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“No code name?”

“My family decided we have nothing to hide.”

Visitor raises an eyebrow but says nothing. “This way. We have perhaps three hours before the drop. You’ll stay at my house tonight. Both of you.”

“Is it safe?”

“As safe as anywhere. My husband is away: He was sent east by the Germans. My neighbors think I take in boarders to make ends meet. You’re a cousin from Paris. Suzanne will be a friend of a friend, passing through. Simple stories. The best kind.”

The house is small, neat, tucked at the end of a narrow street. Visitor wheels her bicycle around to the back, motions for Andrée to follow. Inside, it’s cold but clean. A kitchen, a small sitting room, one bedroom upstairs.

Visitor sets out a simple supper on the table: fresh bread and a good hunk of cheese. It’s a little more than Andrée has in a single meal in quite some time, but especially since Josie arrived, and she stifles a feeling of guilt. But she needs to eat: They’ve got a long night ahead of them.

“You’ve done this before?” Visitor asks.

“A rendezvous? Yes, a few times. Never a parachute drop though.”

“It’s not complicated. We wait in the trees. Listen for the plane. Watch for the drop. Collect quickly and leave. The Germans patrol but not often at night. Too cold, too dark.”

“And if something goes wrong?”

“We scatter. You know the protocol. Don’t come back here. Make your own way to Paris. I’ll do the same.”

Andrée nods. She knows the protocol. Everyone for themselves if it goes bad. It’s the only way to protect the network, the safe houses, the others.

“Tell me about your husband,” Andrée says, changing the subject.

Visitor’s face softens. “Michel. Captured. It’s been a little over a year now. This work I do: it’s for him. For all of them. The ones who can’t fight anymore.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Have someone?”

“A child. Not mine by birth, but I’m responsible for her now. Jewish. We’re hiding her.”

Visitor sets down her cup. “How old?”

“Eleven.”

“Brave girl.”

“She is. Braver than she should have to be.”

They sit in silence, two women bound by different losses, different loves, the same war.

At seven o’clock, they dress in dark clothes, layer on coats and scarves. Visitor hands Andrée a flashlight. “Don’t use it unless necessary. Our eyes will adjust.”

They walk through the village, keeping to the shadows. Beyond the last houses, fields stretch dark and empty. The forest rises ahead, a black wall against the slightly paler sky. Among the trees it’s darker still. Andrée follows Visitor’s silhouette, trusting her to know the path.

They stop in a small clearing. Visitor checks her watch. “Any time now. The window is twenty minutes.”

Andrée scans the sky. Just clouds, the quarter-moon or odd star occasionally breaking through. Then a sound. Distant. Growing closer. The low drone of an aircraft.

“There,” Visitor whispers.

The plane passes overhead, invisible but unmistakable. The engine sound changes. Something falls, a darker shape against the dark sky. A parachute blooms above.

They run. The parachute is drifting, will land in the next field. Andrée’s heart hammers.