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“So are you, ma petite,” Tina says gently.

“But I’m young. I’m supposed to be thin. You’re . . .” She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t need to.

“We all need to eat more. But there isn’t more. So we share what we have and we manage.”

Maurice continues to help when he can. A potato appears on their doorstep. An egg. Once, a small chicken. He never says where it comes from and they never ask. Probably the black market.

One evening, Maurice knocks with a package. “Someone left this for you downstairs. I didn’t see them.”

Inside: bread. Real bread, fresh bread, the crust golden, the inside soft. A small jar of jam. And a note: For the family who saved me. Anonymous gratitude.

They don’t know who it’s from. Don’t know which of the dozens of people they’ve helped over the years felt compelled to give something back. But they eat the bread slowly, savoring every bite, knowing that somewhere in Paris, someone they saved is thinking of them.

Hanukkah begins on December 21. Dancer invites them to celebrate once again. But this year is different. This year, there’s almost no food. This year, even hope is a luxury they can barely afford.

They gather in her apartment, the Levallois family, Dancer and Philippe. They are six souls warming each other with their presence since there’s no fuel for the stove.

Dancer has managed, miraculously, to make latkes. Tiny ones, barely the size of a saucer, made with black-market potatoes and precious oil saved drop by drop. She serves them solemnly, one per person. It feels like a feast.

“This is all I have. But it’s enough for the miracle. One portion that should feed one, feeding six. Just like the oil that burned for eight days when it should have lasted only one.”

Josie lights the shamash. She says the blessing in Hebrew, her voice clear and strong and lights the first candle. She’s been practicing with Dancer on the occasional Friday evening they spend together. She knows it perfectly now. The words are muscle memory, heart memory.

“Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah.”

They sing “Ma’oz Tzur.” Quietly, because walls have ears and betrayal wears many faces. But they sing and remember and refuse to be erased.

“Why do we celebrate Hanukkah?” Dancer asks, teaching even in hunger, even in darkness.

“Because the Maccabees won,” Philippe says. “Because they fought back and won.”

“And because the oil lasted eight days,” Josie adds. “Because miracles happen. Even when there’s no reason to hope, miracles happen.”

“Exactly,” Dancer says, her eyes bright with tears. “We celebrate resistance. We celebrate survival. We celebrate the miracle of still being here, still being Jewish, still being us, despite everything they’ve done to destroy us.”

They don’t let the candles burn down, but put them out as they’re short supply. Then they eat the tiny latkes and Josie plays dreidel with Philippe. Dancer found the small spinning top among her husband’s possessions when she was cutting down a pair of his trousers to make some warm ones for Philippe. They gamble for nothing; there are no chocolate coins, no nuts or dried fruits. But they spin the wooden top anyway, laughing when it lands on gimel, groaning when it lands on nun. The sounds of childhood echo through the apartment, precious and rare.

Walking home through the December darkness, Josie asks, “Do you think Maman is celebrating Hanukkah? Wherever she is?”

Andrée’s throat tightens. “I hope so. I hope she found a way. Even if it’s just lighting a match in secret. Even if it’s just saying the blessing in her mind. I hope she’s celebrating.”

“I hope so too.”

None of the adults feel any enthusiasm for Christmas, but they make an effort for Josie’s sake. The tree and decorations come up from the cellar. Their sparkle brings smiles as the family sits looking at it, dreaming of a time when once again gifts will surround it, when abundance won’t be a distant memory.

On Christmas Eve morning, Louis disappears down into the cellar via the back staircase and is gone so long that Tina sends Andrée down to find out what’s become of him. They reappear triumphant, carrying wood for the stove—an increasingly scarce commodity.

“Where on earth did you find it?” Tina asks as she stokes the stove.

“Maurice mentioned there was a set of old shelves down there that hadn’t been moved in twenty years,” Louis answers. It’s as though he’s discovered gold.

“That man,” Tina replies. “I’d invite him to come and sit with us this evening, but I know he’d refuse. It would put him in danger. But he is our guardian angel.”

Later that day the doorbell rings: three long, three short.

Mystified, Louis opens the door.

Gypsy stands there in her furs. “Mes chers, I’m not coming in—can’t stop. I would have sent someone, but there’s no one at the restaurant I trust. Here.”