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Tina walks, putting one foot in front of the other while people try not to stare at this broken and beaten woman. This is Paris under occupation, where minding your own business keeps you alive. In these dark days, survival trumps compassion.

She walks to rue Blomet.

Maurice is sweeping the steps outside number 135. When he sees Tina, he hurries to her side, taking her good arm in his, and without a word walking her to their building. Slowly, they climb the stairs. When she stumbles, he is there to catch her.

With his master key, Maurice unlocks the door. Tina pushes open the front door to a home she feared she might never see again.

Inside, there is devastation. Every inch of every room has been ransacked. Their furniture, lovingly collected over the decades, has been overturned and broken. The books, which gave each of them so much comfort, lie torn and scattered. Miraculously, the piano, Andrée’s beautiful piano, is untouched.

“I’ll get you something to eat,” Maurice says, visibly shaken. He backs out of the room quietly, closing the door behind him.

Tina walks through the wreckage. In the bedroom, their bedroom, she sits on the edge of the bed. Louis’s pillow still bears the impression of his head.

She picks it up. Holds it to her face and breathes. It smells of him.

And then, finally, she collapses, sobbing, her body, her mind, in agony. She feels she will never stop crying. She has lost not only her husband but her soulmate, her accomplice, her best friend. There are no words for her grief, and her grief feels bottomless.

He is gone.

It’s the beginning of August 1944 and Paris is holding its breath. The rumors of the approach of the Allies are everywhere. Every few days, Josie has walked to 135 rue Blomet. Is Andrée back? Her grandparents? Stéphanie doesn’t like it; it’s dangerous, and the Militia might be watching, but Josie needs to go. She doesn’t go inside, but she needs to know.

Today when she arrives at the building, she sees Maurice in the foyer. She smiles, but he doesn’t smile back. Instead . . . there’s an expression on his face she’s never seen before. She can’t read it.

“Josie! Come here, child.”

She approaches, her heart hammering. Is this the bad news she’s been dreading?

“Ma petite, I’m so glad you’re here”—and now Maurice smiles—“Madame Tina returned a few days ago. She’s upstairs, but . . . but she’s not well, Josie. She’s had a very tough time. You understand?”

“Grand-Mère is home? She’s alive?” Joy floods through her. “What about Grand-Père? And Tata Andrée?”

Maurice’s face crumples. “M. Levallois . . . I’m sorry, ma fille. He died. In prison.”

The world stops. Grand-Père. Dead.

“And Tata Andrée?”

“Madame Tina doesn’t know. Doesn’t know anything. They told her nothing.”

Josie’s legs shake. She sits down heavily on the stairs. Why can’t she catch her breath? Grand-Père is dead. Tata Andrée is imprisoned. Grand-Mère is upstairs, alone, broken.

“Can I see her?” Josie asks.

“Not yet, child. She’s . . . she’s not ready. Give her a few more days. She needs a little more time to recover.”

“But she’s alone.”

“I check on her, don’t worry. I make sure she’s fed. She will get better.”

Josie simply nods. She can’t find the words.

“Go to your friend’s house. Stay safe. In a few days, when Madame is stronger, I’ll send word. You can see her then. Yes?”

“Yes. Thank you, monsieur. You are a good friend to us. Please tell Grand-Mère how much I love her.”

Maurice has spent so long watching out for the Levallois that he’s come to think of them as his family. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for them, then, now or in the future. He slumps on the stair beside Josie. He no longer has the words to express his grief. He finds himself nodding, just as Josie did. She leans over and gently kisses him on the cheek, fighting back her tears.

Josie walks back to Monique’s apartment. She’s numb inside.