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Tina goes to Josie’s room, knocks softly. “Josie? It’s Grand-Mère. May I come in?”

A long pause. Then, “Yes.”

Tina enters. Josie sits on her bed, hugging her knees. Tina sits beside her, takes her hand.

“Andrée told us about Colette. I’m so sorry, ma petite. That should never have happened to you.”

“She said I was going to hell.”

“You’re not going to hell. You’re going wherever your family goes. And wherever that is, it will be full of love and light, because you’re all good people. And you’re not going there for a very long time.”

“But what if she’s right? What if being Jewish means God doesn’t love me?”

“Josie, look at me. God loves you. Your God. The God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob. The God of Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah. The God your father prayed to. The God your mother prays to. That God loves you more than you can possibly imagine. You don’t need to be anything other than what you are.”

“I want to be more Jewish. I want to know more. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want them to make me forget.”

Tina smiles. “Then we’ll help you remember. We’ll ask Dancer if we can come for Shabbat dinner. We’ll ask her to teach you more about Jewish traditions, Jewish holidays, Jewish prayers. She may not have been born Jewish, but when she married a Jewish man, she took on his way of life. You won’t forget, Josie. We won’t let you forget.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. You are Jewish. You will always be Jewish. And when your Maman comes home, she will find you exactly as she left you, a more grown-up Jewish girl, with a Jewish heart, who knows who she is and who her people are.”

Josie throws her arms around Tina, crying again. But these tears are different. They are tears of relief, of release and of gratitude. She sits up straight: She is a Jewish girl. Strong. Brave. Unbroken.

Chapter Twenty-One

The war grinds on.

That’s the phrase Louis uses whenever Josie asks how long until it’s over. “The war grinds on,” he says, and she understands. Not weeks. Not months. No end in sight. Life becomes a rhythm of survival. Wake up. Check if there’s bread. Line up for rations. Attend piano lessons or give them. Thursday meetings. Friday evenings at Dancer’s, when it’s safe. Sleep. Repeat. The city grows grayer, thinner, hungrier. The occupation tightens its grip like a fist closing around a throat.

Gatherings of more than a handful of people are forbidden, the Militia enforcing the rule with the enthusiasm of men who have discovered that cruelty comes with a uniform. They move in packs through the streets, stopping whoever they please, demanding papers, looking for reasons to exert brutality. Most days they don’t need one.

Josie continues at school in Mlle Évrard’s care, thinner than last year, quieter, more watchful than ever. The other girls whisper about the war; about fathers and brothers sent to Germany, about the families who have been disappeared overnight. It has been a difficult summer for so many of the school’s students. The whispers carry weight now. Fear.

One morning, between her piano lessons at the school, Andrée slips quietly into the back of Joséphine’s classroom. Josie is at her desk, but she is somewhere else entirely: hollow-eyed, hunched against the cold, lost in the particular stupor that hunger and exhaustion produce in children. The teacher calls on her. Josie doesn’t respond. The teacher repeats the name—Levallois—sharply, and still Josie doesn’t move. Andrée’s heart seizes. This teacher, she realizes, she doesn’t entirely trust. She’s new to the school and doesn’t necessarily know Josie’s history.

It is Monique who comes to the rescue yet again, nudging Josie firmly with her elbow, bringing her back to the room. Josie blinks, murmurs an apology, and the moment passes. But Andrée stands in the back of the room, in the shadows, long after the lesson has moved on, her hands pressed flat against her sides, breathing carefully.

Monique’s father was conscripted into forced labor in July. They haven’t heard from him since. Monique comes to piano lessons and is no longer the bright sunny girl Andrée first met. Her fingers stumble over pieces she once knew so well. Andrée doesn’t correct her, reasoning that sometimes music isn’t about precision; sometimes it’s about just having something to do with your hands while your world falls apart.

One Sunday, Cat appears unannounced, a rarity. He has managed—through means Andrée knows better than to ask about—to find a little extra food. A small parcel. She decides to take it to Stéphanie and Monique. She knows their need is great, and the concierge shared some extras with them earlier in the week.

She is two streets from their building when they stop her. Two militiamen, young, bored, looking for something to do with their afternoon. They eye the bag immediately.

“What’s in there?”

Andrée keeps her voice light, her smile easy. She lets them look and draw their own conclusions about the contents, conclusions that are entirely correct. What follows is several minutes she will not easily forget, during which she laughs at things that aren’t funny, defers to men she despises, and deploys every quiet weapon available to her. By the time they wave her on, she is shaking—not with fear but with something closer to fury. She walks the rest of the way to Stéphanie’s building with her jaw tight, thinking of all the things she wishes she said, all the things she wanted to do. She would like to have spat in their faces. She still would.

Stéphanie opens the door and takes one look at her. “Come in. Are you all right? Sit down.”

“I’m fine,” Andrée says, and holds out the parcel.

The mysterious cell continues to meet in Louis and Tina’s bedroom every Tuesday. They arrive separately, leave separately, never speak to their hosts beyond a quiet “thank you.” Louis still doesn’t know their names. Doesn’t know what they’re planning. He doesn’t want to know. Ignorance is their only protection if the Gestapo or Militia comes. But how much protection is ignorance, even if believed, given that they’ve allowed their home to be used for clandestine meetings?

One Tuesday evening, going into the bedroom, Louis finds a note tucked under a book on the dresser. Just three words: You are appreciated.

He shows it to Tina. She smiles sadly. “We’re all in this together. Even the strangers.”