“Come here, sugarplum.” He slid her over to his lap. “Do you know why I call you so many candy names?”
She shook her head against Paul’s chest.
“It’s because you’re too sweet to fit into any one word, so I keep looking for new words. Never forget that. Never forget how much I love you. How proud I am of you.”
“Daddy, I’m scared.”
Paul was too. He buried his face in her curls, so much like Simone’s. How could he send her away? Everything inside him recoiled, and he fought to find his voice. “Remem—remember how I told you this trip might be scary and we might tell you to do things you don’t understand?”
“I don’t like it.” She grasped the lapel of Paul’s jacket.
“Here’s the first thing. This is your mother.” He squeezed Lucie’s knee. “She will take good care of you.”
Lucie smashed her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes.
“I like that,” Josie said.
“I do too.” Paul wrapped both arms around his baby girl. “Listen carefully. Do whatever Maman says, same as you do for me or Madame Coudray. Better, in fact.”
“I—I will.”
Paul pulled in a breath through his swollen throat. “Maman will take you to America to your grandparents. I won’t be coming with you.”
“Daddy?” Josie’s voice climbed.
“I’ll come to you as fast as I can. But if I can’t—”
“Paul, don’t.” Lucie’s chest heaved.
He cut her off with a gaze. “But if I can’t, my little bit of everything sweet—remember, always remember I love you.”
Josie clutched at him and dissolved in blubbering tears.
Paul rocked her, his heart in pieces. All he wanted was to protect Josie and Lucie, but to do so, he had to leave them.
42
VIERZON, OCCUPIEDFRANCE
SATURDAY, DECEMBER13, 1941
They had to look French, sound French, and act French.
Carrying her ballet bag over her shoulder, Lucie clutched Josie’s hand and one of Paul’s suitcases, packed with Lucie’s and Josie’s possessions. She walked down the cobblestone sidewalk in Vierzon past grayish-white buildings with slatted shutters.
That morning, the résistant from Orléans had guided them on the train to Vierzon. The demarcation line between occupied and unoccupied France followed the River Cher, which divided the town of Vierzon.
Colette Foucault. She was Madame Colette Foucault, and she recited her instructions to distract herself. After they entered the zone non occupée, she would take the train to Marseille. There she would obtain transit visas at the Spanish and Portuguese consulates.
“Maman?” Josie said in a tiny voice. “I miss Daddy.”
“I miss him too.” Lucie squeezed the child’s hand as they passed a half-timbered house.
At least Josie’s grief had turned the corner from inconsolable sobbing. The first night in Orléans, Josie had cried herselfto sleep on the bed, sandwiched between Lucie and Paul. It hadn’t seemed improper, the three of them lying entwined, Paul lavishing soft kisses on Josie’s head and Lucie’s damp cheeks, their tears mingling.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Paul had slipped away with the résistant. The next morning Josie had clung to Lucie.
Two blocks ahead, the road curved and a gate barred the street.
