Lucie lifted her suitcase and Josie’s little case to the table and opened them.
“Any valuables? Cash?” Another official sifted through the suitcase.
“Non, monsieur.” Lucie laid her ballet bag down. She’d depleted much of Paul’s cash in Marseille, and she needed the reserve in her slip to tide them over in Lisbon until she could cable her parents for money. She’d ask Paul’s parents only as a last resort.
Josie’s little case held her doll, stuffed kitty, and blanket, but the official inspected them closely. Then he upended Lucie’s bag, dumping out pocketbook, Bible, storybooks, and puppets.
Monsieur Meow tumbled to the floor.
“Monsieur Meow!” Josie ripped her hand from Lucie’s, darted forward, and grabbed the puppet.
“Josie!” Lucie rushed to the child. “Don’t ever leave me again. Do you hear?”
Tears filled Josie’s brown eyes, and she hugged the puppet. “He fell. I can’t lose him.”
Lucie hugged the child tight. “And I can’t lose you.”
The customs official snorted. “The child obviously needs a father. Go back into France and marry him.”
Lucie wanted to glare at the man, but more than that, she wanted to leave France. So she just stroked Josie’s back. “Her father is no longer with us. Please let us go home to America, monsieur.”
A harrumph. “Very well. Your papers are in order, mademoiselle.” He twisted the final word with disdain.
“Merci.” Without meeting the horrid man’s gaze, Lucie shepherded Josie to the far side of the table, where she packed their luggage. And where she said adieu to France.
43
OCCUPIEDFRANCE
TUESDAY, DECEMBER30, 1941
The year of 1941 was ending on an even lonelier note than it had begun.
Paul sat on his bed in his little room in a monastery somewhere—they wouldn’t tell him where—in occupied France.
No one told him anything.
RAF men inhabited other rooms, but they weren’t allowed to talk to each other. Occasionally a résistant visited Paul to review his new identity as farm laborer Jean Bonnet.
Paul scratched at his scruffy beard and tugged at the rough worker’s clothing they’d given him. As to when he’d leave for Lisbon, all he heard was, “Wait.”
The monks brought him food. He was warm and comfortable. But he hated waiting. Hated the lack of control. Hated the seclusion. Most of all, he hated not knowing if Josie and Lucie were safe.
He stood and paced the room, over and over, all day, days on end. He was Josie’s father, her only living parent. He was supposed to protect her. And he couldn’t.
Paul rapped his fists on his thighs and slumped against thedoor, as caged as if in prison. Lucie would protect Josie with her life, but ultimately she had no control either.
“Lord, protect them. Please.”
Paul took a few deep breaths. Mulling over misery never made it better.
Reading his Bible would distract him. He opened the satchel the resistance had given him to disguise his suitcase—which he refused to relinquish. If he were searched, his US passport in its belt under his shirt would give him away. What did it matter if he carried his few remaining possessions? The most precious were his tank designs and Josie’s Feenee stories.
He should have sent the stories with Lucie, but he’d forgotten them in the turmoil of that last night. Paul groaned. “Isn’t that typical of me?”
He pulled out the manila envelope, sat cross-legged on the stone floor, and worked out the papers. Color blossomed before him.
Green-haired Feenee soaring over an orange Eiffel Tower. Red-haired Feenee dancing with Monsieur Meow. Purple-haired Feenee poking a rock-monster with her horn.
