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She thrusts a basket into Louis’s stunned hands, blows a kiss, and is gone down the stairs before he can thank her.

Tina takes the basket into the kitchen. Inside is a small chicken, smuggled from Le Fleuron, and two potatoes. An olive-oil bottle contains enough red wine for a glass each.

“She crossed the city carrying this. Risked arrest so we could eat,” Tina says in wonder. “I’ll stretch this for three days. Roast tonight, cold tomorrow, and broth from the bones.”

Josie gives gifts she made herself. For Tina, a bookmark embroidered with flowers, the stitches tiny and precise. For Louis, a drawing of the bookshop, every detail perfect. For Andrée, a poem about music copied in careful handwriting, the words chosen with love.

Louis hands Joséphine a package. “This is from Tata Andrée and me.”

Slowly, carefully, Josie unties the string, folding it neatly to be used again. The paper is treated with reverence, smoothed and placed with the string. She holds a book with a simple cover of Prussian blue with black lettering: Clementi, Sechs Sonatinen. Opus 36. Six Sonatinas. Without being told to, she flips the cover open and reads the inscription before throwing herself into Andrée’s arms.

Tina gives her a handkerchief embroidered with the initials J. L.. Not her real initials. But the ones that keep her safe.

“Thank you, Grand-Mère. It’s beautiful.”

“When this is over, when your Maman comes home, I’ll embroider you a new one. With your real initials. I promise.”

If she comes home. The words hang in the air unspoken. In the afternoon, Josie and Andrée play Christmas carols on the piano and they all sing. “Il est né le divin enfant . . .” The music feels defiant somehow. A reminder that joy existed once. That it might exist again.

The mysterious cell doesn’t meet that week. Even Resistance fighters take Christmas off. But the following Tuesday, they return. Same routine. Same silence. Same efficiency.

The new year arrives without fanfare. There is nothing to celebrate. 1944 will be another year of occupation. Another year of war. Another year of dying slowly.

The cold intensifies. January is brutal, merciless. People freeze to death in their apartments, mostly old people on their own mostly, having no one with whom to share body heat. The Levallois family sleeps together in the living room, sharing blankets, sharing warmth, keeping each other alive. It’s the only way.

Food grows scarcer still. The Germans have requisitioned everything and the ration cards buy almost nothing. The Germans have decreed that only day-old bread can be sold. No one is to enjoy fresh bread. A tiny scraping of butter if you’re lucky. And sometimes an egg.

One morning, Tina faints from hunger and cold while standing in the ration line. Fortunately Louis was with her that day. He brings her home and forces her to eat his portion of bread.

“I can’t. You need⁠—”

“Eat, Tina. Please.” His voice breaks. “I can’t lose you. Not now. Not like this.”

She eats. But she cries while she chews, knowing that Louis is sacrificing himself for her, knowing that they’re all making sacrifices for each other, all knowing that it might not be enough.

Josie sees everything, her grandparents growing weaker, the gnawing hunger in their eyes, the way their hands shake, the way they move slower each day. She tries to give them her portions, but they refuse.

“You’re still growing, ma petite. You need it more.”

“But you’re dying.”

Dying. The word hangs in the air. They’re all dying. Slowly. From hunger and cold and despair.

“We’re surviving,” Andrée corrects her firmly. “Not dying. There’s a huge difference.”

But Josie isn’t sure she believes that anymore. And neither, if she’s honest, is Andrée.

February brings no relief. The cold persists. The hunger persists. Hope dies a little more each day. People stop talking about when the war will end. They just try to make it through another day. There is no fuel to heat the school, so it closes for week. The children stay at home, huddled under blankets, trying not to freeze.

Monique stops coming to piano lessons. Her mother sends word: She’s sorry, but they can’t pay any more. Everything they have goes on food. Music is a luxury they can no longer afford.

Andrée would be willing to not charge them for lessons, but she understands. Monique needs to conserve her strength. Coming to rue Blomet, walking up the stairs, sitting at the piano, practicing, it all takes energy. Energy requires food and there is none.

To compound their growing desperation, the network loses a member. Félix is arrested during a sabotage operation—caught cutting communication lines, wire cutters still in his hands, no plausible excuse available to him. He is taken to Militia headquarters. They wait for news, but days pass. Eventually word comes through. Agent arrives at the Thursday meeting carrying the heavy weight of the information.

Félix is dead. Executed. Shot in the courtyard like an injured animal.

They don’t know if he talked. They have no idea if he compromised the network. Should they scatter, change their meeting place, assume they’re burned?