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They set about their tasks in silence. For a long time no one speaks, until Louis tries to say something reassuring.

“We’ve survived the Germans for over two years. We’ll survive the Militia too.”

“Will we?” Tina asks. “The Germans are occupiers. They’re brutal, but they’re following orders, doing their job. The Militia? They’re believers. Fanatics. They’ll be worse.”

“Then we’ll be more careful. Cleverer. More determined.” Louis looks at them both. “What we’re doing matters. Hiding Josie matters. Every false paper we make, every piece of intelligence we pass, every life we save, it all matters. The Militia doesn’t change that.”

“We need a plan for her,” Tina says. “What does she do if they come for us and she escapes? Where would she go?”

Andrée thinks for a moment. “I think the only possibility is her friend Monique. Her mother knows the story and is on our side. I’ll talk to her. And I’ll have a word with Marie-Thérèse. Warn her of Mme Charbonnier, make sure her daughter doesn’t cause any trouble for Josie. She mentioned rather pointedly that they’re at school together.”

Andrée heads to the school and is welcomed into Marie-Thérèse’s office, the door firmly closed behind them. She tells the headmistress that Mme Charbonnier has commented on the fact that they have Josie living with them.

Marie-Thérèse holds up her hand, silencing Andrée.

“Every girl in my school will be kept safe, Andrée. Let’s leave it at that.”

Her voice is calm, but her defiance and determination are clear. The two women clasp hands.

Andrée walks home through streets that suddenly feel more dangerous. Every face could be Militia. Every glance could be surveillance. The war has come closer, has become more personal.

The enemy wears a French face now.

Later that evening, Josie is at the piano, practicing scales. Andrée stands in the doorway, watching. This Jewish child they’re hiding, the Militia will hunt her. Will torture Andrée for information about her and perhaps about anything else she knows. Will kill them all if they’re caught.

Josie looks up, smiles. “Tata Andrée, listen to this! I’ve been working on a piece by Bach. It’s hard, but I think I’m getting it.”

Andrée thinks back to only last week, when she had handed one of her precious music books to Josie and watched as Josie read the cover.

“J. S. Bach. Notebook for Anna Magdalena Bach.”

Andrée had explained how Anna was Bach’s wife and he gave her two handwritten books of his music. What she now holds is a copy of one of them.

Opening the book, Josie had clutched it to her chest. “I’ll treasure it always, and when I can, I will play for you.”

She plays. The music fills the apartment, sweet and clear. Andrée closes her eyes; lets it wash over her. Outside, a Militia might form, but inside, there’s music. There’s this child, playing Bach.

For now. That’s all they have. This moment. This day. This note, and the next, and the next.

It will have to be enough.

Chapter Twelve

ALL ABLE-BODIED FRENCH MEN ARE TO REPORT TO THEIR LOCAL POLICE STATION TO BE TRANSPORTED TO WORK IN GERMANY. ALL THOSE WHO DO NOT COMPLY WILL BE ARRESTED.

Barely a month has passed since they learned of the French Militia. Now blue-uniformed men walk the streets of Paris, carrying sidearms and rifles. Young men emboldened by power and weapons, who threaten all they pass. Men. Women. Children. With no training, their initiation into violence starts with intimidation and bullying. Snatching a bag from an elderly woman who dares to look them in the eyes. Waving their pistols in the faces of children—better scare them now to ensure compliance later.

The young men of Paris now have a choice: Present themselves and be conscripted to work in the ammunition factories in Germany, or join the criminals, thugs, and zealots of the Militia and be judge, jury, and executioner to their fellow Parisians.

The knock on the door silences the Thursday-afternoon meeting. Andrée glances at her watch.

“It’s all right. It will be Josie home from school. I’ll let her in.”

The group is gathered in the tiny kitchen. It seems best this way: If there’s a knock on the door, they can leave down the backstairs. As Andrée leaves the room, Agent whispers to Louis, “Why is she knocking when she lives here?”

“Since the Militia came to town, we’ve asked her to knock whenever she comes home. If there’s no answer, she is to go back to the park and wait there for one of us to collect her.”

“You’re worried about . . . ?” Félix asks.