSeine.Icanheartheriverlapping against stone andboatlinescreaking.

Julien comes up besideme.

“So,” he says. “Your

sister—my aunt—was in aconcentration camp inGermany because she helpedto create a route to savedowned airmen, and thisroute meant that she hikedacross the Pyreneesmountains?”

Itisasheroicashemakesitsound.

“Why have I never heard

anything about all this—andnot just from you? Sophienever said a word. Hell, Ididn’tevenknowthatpeopleescaped over the mountainsor that there was aconcentration camp just forwomen who resisted theNazis.”

“Mentellstories,”Isay.Itis the truest, simplest answer

to his question. “Women geton with it. For us it was ashadow war. There were noparades for us when it wasover, no medals or mentionsinhistorybooks.Wedidwhatwehadtoduringthewar,andwhen itwas over,we pickedup the pieces and started ourlivesover.YoursisterwasasdesperatetoforgetitasIwas.

Maybe that was anothermistake I made—letting herforget. Maybe we shouldhavetalkedaboutit.”

“So Isabelle was offsavingairmenandDadwasaprisonerofwarandyouwereleft alone with Sophie.” Iknow he is seeing medifferently already,wondering how much he

doesn’tknow.“Whatdidyoudointhewar,Mom?”

“Isurvived,”Isayquietly.At the admission, I miss mydaughter almost more than Icanbear,becausethetruthofit is that we survived.Together.Againstallodds.

“That couldn’t have beeneasy.”

“It wasn’t.” The

admission slips out,surprisingme.

And suddenly we arelookingateachother,motherand son.He isgivingmehissurgeon’s look that missesnothing—not my newestwrinklesorthewaymyheartis beating a little too fast orthe pulse that pumps in thehollowofmythroat.

He touches my cheek,smilingsoftly.Myboy.“Youthink the past could changehowIfeelaboutyou?Really,Mom?”

“Mrs.Mauriac?”I am glad for the

interruption. It’s a question Idon’twanttoanswer.

I turn to see a handsomeyoungmanwaiting to talk to

me. He is American, but notobviouslyso.ANewYorker,perhaps, with close-croppedgraying hair and designerglasses.Heiswearingafittedblackblazerandanexpensivewhite shirt,with faded jeans.I step forward, extendingmyhand.Hedoesthesamethingatthesametime,andwhenhedoes, our eyes meet and I

miss a step. It is just that, amissedstep,oneamongmanyatmyage,butJulien is theretocatchme.“Mom?”

I stare at the man beforeme.Inhim,IcanseetheboyI loved so deeply and thewoman who was my bestfriend.“ArieldeChamplain,”I say, his name a whisper, aprayer.

He takes me in his armsand holdsme tightly and thememories return. When hefinally pulls back, we arebothcrying.

“I never forgot you orSophie,” he says. “They toldme to, and I tried, but Icouldn’t. I’ve been lookingforyoubothforyears.”

I feel that constriction in

my heart again. “Sophiepassed away about fifteenyearsago.”

Ari looks away. Quietly,he says, “I slept with herstuffedanimalforyears.”

“Bébé,” I say,remembering.

Ari reaches into hispocket and pulls out theframedphotographofmeand

Rachel. “My mom gave thistomewhenIgraduatedfromcollege.”

I staredownat it throughtears.

“You and Sophie savedmy life,” Ari saysmatter-of-factly.

I hear Julien’s intake ofbreath and know what itmeans.Hehasquestionsnow.

“Ari is my best friend’sson,” I say. “When Rachelwasdeported toAuschwitz, Ihid him in our home, eventhough a Nazi billeted withus. It was quite …frightening.”

“Your mother is beingmodest,” Ari says. “Sherescued nineteen Jewishchildrenduringthewar.”

Iseetheincredulityinmyson’s eyes and it makes mesmile.Ourchildrenseeus soimperfectly.

“I’m a Rossignol,” I sayquietly.“ANightingaleinmyownway.”

“Asurvivor,”Ariadds.“Did Dad know?” Julien

asks.“Your father…” I pause,

drawinabreath.Your father.Andthereitis,thesecretthatmademeburyitall.

I have spent a lifetimerunning from it, trying toforget, but now I seewhat awasteallthatwas.

Antoine was Julien’sfather in every way thatmattered. It is not biologythatdeterminesfatherhood.It

islove.Itouchhischeekandgaze

up at him. “You broughtmeback to life, Julien. When Iheld you, after all thatugliness, I could breatheagain. I could love yourfatheragain.”

I never realized that truthbefore. Julien brought meback.Hisbirthwasamiracle

in the midst of despair. Hemade me and Antoine andSophie a family again. Inamed him after the father Ilearned to love too late, afterhewas gone. Sophie becamethe big sister she alwayswantedtobe.

Iwill tellmy sonmy lifestory at last. There will bepain in remembering, but

therewillbejoy,too.“You’ll tell me

everything?”“Almost everything,” I

say with a smile. “AFrenchwomanmust have hersecrets.” And I will … I’llkeeponesecret.

I smile at them, my twoboyswhoshouldhavebrokenme, but somehow saved me,

eachinhisownway.Becauseof them, I know now whatmatters, and it is not what Ihave lost. It ismymemories.Woundsheal.Lovelasts.

Weremain.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book was a labor oflove, and like a woman in

labor, I often feltoverwhelmed and desperatein that please-help-me-this-can’t-be-what-I-signed-up-for-give-me-drugs kind ofway.Yet,miraculously, it allcametogetherintheend.

It literally takes a villageofdedicated,tireless,typeA–personality people tomake asingle book live up to its

potential and find anaudience. In the twenty plusyearsofmycareer,myworkhas been championed bysome truly incredibleindividuals. I would like totake a paragraph or two—atlonglastandmuchoverdue—to acknowledge a few whomadearealdifference.SusanPeterson Kennedy, Leona

Nevler, Linda Grey, ElisaWares, Rob Cohen, ChipGibson,AndrewMartin,JaneBerkey, Meg Ruley, GinaCentrello,LindaMarrow,andKimHovey.Thanks to all ofyou for believing in mebeforeIbelievedinmyself.Aspecial shout-out to AnnPatty, who changed thecourse of my career and

helpedmefindmyvoice.To the folks at St.

Martin’s and Macmillan.Your support andenthusiasmhashadaprofoundimpactonmy career and my writing.Thanks to Sally Richardsonfor your tireless enthusiasmandyourenduringfriendship.To Jennifer Enderlin, myamazingeditor,thankyoufor

pushing me and demandingthe very best from me. Yourock. Thanks also to AlisonLazarus, Anne MarieTallberg, Lisa Senz, DoriWeintraub, John Murphy,Tracey Guest,Martin Quinn,Jeff Capshew, LisaTomasello, ElizabethCatalano, Kathryn Parise,Susan Joseph, Astra

Berzinskas, and the alwaysfabulous, absolutely giftedMichaelStorrings.

People often say thatwritingisalonelyprofession,andit’strue,butitcanalsobea brilliant party filled withinteresting, amazing guestswhospeakinashorthandthatonlyafewunderstand.Ihavea few very special people

whopropmeupwhenIneedit,aren’tafraidtopourtequilawhenit’swarranted,andhelpme celebrate the smallestvictory. Thanks first andforemost to my longtimeagent, Andrea Cirillo.Honestly, I couldn’t havedone it without you—andmore important, I wouldn’thave wanted to. To Megan

Chance, my first and lastreader,theredpenofdoom,Ithankyoufromthebottomofmy heart. Iwouldn’t be hereatallwithoutourpartnership.To Jill Marie Landis, youtaught me an invaluablewritinglessonthisyear,anditmadeTheNightingalewhatitis.

Iwouldalsoliketothank

fellow author Tatiana deRosnay, whose generositywasanunexpectedgiftinthewriting of this novel. Shetook time out of her busyschedule to help me makeThe Nightingale as accurateaspossible. I am forever andprofoundly grateful. Ofcourse, any and all mistakes(andcreativelicenses)aremy

responsibilityalone.ThanksalsotoDr.Miriam

Klein Kassenoff, Director,Holocaust Studies SummerInstitute/SchoolofEducation,University of Miami CoralGables. Your help wasinvaluable.

Last, but certainly notleast, to my family:Benjamin, Tucker, Kaylee,

Sara,Laurence,Debbie,Kent,Julie, Mackenzie, Laura,Lucas, Logan, Frank, Toni,Jacqui, Dana, Doug, Katie,andLeslie.Storytellers, all. Iloveyouguys.

AlsobyKristinHannah

FlyAway

HomeFront

NightRoad

WinterGarden

TrueColors

FireflyLane

MagicHour

Comfort&Joy

TheThingsWeDoforLove

BetweenSisters

DistantShores

SummerIsland

AngelFalls

OnMysticLake

HomeAgain

WaitingfortheMoon

WhenLightningStrikes

IfYouBelieve

OnceinEveryLife

TheEnchantment

AHandfulofHeaven

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

KRISTIN HANNAH is aNew York Times bestsellingauthor of twenty-two novels.A former lawyer turnedwriter, she is the mother ofone son and lives with herhusband in the PacificNorthwest and Hawaii. Visither atwww.kristinhannah.com oronFacebook.

Thisisaworkoffiction.Allofthecharacters,organizations,andeventsportrayedinthisnovelareeitherproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.

THENIGHTINGALE.Copyright©2015byKristinHannah.Allrightsreserved.Forinformation,addressSt.Martin’sPress,175FifthAvenue,NewYork,

N.Y.10010.

www.stmartins.com

CoverdesignbyMichaelStorrings

Coverillustration©RebeccaMurphy

Coverphotograph©VictorKorchenko

eBooksmaybepurchasedforbusinessorpromotionaluse.Forinformationon

bulkpurchases,pleasecontactMacmillanCorporateandPremiumSalesDepartmentbywritingto

MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

TheLibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataisavailableupon

request.

ISBN978-0-312-57722-3(hardcover)ISBN978-1-4668-5060-6(e-book)

e-ISBN9781466850606

FirstEdition:February2015