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“But I have. You don’t understand. I have. How can he forgive me?”

“Who, Josie? What can you have done that’s so bad you can’t be forgiven?” Andrée asks.

“I just remembered what today’s date is.”

“It’s what—the sixth of June?” Andrée isn’t quite sure herself.

“Yes. Léon’s birthday is the fifth. It was his birthday yesterday, and I didn’t remember. I didn’t say happy birthday to him, even though he’s not here. I should have remembered. It’s his first birthday away and I didn’t remember.” She turns her head into Andrée’s chest, still sobbing uncontrollably.

“We should have asked you when your Maman and Léon’s birthdays were so we could mark them,” Tina says, as Josie’s crying grows softer.

“That’s kind of you to say, Grand-Mère, but I should have remembered. I did remember two days ago, but yesterday, well, I was having so much fun in the park with you and Monique and her Maman. The sun was warm and it felt so normal to be outside, sitting and playing in the park.”

“Normal is a hard word to say these days,” says Tina gently. “I’m happy you felt that way. I did too, for that brief time. It reminded me of when Andrée was your age and we would have picnics on the weekend.”

“Josie, we can’t take away the pain you’re feeling right now, but what can we do to help you today?” Louis asks.

She hesitates.

“Could we walk past our old apartment building? I see it every day when I walk through the park, but I’d like to touch it. Just once. I don’t want to go inside. Just go to the front door.”

“How about I get breakfast started, then?” Louis says, ruffling Josie’s hair.

Josie offers a weak smile, looking from one adult to another. “Do you think anyone wished Léon happy birthday yesterday?”

“Your Maman would have, whether they were together or not. And they would both be wondering how you are, what you’re doing. We must believe they are together, looking after each other,” Tina whispers.

“Like you’re all looking after me?” Josie says.

“Josie, there are many days you do more for us than we can possibly do for you. Many days,” Louis tells her.

After breakfast, they walk together. It’s a bright morning, the trees full and green. Other families are out, taking advantage of the weather, trying to forget, for an hour or two, that they live in an occupied city. That there are people missing, who should be with them.

They walk in silence, Louis ahead, scanning the street with eyes that have learned to see danger before it arrives. Tina walks on Josie’s other side to Andrée, creating a protective circle around the child.

The building appears as they round the corner. Four stories, brick and gray stone, indistinguishable from a dozen others on this street. But Josie stops walking. Stands still. Stares.

“Second floor,” she whispers. “The windows on the left. That was my room. And that one next to it, that was the sitting room where Papa read to us. And the kitchen where Maman . . .” Her voice breaks.

Tina’s arm enfolds her. “We don’t have to go closer. We can look from here.”

“No. I want to. I want to see if . . .” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but they all understand. She needs to see if anyone’s there. If Ruth came back. If Léon is home. If the miracle happened, all the while knowing it hasn’t.

The building’s main door is closed but not locked. Louis nudges it open, checks inside. Josie runs her hands over the timber door, over the damage around the lock where the Gestapo had broken in.

The foyer is empty, dim, smelling of damp and cabbage.

“The concierge,” Josie says suddenly. “M. Blanc. He was kind to us. He gave Léon extra bread sometimes. I might just step inside,” she says.

“We’re right here with you,” Tina says as Louis pushes the door wide open. No sign of the concierge. It’s risky being here, but if anyone asks, they’ll say they’re visiting a friend. It feels like a risk worth taking.

They stand in the foyer, looking up the stairs. Josie’s eyes follow the banister up, up to the first-floor landing. “We used to race,” she says. “Léon and me. Up the stairs. He always won. He had longer legs.” A small smile. “But I was faster going down. He was too careful, afraid he’d fall, but I just ran.”

Louis clears his throat. “You were a brave girl even then.”

“Not brave. Just . . . not thinking about falling.” Josie steps closer to the stairs, places her hand on the banister. The wood is worn smooth by hundreds of hands over many years. Her hand, Léon’s hand, her mother’s hand. All of them touched this same wood.

“Can I go up? Just to the landing. Just to see the door?”