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“Armed?” Tina repeats.

“They’ll teach me how to use a gun, a pistol, and how to hide it at home.”

“With Philippe there?” Andrée asks quietly.

The words hang in the air. From the other room, they can hear Philippe attempting the scale again, Josie encouraging him.

“Better! Much better! Now try it with your other hand.”

Dancer’s face crumples. “I know. That’s what I’m finding difficult to reconcile. If the Militia raid my apartment and find a gun, they won’t just arrest me. They might discover that Philippe is Jewish.”

“You’d be putting him at risk,” Tina says gently.

“He’s already at risk, just by being my son. By living in that apartment while I transmit intelligence to London. By having a Jewish father. I guess I would be putting him at greater risk.”

She looks up, her eyes wet. “I want to do everything I can to fight them. Everything. But I can’t sacrifice Philippe to do it. I can’t.”

Louis reaches across to Dancer, takes her hand. “Then you have your answer.”

“Do I? Because it feels like cowardice. Like I’m choosing safety over the fight.”

“You’re choosing your son,” Andrée says. “That’s not cowardice. That’s love. And you’re still fighting. Every transmission, every message, every risk you take sitting in that apartment tapping out code while the Germans hunt for radio signals, that’s fighting. You don’t need a gun to be brave.”

Dancer wipes her eyes. “But if they come for me, if they find the wireless, if I can’t fight . . .”

“Then you’ll do what we all will do,” Tina says. “You’ll stay silent as long as you can. You’ll protect the network. And you’ll hope that the people you’ve saved, the intelligence you’ve passed, the lives you’ve helped preserve, you’ll hope that matters more than one arrest.”

“It does matter,” Louis adds. “Every message you send matters. You’re not just another field operative. You’re something more important. You’re our voice to London.”

From the other room, music begins. Not scales now. A melody. Simple, halting, but recognizable. Josie is playing something, and Philippe is trying to join in, playing single notes on top of her phrases.

Dancer listens, a small smile breaking through. “They sound good together.”

“They do,” Andrée agrees. “Two children, making music in the middle of a war. That’s what we’re fighting for. Not for revenge. Not for violence. For this. For Jewish children to play piano together without fear.”

Dancer nods slowly. “I’ll tell London I’m more useful as I am.”

“Good,” Tina says. “Now, shall we see what our young musicians are creating?”

They move to the doorway of the sitting room. Josie sits at the piano, Philippe beside her on the bench. She’s teaching him “Clair de Lune,” just the opening, the simplest part. His fingers fumble, but she’s patient.

“Like this, see? Your thumb here, your middle finger here.” She demonstrates, then has him try again.

This time, he gets it. The notes emerge, tentative but correct. Josie beams. “Perfect! You’re a natural, Philippe!”

The boy’s face lights up with pride. He plays again, more confident this time. Josie joins in, playing the next part, and together they create a fragment of beauty. Incomplete. Imperfect. But beautiful nonetheless.

Andrée watches Josie correcting Philippe’s hand position, exactly as Andrée has corrected hers a hundred times. The student has become the teacher. The child who arrived terrified and broken is teaching another child how to make music.

“She’s mimicking you,” Dancer whispers. “Every gesture. Every correction. I see you in the way she plays, Andrée.”

“No,” Andrée says softly. “She’s entirely herself. But she’s learning. She’s growing up, up.”

They stand in the doorway, the four adults, watching. Outside, Paris shivers under occupation. The Militia patrol the streets. The Germans tighten their grip. The war grinds on, relentless and cruel.

But inside this apartment, there is music. There is a shared pear. There are children learning to play the piano, to find joy in small things, to be children despite everything.

Chapter Sixteen