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“Grand-Père, you’re home!” Josie calls out, pausing her playing.

“I could hear you as I was coming up the stairs. It sounded wonderful, Josie. I love that piece.”

Tina and Andrée join them. Tina takes Louis’s hat and places it on the hook by the front door as Andrée takes his briefcase from him. “Everything all right?” she asks.

“Everything is fine. Let me listen to this one playing for a moment or two, then I’ll join you at the table.”

Josie grabs his hand, leading him to his chair before sitting back at the piano bench.

After lunch, as Andrée prepares to leave for her visit with René, Louis pulls her aside.

“Would you ask René if he could pay us a visit tomorrow? I have something I need to discuss with him.”

“You don’t want me to tell him?”

“No. It is something for him and me. I’ll fill you and your Maman in when he’s here.”

“Of course, Papa. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Andrée’s metro ride to René’s apartment on rue Lagrange feels different today. She’s been here many times, collecting documents, delivering intelligence, coordinating the network’s medical needs, but meeting someone new always carries a risk.

She reaches the door to the building and rings using the usual signal. The door opens immediately: René is waiting in the foyer for her. She enters and greets him with a smile. He has his medical bag in one hand, and he looks exhausted. He’s older than Louis, perhaps seventy, his hair is completely white, but he still treats patients in the neighborhood as well as carrying on his clandestine activities.

“Andrée, come on up. Jacques is already here.”

Andrée follows him up the stairs and into his apartment. The shutters are closed. A man stands in the living room, his features obscured in the dim light. Andrée guesses he’s in his forties, wearing a neat suit, with spectacles perched on his nose. He looks exactly like what he is, a civil servant. Unremarkable.

No introductions are made. She doesn’t believe Jacques is his real name. The less you know, the safer you are. Rule number one of the networks.

Jacques extends his hand. His grip is firm, confident. “Mademoiselle, the doctor speaks very highly of you and your family.”

“And of you too,” Andrée replies, studying him. Can he be trusted? René vouches for him. Her instructions are to meet him. She must follow orders.

“Please, sit.”

René gestures to chairs around a small table upon which is a briefcase.

Jacques clicks open the locks. “The doctor tells me your network needs identity documents, ration cards, work permits, and travel authorizations. Is that correct?”

“Yes. We have people who need to disappear. Jews we’re hiding who need new identities. Young men avoiding the work conscription who need exemption papers. Resistance members whose real identities have been compromised.”

Jacques nods. “I work at the Mairie. Specifically, in the records department. I have access to birth certificates, death certificates, identity cards. And most importantly, I’ve replicated the official seals.”

“How?” Andrée asks him.

“I have access to the seals during working hours. I created impressions using clay, then had a printer friend make another set of the rubber stamps from the moulds.” He smiles. “It helps to be meticulous. To be patient. To be someone no one notices.”

“And the paper? The cardstock?” René asks.

“I can acquire small quantities. I have to be careful not to take enough to draw attention, but I can provide a steady supply. Twenty, thirty cards a month. Maybe more, if we’re careful.”

He pulls out several documents from the briefcase. “Here. These are samples. Look at them closely.”

Andrée picks up the first, an identity card. The photograph shows a young man, perhaps twenty-five, dark hair, serious expression. The text reads “Pierre Dubois, born March 12, 1918, Lyon.” The card feels right. The weight, the texture. She holds it up to the light. The watermark is perfect.

She looks at René. “This is where Josie’s ration card came from?”

He inclines his head: yes.