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“The Germans are idiots. They banned jazz officially, but half of them love it. So it gets performed under different names. Tonight it’s called ‘Saint Louis Blues.’ Tomorrow, who knows what. The names change, but the music stays the same.”

“Well, I don’t care what they call it; I just love good music.”

“We could be in for a treat. I’ve heard a whisper that later tonight Django Reinhardt will perform after the Germans are too drunk to know who he is.”

“Now, that would be a treat.”

Inside, the club is dim and crowded. There are the usual Germans in uniform and French collaborators, but also a scattering of locals who simply love music. Cat finds them a table in the back and orders a bottle of wine.

The quartet begins to play. Saxophone, piano, bass, drums. The rhythm is infectious, alive. Andrée feels herself relax for the first time in days.

“Better?” Cat asks.

“Better. Thank you for this.”

“We all need moments like this. Moments where we’re just people. Listening to music. Feeling alive.”

Between sets, he takes her hand. “Andrée, when this is over⁠—”

“Don’t. Don’t make promises about when this is over. We don’t know if we’ll survive. We don’t know if there will even be a ‘when this is over.’”

“I know. But I need to say it anyway. When this is over, I want to take you to concerts. Real concerts. Without Germans in the audience. Without fear. I want to walk through the streets of Paris with you without checking over my shoulder.”

Andrée looks at him. This man who risked everything at Château de Pignerolle. This aristocrat who could have fled to London like so many of his ilk. He could have stayed safe, but instead he has chosen to fight. This person who makes her feel human.

“Ask me again when this is over. When we’re both still alive. When my father is home safe. When Josie’s mother has returned. Ask me then, and I’ll give you an answer. That’s the best I can do for now.”

He lifts her hand to his lips. “Then I’ll wait. However long it takes, I’ll wait.”

The quartet starts playing again. This time the rhythm is slower. A ballad. Several couples stand, begin to dance. He raises an eyebrow. “May I?”

“Here? With all these Germans watching?”

“Especially with all these Germans watching. Let them see that we’re still French and still capable of joy despite everything they’ve done to us.”

She stands, takes his hand, and they move to the small dance floor. His arm around her waist. Her hand on his shoulder. They move to the music, and for three minutes the war doesn’t exist. There’s just the saxophone, the soft piano, the bass, the brushes of the drum, and two people dancing in a club in Paris.

When the song ends, they return to their table. Andrée feels lighter. Not happy, happiness seems impossible these days, but lighter. Cat has given her that. A moment of normality. A glimpse of what life might be like when this war is over.

As the evening wears on, the Germans in the room get louder. They drink more and more. Some have fallen asleep at their tables. The club owners decide it’s time to send the final act onto the stage. Andrée gasps when she sees that it is indeed Django Reinhart. His swagger is exaggerated by the cane he uses to walk to the stool in the spotlight. He carries his guitar in his free hand, a hand with two badly deformed fingers. A hush settles on the room.

With his signature coiffed mustache highlighting his warm smile, Django Reinhardt props himself on the stool. He knows the subdued applause was for his own safety. Most of the German officers have left or are drunk to the point of unconsciousness. It’s safe enough to play.

As the first notes ring out, Andrée leans forward, placing both elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. She is immediately lost in the music.

The night air is warm as Andrée and Cat spill out of the club and into the street. Their footsteps are loud on the empty pavement. It is later than they intended. It is always later than they intended when Cat is involved.

They are barely a block from the club when a car slides out of the shadows and stops alongside them. Two Gestapo officers climb out unhurriedly, the way men do when they know they hold all the cards.

“Papers.” The taller one barely looks at them. His colleague circles the couple slowly, scrutinizing them with the particular insolence they have perfected.

Cat opens his jacket pocket with a mildly bored expression and produces his documents. Andrée quietly opens her handbag, takes out her own.

The officer looks Cat up and down.

“You have been at a club? Together?”

“We have,” Cat says, with the air of a man confirming something entirely unremarkable. He glances at Andrée.