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Safe? Released? The thought hadn’t occurred to Andrée. Could it be? Could Maman be free?

“I think my parents were brough here at the same time as me. I wonder if he’s over with the men. How can I find out?”

“You can’t. We risked a beating moving around and talking to the women just now. Imagine what would happen if you approached the men. Hopefully there will be another opportunity to find out about him wherever they’re taking us.”

“You’re right, of course. Am I losing my mind?”

“You’re a daughter wanting to know about her parents. If I knew my parents were here, I’d be doing the same.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask your name.”

“I am Jeanette Roussel.” She smiles. “And you’re Andrée Levallois.”

“Yes,” Andrée says. “I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you look very young. What are you doing here?”

Jeannie manages a small laugh. “I’m twenty-four.”

“Oh my goodness, you are young. What could you possibly have done to end up here?”

It was meant as a statement, not a question. But Jeanette answers anyway.

“I was a member of the Alliance. I ran a scientific intelligence network. I was on my way to London to debrief, but something went wrong, and now I’m here.”

“I’m so sorry. How long have you been in this place?”

“Since April. And you? Is it impolite to ask why you find yourself here, about to be sent to who knows where?”

For the first time since her capture, Andrée returns the small laugh. “I’m probably guilty of many things in the eyes of the Germans. Like you, I was involved with the Resistance, as were my parents. We were also harboring and protecting a young Jewish girl for well over a year. The Militia finally caught up with us.”

“Andrée, what an incredible woman you are. The little girl, did they . . . ?”

“No. They didn’t get her. She came home from school. The Militia ambushed her, but before they could grab her, my brave mother used our signal that she should run. She got away. I pray she’s safe now with others who will protect her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Joséphine. She’s twelve. She was eleven when she moved in with my parents and me.” Andrée begins to shake, her voice cracks. “Oh no, it was her birthday recently. She’s thirteen now.”

The sound of buses drawing up silences them. The buses, dozens of them, plough between the groups of men and women, causing them to scatter and jump to safety. Several are too slow; they are hit and quickly gathered up by the women near them. No one will be left behind.

As the buses halt and their doors fling open, guards begin pushing and hitting prisoners, driving them on board. Only when there’s no standing room left does each driver close the doors and pull away.

As Andrée scrambles aboard a bus, all seats taken, she’s forced toward the rear, where she holds on to the back of the nearest seat. She frantically looks around for Jeanette but can’t see her. They became separated in the melee of panicking women dodging blows from guards.

As the bus drives through the imposing gates onto the streets of Paris, Andrée joins the women peering through windows, not knowing what to expect. Is their beloved city in ruins? They’ve heard the recent explosions. Heard the whispers between guards that the Allies are on French soil, heading toward Paris.

The shelling continues as the bus joins the main road, then slows to a crawl. Through the windows, the women see trucks, cars, every manner of vehicle, all heading in the same direction. All laden with food, clothing, fine furniture, and other looted goods. German troops walk beside the flotilla, unable to obtain a ride. They, too, are fleeing. Out of Paris. Out of France. Away from the advancing Allied soldiers.

“They’re running,” someone whispers. “The Germans are running.”

“Liberation is coming,” another woman says. “We just have to survive until it gets here.”

The buses arrive at Gare de Pantin in the northeastern suburbs of Paris, one of the few remaining railway stations still operational. The French railway system is near complete breakdown, sabotaged by the Resistance, bombed by the Allies. This station still functions, but barely.

The men are unloaded first. Fifteen hundred of them are driven with whips and rifle butts toward waiting cattle cars. Andrée watches from the bus window, searching for her father’s face among the mass of prisoners. But they’re too far away.

Then it’s the women’s turn.

“Out! Move! Quickly!”