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“Maman, what are you saying?” Léon blurts out.

“I know what I am doing, Léon. If her name is not on the list, then she doesn’t come with us.”

“We can’t leave her alone. What are you doing?” Léon demands.

Joséphine looks from her brother to her mother.

“What’s happening?” she asks.

“Josie, listen to me. I want you to run to Mlle Levallois’s house. Go to her right now. Do you hear me? Mlle Levallois.”

“I don’t want to. I want to stay with you and Léon.”

Kneeling to her daughter’s height, Ruth hugs her tight.

“You’re hurting me.”

“I love you. I love you with all my heart, but you must listen to me. You must walk out of the door and run to Mlle Levallois and tell her what has happened. You have been brought up to obey your Maman and Papa. This, ma chère Joséphine, is the most important thing I have ever asked you to do. Now go. Don’t look back. Just go.”

Pulling herself free from Joséphine, Ruth pushes the child toward the door. The soldiers look on but make no attempt to stop her: The rule is that they take the names on the list, and this young girl is not on the list.

“No, Maman, no. Don’t do this to her. Josie, come back!” Léon cries out, attempting to follow his sister. His mother grabs his arm. He spins around and looks at her, shocked. How can his mother be sending Joséphine away? What has happened to her?

Ruth squeezes his arm hard. “I know what I am doing. You must trust me.”

Since their father died two years earlier, Léon has been the one to protect his mother and sister. He is torn. Does he obey his mother or fight for his sister to stay with the family? With his back to the door, he doesn’t see Joséphine stepping into the hallway and out of sight.

Shaking, Joséphine makes her way down the stairs, past the apartment below, where the door is hanging off its hinges. Gestapo are yelling inside, and the young children of the family are crying. She winces at the sound of batons hitting flesh, at the sound of M. Meyer crying out as he is beaten. She stumbles down into the foyer and slips outside into the November cold. She reaches the entrance to the building next door, not a target this night. Perhaps their turn will come; she knows another Jewish family lives in this building. Hiding in the doorway, she watches the entrance to her own building.

And then she sees them: Maman and Léon, stumbling down the steps of the apartment block, pushed by the two Gestapo officers.

“Maman . . . Léon . . .” she mouths silently. A truck is waiting for them, but as her mother is hauled inside, she sees her turn and spot her daughter peering around the doorway. Ruth smiles as she crosses her arms over her heart. Joséphine watches as first her mother, then Léon are roughly pulled up into the truck. And then they are gone.

The quiet and the dark surround Joséphine as she sits alone in the doorway, too frightened to move. The cold penetrates her coat, and soon her feet and hands begin to sting. Standing, she peers out into the deserted street. The strict curfew imposed by the Germans means that the streets are deserted. It also means it’s extremely dangerous to be outside. Looking across the street to the small park she runs through each day, she sees her school by the dim light of the streetlamps and wonders if she should head straight there when the sun comes up. She loves school, never misses a day even when she’s sick.

It is Thursday tomorrow. I have my piano lessons on Thursdays. It is this thought that drags her back to her mother’s words: Run, go to Mlle Levallois. It’s not far, and she must do what her mother says.

Leaving the sanctuary of the entranceway, Joséphine slides along the walls of the buildings. Turning the corner, now on rue Blomet, she slowly walks to number 135, careful to remain in the shadows. She knows the door will be locked, and she doesn’t want to wake the Levallois family. She curls up in the corner of the entrance, shivering with cold, praying patrolling soldiers will stay away for the rest of the night.

It’s still dark when the first sounds of movement on the streets of Montparnasse herald the end of curfew at six a.m. Joséphine hears footsteps approaching inside. Standing, she takes two steps back from the beautiful old iron and wooden doors as they swing open. She forces a smile as a face she recognizes appears. Perplexed, but recognizing her too, the man holds the door open for her to enter. It is M. Dupont, the concierge. She’s heard the adults call him Maurice. This is his kingdom. He occupies a small apartment on the ground floor, and during the day is to be found at a tiny desk just inside his door. No one enters without him waving them through or checking who they are.

Joséphine steps forward, smiling anxiously. “Merci, monsieur,” she whispers, remembering her manners as she enters the foyer.

Maurice looks at the small frozen girl carefully. Joséphine is at a loss as to what to say. She is shivering, and a small tear trickles down her pale cheek.

“Mademoiselle, you’re up early today. Curfew is barely over.”

Joséphine gazes up at him.

As if making a decision, Maurice takes Joséphine gently by the shoulders. “Here for your piano lesson?” he asks, his voice kind and firm.

Joséphine nods. She looks around the familiar lobby with its faded black and white diamond tiles worn smooth by decades of footsteps. Along one wall, a row of brass mailboxes, some labeled in ink so old it has turned the color of pencil lead, some blank. The simple chandelier hanging from the ceiling casts more shadows than light.

Maurice indicates the higher floors. “Up you go then,” he tells her.

Joséphine ignores the elevator, a narrow cage of dark metal inserted into the stairwell’s heart, barely wide enough for two people. She knows that it hums and shudders upward with a reluctance that makes the stairs seem the wiser choice no matter your age.

The iron banister is cool even through Joséphine’s woollen gloves. The marble stairs guide her up. First floor. Second floor. On the last step to the third floor, she stops, facing a closed door.